the story of a play a novel by w. d. howells author of "the landlord at lion's head" "an open-eyed conspiracy" etc. [illustration] new york and london harper & brothers publishers w. d. howells's works. _in cloth binding._ copyright, , by w. d. howells. _electrotyped by j. a. howells & co., jefferson, ohio._ the story of a play. i. the young actor who thought he saw his part in maxwell's play had so far made his way upward on the pacific coast that he felt justified in taking the road with a combination of his own. he met the author at a dinner of the papyrus club in boston, where they were introduced with a facile flourish of praise from the journalist who brought them together, as the very men who were looking for each other, and who ought to be able to give the american public a real american drama. the actor, who believed he had an ideal of this drama, professed an immediate interest in the kind of thing maxwell told him he was trying to do, and asked him to come the next day, if he did not mind its being sunday, and talk the play over with him. he was at breakfast when maxwell came, at about the hour people were getting home from church, and he asked the author to join him. but maxwell had already breakfasted, and he hid his impatience of the actor's politeness as well as he could, and began at the first moment possible: "the idea of my play is biblical; we're still a very biblical people." he had thought of the fact in seeing so many worshippers swarming out of the churches. "that is true," said the actor. "it's the old idea of the wages of sin. i should like to call it that." "the name has been used, hasn't it?" "i shouldn't mind; for i want to get a new effect from the old notion, and it would be all the stronger from familiar association with the name. i want to show that the wages of sin is more sinning, which is the very body of death." "well?" "well, i take a successful man at the acme of his success, and study him in a succession of scenes that bring out the fact of his prosperity in a way to strike the imagination of the audience, even the groundlings; and, of course, i have to deal with success of the most appreciable sort--a material success that is gross and palpable. i have to use a large canvas, as big as shakespeare's, in fact, and i put in a great many figures." "that's right," said the actor. "you want to keep the stage full, with people coming and going." "there's a lot of coming and going, and a lot of incidents, to keep the spectator interested, and on the lookout for what's to happen next. the whole of the first act is working up to something that i've wanted to see put on the stage for a good while, or ever since i've thought of writing for the stage, and that is a large dinner, one of the public kind." "capital!" said the actor. "i've seen a good deal of that sort of thing as a reporter; you know they put us at a table off to one side, and we see the whole thing, a great deal better than the diners themselves do. it's a banquet, given by a certain number of my man's friends, in honor of his fiftieth birthday, and you see the men gathering in the hotel parlor--well, you can imagine it in almost any hotel--and haxard is in the foreground. haxard is the hero's name, you know." "it's a good name," the actor mused aloud. "it has a strong sound." "do you like it? well, haxard," maxwell continued, "is there in the foreground, from the first moment the curtain rises, receiving his friends, and shaking hands right and left, and joking and laughing with everybody--a very small joke makes a very large laugh on occasions like that, and i shall try to give some notion of the comparative size of the joke and the laugh--and receiving congratulations, that give a notion of what the dinner is for, and the kind of man he is, and how universally respected and all that, till everybody has come; and then the doors between the parlor and the dining-room are rolled back, and every man goes out with his own wife, or his sister, or his cousin, or his aunt, if he hasn't got a wife; i saw them do that once, at a big commercial dinner i reported." "ah, i was afraid it was to be exclusively a man's dinner!" the actor interrupted. "oh, no," maxwell answered, with a shade of vexation. "that wouldn't do. you couldn't have a scene, or, at least, not a whole act, without women. of course i understand that. even if you could keep the attention of the audience without them, through the importance of the intrigue, still you would have to have them for the sake of the stage-picture. the drama is literature that makes a double appeal; it appeals to the sense as well as the intellect, and the stage is half the time merely a picture-frame. i had to think that out pretty early." the actor nodded. "you couldn't too soon." "it wouldn't do to have nothing but a crowd of black coats and white shirt-fronts on the stage through a whole act. you want color, and a lot of it, and you can only get it, in our day, with the women's costumes. besides, they give movement and life. after the dinner begins they're supposed to sparkle all through. i've imagined the table set down the depth of the stage, with haxard and the nominal host at the head, fronting the audience, and the people talking back and forth on each side, and i let the ladies do most of the talking, of course. i mean to have the dinner served through all the courses, and the waiters coming and going; the events will have to be hurried, and the eating merely sketched, at times; but i should keep the thing in pretty perfect form, till it came to the speaking. i shall have to cut that a good deal, but i think i can give a pretty fair notion of how they butter the object of their hospitality on such occasions; i've seen it and heard it done often enough. i think, perhaps, i shall have the dinner an act by itself. there are only four acts in the play now, and i'll have to make five. i want to give haxard's speech as fully as possible, for that's what i study the man in, and make my confidences to the audience about him. i shall make him butter himself, but all with the utmost humility, and brag of everything that he disclaims the merit of." the actor rose and reached across the table for the sugar. "that's a capital notion. that's new. that would make a hit--the speech would." "do you think so?" returned the author. "_i_ thought so. i believe that in the hands of a good actor the speech could be made tremendously telling. i wouldn't have a word to give away his character, his nature, except the words of his own mouth, but i would have them do it so effectually that when he gets through the audience will be fairly 'onto him,' don't you know." "magnificent!" said the actor, pouring himself some more cocoa. maxwell continued: "in the third act--for i see that i shall have to make it the third now--the scene will be in haxard's library, after he gets home from the complimentary dinner, at midnight, and he finds a man waiting for him there--a man that the butler tells him has called several times, and was so anxious to see him that mrs. haxard has given orders to let him wait. oh, i ought to go back a little, and explain--" "yes, do!" the actor stirred his cocoa with mounting interest. "yes, don't leave anything out." "i merely meant to say that in the talk in the scene, or the act, before the dinner--i shall have two acts, but with no wait between them; just let down the curtain and raise it again--it will come out that haxard is not a bostonian by birth, but has come here since the war from the southwest, where he went, from maine, to grow up with the country, and is understood to have been a sort of quiescent union man there; it's thought to be rather a fine thing the way he's taken on boston, and shown so much local patriotism and public spirit and philanthropy, in the way he's brought himself forward here. people don't know a great deal about his past, but it's understood to have been very creditable. i shall have to recast that part a little, and lengthen the delay before he comes on, and let the guests, or the hosts--for _they're_ giving _him_ the dinner--have time to talk about him, and free their minds in honor of him behind his back, before they begin to his face." "never bring your principal character on at once," the actor interjected. "no," maxwell consented. "i see that wouldn't have done." he went on: "well, as soon as haxard turns up the light in his library, the man rises from the lounge where he has been sitting, and haxard sees who it is. he sees that it is a man whom he used to be in partnership with in texas, where they were engaged in some very shady transactions. they get caught in one of them--i haven't decided yet just what sort of transaction it was, and i shall have to look that point up; i'll get some law-student to help me--and haxard, who wasn't haxard then, pulls out and leaves his partner to suffer the penalty. haxard comes north, and after trying it in various places, he settles here, and marries, and starts in business and prospers on, while the other fellow takes their joint punishment in the penitentiary. by the way, it just occurs to me! i think i'll have it that haxard has killed a man, a man whom he has injured; he doesn't mean to kill him, but he has to; and this fellow is knowing to the homicide, but has been prevented from getting onto haxard's trail by the consequences of his own misdemeanors; that will probably be the best way out. of course it all has to transpire, all these facts, in the course of the dialogue which the two men have with each other in haxard's library, after a good deal of fighting away from the inevitable identification on haxard's part. after the first few preliminary words with the butler at the door before he goes in to find the other man--his name is greenshaw--" "that's a good name, too," said the actor. "yes, isn't it? it has a sort of probable sound, and yet it's a made-up name. well, i was going to say--" "and i'm glad you have it a homicide that haxard is guilty of, instead of a business crime of some sort. that sort of crime never tells with an audience," the actor observed. "no," said maxwell. "homicide is decidedly better. it's more melodramatic, and i don't like that, but it will be more appreciable, as a real sin, to most of the audience; we steal and cheat so much, and we kill comparatively so little in the north. well, i was going to say that i shall have this whole act to consist entirely of the passage between the two men. i shall let it begin with a kind of shiver creeping over the spectator, when he recognizes the relation between them, and i hope i shall be able to make it end with a shudder, for haxard must see from the first moment, and he must let the audience see at last, that the only way for him to save himself from his old crime is to commit a new one. he must kill the man who saw him kill a man." "that's good," the actor thoughtfully murmured, as if tasting a pleasant morsel to try its flavor. "excellent." maxwell laughed for pleasure, and went on: "he arranges to meet the man again at a certain time and place, and that is the last of greenshaw. he leaves the house alone; and the body of an unknown man is found floating up and down with the tide under the long bridge. there are no marks of violence; he must have fallen off the bridge in the dark, and been drowned; it could very easily happen. well, then comes the most difficult part of the whole thing; i have got to connect the casualty with haxard in the most unmistakable way, unmistakable to the audience, that is; and i have got to have it brought home to him in a supreme moment of his life. i don't want to have him feel remorse for it; that isn't the modern theory of the criminal; but i do want him to be anxious to hide his connection with it, and to escape the consequences. i don't know but i shall try another dinner-scene, though i am afraid it would be a risk." the actor said, "i don't know. it might be the very thing. the audience likes a recurrence to a distinctive feature. it's like going back to an effective strain in music." "yes," maxwell resumed, "slightly varied. i might have a private dinner this time; perhaps a dinner that haxard himself is giving. towards the end the talk might turn on the case of the unknown man, and the guests might discuss it philosophically together; haxard would combat the notion of a murder, and even of a suicide; he would contend for an accident, pure and simple. all the fellows would take a turn at the theory, but the summing-up opinion i shall leave to a legal mind, perhaps the man who had made the great complimentary speech at the public dinner to haxard in the first act. i should have him warm to his work, and lay it down to haxard in good round fashion, against his theory of accident. he could prove to the satisfaction of everybody that the man who was last seen with the drowned man--or was supposed to have been seen with him--according to some very sketchy evidence at the inquest, which never amounted to anything--was the man who pushed him off the bridge. he could gradually work up his case, and end the argument with a semi-jocular, semi-serious appeal to haxard himself, like, 'why, suppose it was your own case,' and so forth, and so forth, and so forth, and then suddenly stop at something he notices queer in haxard, who is trying to get to his feet. the rest applaud: 'that's right! haxard has the floor,' and so on, and then haxard slips back into his chair, and his head falls forward---- i don't like death-scenes on the stage. they're usually failures. but if this was managed simply, i think it would be effective." the actor left the table and began to walk about the room. "i shall want that play. i can see my part in haxard. i know just how i could make up for him. and the play is so native, so american, that it will go like wildfire." the author heard these words with a swelling heart. he did not speak, for he could not. he sat still, watching the actor as he paced to and fro, histrionically rapt in his representation of an actor who had just taken a piece from a young dramatist. "if you can realize that part as you've sketched it to me," he said, finally, "i will play it exclusively, as jefferson does rip van winkle. there are immense capabilities in the piece. yes, sir; that thing will run for years!" "of course," maxwell found voice to say, "there is one great defect in it, from the conventional point of view." the actor stopped and looked at him. "there's no love-business." "we must have that. but you can easily bring it in." "by the head and shoulders, yes. but i hate love-making on the stage, almost as much as i do dying. i never see a pair of lovers beyond the footlights without wanting to kill them." the actor remained looking at him over his folded arms, and maxwell continued, with something like a personal rancor against love-making, while he gave a little, bitter laugh, "i might have it somehow that haxard had killed a pair of stage-lovers, and this was what greenshaw had seen him do. but that would have been justifiable homicide." the actor's gaze darkened into a frowning stare, as if he did not quite make out this kind of fooling. "all the world loves a lover," he said, tentatively. "i don't believe it does," said maxwell, "except as it's stupid, and loves anything that makes it laugh. it loves a comic lover, and in the same way it loves a droll drunkard or an amusing madman." "we shall have to have some sort of love-business," the actor returned, with an effect of leaving the right interpretation of maxwell's peculiar humor for some other time. "the public wants it. no play would go without it. you can have it subordinate if you like, but you have got to have it. how old did you say haxard was?" "about fifty. too old for a lover, unless you could make him in love with some one else's wife, as he has one of his own already. but that wouldn't do." the actor looked as if he did not know why it would not do, but he said, "he could have a daughter." "yes, and his daughter could have a lover. i had thought of something of that kind, and of bringing in their ill-fated passion as an element of the tragedy. we could have his disgrace break their hearts, and kill two birds with one stone, and avenge a long-suffering race of playwrights upon stage-lovers." the actor laughed like a man of small humor, mellowly, but hollowly. "no, no! we must have the love-affair end happily. you can manage that somehow. have you got the play roughed out at all?" "not in manuscript. i've only got it roughed out in my mind." "well, i want that play. that's settled. i can't do anything with it this winter, but i should like to open with it next fall. do you think you could have it ready by the end of july?" ii. they sat down and began to talk times and terms. they parted with a perfect understanding, and maxwell was almost as much deceived as the actor himself. he went home full of gay hopes to begin work on the play at once, and to realize the character of haxard with the personality of the actor in his eye. he heard nothing from him till the following spring, when the actor wrote with all the ardor of their parting moment, to say that he was coming east for the summer, and meant to settle down in the region of boston somewhere, so that they could meet constantly and make the play what they both wanted. he said nothing to account for his long silence, and he seemed so little aware of it that maxwell might very well have taken it for a simple fidelity to the understanding between them, too unconscious to protest itself. he answered discreetly, and said that he expected to pass the summer on the coast somewhere, but was not yet quite certain where he should be; that he had not forgotten their interview, and should still be glad to let him have the play if he fancied it. between this time and the time when the actor appeared in person, he sent maxwell several short notes, and two or three telegrams, sufficiently relevant but not very necessary, and when his engagement ended in the west, a fortnight after maxwell was married, he telegraphed again and then came through without a stop from denver, where the combination broke up, to manchester-by-the-sea. he joined the little colony of actors which summers there, and began to play tennis and golf, and to fish and to sail, almost without a moment's delay. he was not very fond of any of these things, and in fact he was fond only of one thing in the world, which was the stage; but he had a theory that they were recreation, and that if he went in for them he was building himself up for the season, which began early in september; he had appropriate costumes for all of them, and no one dressed the part more perfectly in tennis or golf or sailing or fishing. he believed that he ought to read up in the summer, too, and he had the very best of the recent books, in fiction and criticism, and the new drama. he had all of the translations of ibsen, and several of mæterlinck's plays in french; he read a good deal in his books, and he lent them about in the hotel even more. among the ladies there he had the repute of a very modern intellect, and of a person you would never take for an actor, from his tastes. what his tastes would have been if you had taken him for an actor, they could not have said, perhaps, but probably something vicious, and he had not a vice. he did not smoke, and he did not so much as drink tea or coffee; he had cocoa for breakfast, and at lunch a glass of milk, with water at dinner. he had a tint like the rose, and when he smiled or laughed, which was often, from a constitutional amiability and a perfect digestion, his teeth showed white and regular, and an innocent dimple punctured either cheek. his name was godolphin, for he had instinctively felt that in choosing a name he might as well take a handsome one while he was about it, and that if he became godolphin there was no reason why he should not become launcelot, too. he did not put on these splendors from any foible, but from a professional sense of their value in the bills; and he was not personally characterized by them. as launcelot godolphin he was simpler than he would have been with a simpler name, and it was his ideal to be modest in everything that personally belonged to him. he studied an unprofessional walk, and a very colloquial tone in speaking. he was of course clean-shaven, but during the summer he let his mustache grow, though he was aware that he looked better without it. he was tall, and he carried himself with the vigor of his perfect health; but on the stage he looked less than his real size, like a perfectly proportioned edifice. godolphin wanted the maxwells to come to his hotel in manchester, but there were several reasons for their not doing this; the one maxwell alleged was that they could not afford it. they had settled for the summer, when they got home after their brief wedding journey, at a much cheaper house in magnolia, and the actor and the author were then only three miles apart, which mrs. maxwell thought was quite near enough. "as it is," she said, "i'm only afraid he'll be with you every moment with his suggestions, and won't let you have any chance to work out your own conceptions." godolphin had not failed to notify the public through the press that mr. brice maxwell had severed his connection with the boston _abstract_, for the purpose of devoting himself to a new play for mr. launcelot godolphin, and he thought it would have been an effective touch if it could have been truthfully reported that mr. godolphin and mr. maxwell might be seen almost any day swinging over the roads together in the neighborhood of manchester, blind and deaf to all the passing, in their discussion of the play, which they might almost be said to be collaborating. but failing maxwell's consent to anything of the sort, godolphin did the swinging over the roads himself, so far as the roads lay between manchester and magnolia. he began by coming in the forenoon, when he broke maxwell up fearfully, but he was retarded by a waning of his own ideal in the matter, and finally got to arriving at that hour in the afternoon when maxwell could be found revising his morning's work, or lying at his wife's feet on the rocks, and now and then irrelevantly bringing up a knotty point in the character or action for her criticism. for these excursions godolphin had equipped himself with a gray corduroy sack and knickerbockers, and a stick which he cut from the alder thicket; he wore russet shoes of ample tread, and very thick-ribbed stockings, which became his stalwart calves. nothing could be handsomer than the whole effect he made in this costume, and his honest face was a pleasure to look at, though its intelligence was of a kind so wholly different from the intelligence of maxwell's face, that mrs. maxwell always had a struggle with herself before she could allow that it was intelligence at all. he was very polite to her; he always brought her flowers, and he opened doors, and put down windows, and leaped to his feet for every imaginable occasion of hers, in a way that maxwell never did, and somehow a way that the polite men of her world did not, either. she had to school herself to believe him a gentleman, and she would not accept a certain vivid cleanliness he had as at all aristocratic; she said it was too fresh, and he ought to have carried a warning placard of "paint." she found that godolphin had one great and constant merit: he believed in maxwell's genius as devoutly as she did herself. this did not prevent him from coming every day with proposals for changes in the play, more or less structural. at one time he wished the action laid in some other country and epoch, so as to bring in more costume and give the carpenter something to do; he feared that the severity of the _mise en scène_ would ruin the piece. at another time he wanted lines taken out of the speeches of the inferior characters and put into his own, to fatten the part, as he explained. at other times he wished to have paraphrases of passages that he had brought down the house with in other plays written into this; or scenes transposed, so that he would make a more effective entrance here or there. there was no end to his inventions for spoiling the simplicity and truthfulness of maxwell's piece, which he yet respected for the virtues in it, and hoped the greatest things from. one afternoon he arrived with a scheme for a very up-to-date scene in the last act; have it a supper instead of a dinner, and then have a skirt-dancer introduced, as society people had been having carmencita. "when haxard dies, you know," he explained, "it would be tremendously effective to have the woman catch him in her arms, and she would be a splendid piece of color in the picture, with haxard's head lying in her lap, as the curtain comes down with a run." at this suggestion mrs. maxwell was too indignant to speak; her husband merely said, with his cold smile, "yes; but i don't see what it would have to do with the rest of the play." "you could have it," said godolphin, "that he was married to a mexican during his texas episode, and this girl was their daughter." maxwell still smiled, and godolphin deferred to his wife: "but perhaps mrs. maxwell would object to the skirt-dance?" "oh, no," she answered, ironically, "i shouldn't mind having it, with carmencita in society for a precedent. but," she added, "the incident seems so out of keeping with the action and the temperament of the play, and everything. if i were to see such a thing on the stage, merely as an impartial spectator, i should feel insulted." godolphin flushed. "i don't see where the insult would come in. you mightn't like it, but it would be like anything else in a play that you were not personally concerned in." "no, excuse me, mr. godolphin. i think the audience is as much concerned in the play as the actor or the author, and if either of these fails in the ideal, or does a bit of clap-trap when they have wrought the audience up in expectation of something noble, then they insult the audience--or all the better part of it." "the better part of the audience never fills the house," said the actor. "very well. i hope my husband will never write for the worse part." "and i hope i shall never play to it," godolphin returned, and he looked hurt at the insinuation of her words. "it isn't a question of all that," maxwell interposed, with a worried glance at his wife. "mr. godolphin has merely suggested something that can be taken into the general account; we needn't decide it now. by the way," he said to the actor, "have you thought over that point about changing haxard's crime, or the quality of it? i think it had better not be an intentional murder; that would kill the audience's sympathy with him from the start, don't you think? we had better have it what they call a rencontre down there, where two gentlemen propose to kill each other on sight. greenshaw's hold on him would be that he was the only witness of the fight, and that he could testify to a wilful murder if he chose. haxard's real crime must be the killing of greenshaw." "yes," said godolphin, and he entered into the discussion of the effect this point would have with the play. mrs. maxwell was too much vexed to forgive him for making the suggestion which he had already dropped, and she left the room for fear she should not be able to govern herself at the sight of her husband condescending to temporize with him. she thought that maxwell's willingness to temporize, even when it involved no insincerity, was a defect in his character; she had always thought that, and it was one of the things that she meant to guard him against with all the strength of her zeal for his better self. when godolphin was gone at last, she lost no time in coming back to maxwell, where he sat with the manuscript of his play before him, apparently lost in some tangle of it. she told him abruptly that she did not understand how, if he respected himself, if he respected his own genius, he could consider such an idea as godolphin's skirt-dance for an instant. "did i consider it?" he asked. "you made him think so." "well," returned maxwell, and at her reproachful look he added, "godolphin never thought i was considering it. he has too much sense, and he would be astonished and disgusted if i took him in earnest and did what he wanted. a lot of actors get round him over there, and they fill him up with all sorts of stage notions, and what he wants of me is that i shall empty him of them and yet not put him to shame about them. but if you keep on in that way you took with him he'll throw me over." "well, let him!" cried mrs. maxwell. "there are twenty other actors who would jump at the chance to get such a play." "don't you believe it, my dear. actors don't jump at plays, and godolphin is the one man for me. he's young, and has the friendly regard from the public that a young artist has, and yet he isn't identified with any part in particular, and he will throw all his force into creating this, as he calls it." "i can't bear to have him use that word, brice. _you_ created it." "the word doesn't matter. it's merely a technical phrase. i shouldn't know where to turn if he gave it up." "pshaw! you could go to a manager." "thank you; i prefer an actor. now, louise, you must not be so abrupt with godolphin when he comes out with those things." "i can't help it, dearest. they are insulting to you, and insulting to common-sense. it's a kindness to let him know how they would strike the public. i don't pretend to be more than the average public." "he doesn't feel it a kindness the way you put it." "then you don't like me to be sincere with him! perhaps you don't like me to be sincere with _you_ about your play?" "be as sincere with me as you like. but this--this is a matter of business, and i'd rather you wouldn't." "rather i wouldn't say anything at all?" demanded louise. "i didn't say so, and you know i didn't; but if you can't get on without ruffling godolphin, why, perhaps--" "very well, then, i'll leave the room the next time he comes. that will be perfectly simple; and it will be perfectly simple to do as most other people would--not concern myself with the play in any way from this out. i dare say you would prefer that, too, though i didn't quite expect it to come to that before our honeymoon was out." "oh, now, my dear!" "you know it's so. but i can do it! i might have expected it from a man who was so perfectly self-centred and absorbed. but i was such a fool--" her tears came and her words stopped. maxwell leaned forward with his thin face between his hands. this made him miserable, personally, but he was not so miserable but his artistic consciousness could take note of the situation as a very good one, and one that might be used effectively on the stage. he analyzed it perfectly in that unhappy moment. she was jealous of his work, which she had tolerated only while she could share it, and if she could not share it, while some other was suffered to do so, it would be cruel for her. but he knew that he could not offer any open concession now without making bad worse, and he must wait till the right time for it came. he had so far divined her, without formulating her, that he knew she would be humiliated by anything immediate or explicit, but would later accept a tacit repentance from him; and he instinctively forebore. iii. for the present in her resentment of his willingness to abase his genius before godolphin, or even to hold it in abeyance, mrs. maxwell would not walk to supper with her husband in the usual way, touching his shoulder with hers from time to time, and making herself seem a little lower in stature by taking the downward slope of the path leading from their cottage to the hotel. but the necessity of appearing before the people at their table on as perfect terms with him as ever had the effect that conduct often has on feeling, and she took his arm in going back to their cottage, and leaned tenderly upon him. their cottage was one of the farthest from the hotel, and the smallest and quietest. in fact there was yet no one in it but themselves, and they dwelt there in an image of home, with the sole use of the veranda and the parlor, where maxwell had his manuscripts spread about on the table as if he owned the place. a chambermaid came over from the hotel in the morning to put the cottage in order, and then they could be quite alone there for the rest of the day. "shall i light the lamp for you, brice?" his wife asked, as they mounted the veranda steps. "no," he said, "let us sit out here," and they took the arm-chairs that stood on the porch, and swung to and fro in silence for a little while. the sea came and went among the rocks below, marking its course in the deepening twilight with a white rope of foam, and raving huskily to itself, with now and then the long plunge of some heavier surge against the bowlders, and a hoarse shout. the portland boat swam by in the offing, a glitter of irregular lights, and the lamps on the different points of the cape blinked as they revolved in their towers. "this is the kind of thing you can get only in a novel," said maxwell, musingly. "you couldn't possibly give the feeling of it in a play." "couldn't you give the feeling of the people looking at it?" suggested his wife, and she put out her hand to lay it on his. "yes, you could do that," he assented, with pleasure in her notion; "and that would be better. i suppose that is what would be aimed at in a description of the scene, which would be tiresome if it didn't give the feeling of the spectator." "and godolphin would say that if you let the carpenter have something to do he would give the scene itself, and you could have the effect of it at first hand." maxwell laughed. "i wonder how much they believe in those contrivances of the carpenter themselves. they have really so little to do with the dramatic intention; but they have been multiplied so since the stage began to make the plays that the actors are always wanting them in. i believe the time will come when the dramatist will avoid the occasion or the pretext for them." "that will be after godolphin's time," said mrs. maxwell. "well, i don't know," returned maxwell. "if godolphin should happen to imagine doing without them he would go all lengths." "or if you imagined it and let him suppose he had. he never imagines anything of himself." "no, he doesn't. and yet how perfectly he grasps the notion of the thing when it is done! it is very different from literature, acting is. and yet literature is only the representation of life." "well, acting is the representation of life at second-hand, then, and it ought to be willing to subordinate itself. what i can't bear in godolphin is his setting himself up to be your artistic equal. he is no more an artist than the canvas is that the artist paints a picture on." maxwell laughed. "don't tell him so; he won't like it." "i will tell him so some day, whether he likes it or not." "no, you mustn't; for it isn't true. he's just as much an artist in his way as i am in mine, and, so far as the public is concerned, he has given more proofs." "oh, _his_ public!" "it won't do to despise any public, even the theatre-going public." maxwell added the last words with a faint sigh. "it's always second-rate," said his wife, passionately. "third-rate, fourth-rate! godolphin was quite right about that. i wish you were writing a novel, brice, instead of a play. then you would be really addressing refined people." "it kills me to have you say that, louise." "well, i won't. but don't you see, then, that you must stand up for art all the more unflinchingly if you intend to write plays that will refine the theatre-going public, or create a new one? that is why i can't endure to have you even seem to give way to godolphin." "you must stand it so long as i only seem to do it. he's far more manageable than i expected him to be. it's quite pathetic how docile he is, how perfectly ductile! but it won't do to browbeat him when he comes over here a little out of shape. he's a curious creature," maxwell went on with a relish in godolphin, as material, which his wife suffered with difficulty. "i wonder if he could ever be got into a play. if he could he would like nothing better than to play himself, and he would do it to perfection; only it would be a comic part, and godolphin's mind is for the serious drama." maxwell laughed. "all his artistic instincts are in solution, and it needs something like a chemical agent to precipitate them, or to give them any positive character. he's like a woman!" "thank you," said mrs. maxwell. "oh, i mean all sorts of good things by that. he has the sensitiveness of a woman." "is that a good thing? then i suppose he was so piqued by what i said about his skirt-dance that he will renounce you." "oh, i don't believe he will. i managed to smooth him up after you went out." mrs. maxwell sighed. "yes, you are very patient, and if you are patient, you are good. you are better than i am." "i don't see the sequence exactly," said maxwell. they were both silent, and she seemed to have followed his devious thought in the same muse, for when he spoke again she did not reproach him with an equal inconsequence. "i don't know whether i could write a novel, and, besides, i think the drama is the supreme literary form. it stands on its own feet. it doesn't have to be pushed along, or pulled along, as the novel does." "yes, of course, it's grand. that's the reason i can't bear to have you do anything unworthy of it." "i know, louise," he said, tenderly, and then again they did not speak for a little while. he emerged from their silence, at a point apparently very remote, with a sigh. "if i could only know just what the feelings of a murderer really were for five minutes, i could out-shakespeare shakespeare in that play. but i shall have to trust to the fall of man, and the general depravity of human nature, i suppose. after all, there's the potentiality of every kind of man in every man. if you've known what it is to hate, you've known what it is to kill." "i felt once as if i had killed _you_," she said, and then he knew that she was thinking of a phase of their love which had a perpetual fascination for them both. "but i never hated you." "no; i did the hating," he returned, lightly. "ah, don't say so, dear," she entreated, half in earnest. "well, have it all to yourself, then," he said; and he rose and went indoors, and lighted the lamp, and she saw him get out the manuscript of his play, while she sat still, recalling the time when she had tried to dismiss him from her thoughts upon a theory of his unworthiness. he had not yet spoken of love to her then, but she felt as if she had refused to listen to him, and her remorse kept his image before her in an attitude of pathetic entreaty for at least a hearing. she knew that she had given him reason, if she had not given him courage, to believe that she cared for him; but he was too proud to renew the tacit approaches from which she had so abruptly retreated, and she had to invite them from him. when she began to do this with the arts so imperceptible to the single-mindedness of a man, she was not yet sure whether she could endure to live with him or not; she was merely sure that she could not live without him, or, to be more specific, without his genius, which she believed no one else appreciated as she did. she believed that she understood his character better than any one else, and would know how to supplement it with her own. she had no ambition herself, but she could lend him a more telescopic vision in his, and keep his aims high, if his self-concentration ever made him short-sighted. he would write plays because he could not help it, but she would inspire him to write them with the lofty sense of duty she would have felt in writing them if she had his gifts. she was as happy in their engagement and as unhappy as girls usually are during their courtship. it is the convention to regard those days as very joyous, but probably no woman who was honest about the fact would say that they were so from her own experience. louise found them full of excitement and an interest from which she relaxed at times with such a sense of having strained forward to their end that she had a cold reluctance from maxwell, and though she never dreamed of giving him up again, she sometimes wished she had never seen him. she was eager to have it all over, and be married and out of the way, for one thing because she knew that maxwell could never be assimilated to her circumstance, and she should have no rest till she was assimilated to his. when it came to the dinners and lunches, which the hilary kinship and friendship made in honor of her engagement, she found that maxwell actually thought she could make excuse of his work to go without him, and she had to be painfully explicit before she could persuade him that this would not do at all. he was not timid about meeting her friends, as he might very well have been; but, in comparison with his work, he apparently held them of little moment, and at last he yielded to her wishes rather than her reasons. he made no pretence of liking those people, but he gave them no more offence than might have been expected. among the hilary cousins there were several clever women, who enjoyed the quality of maxwell's somewhat cold, sarcastic humor, and there were several men who recognized his ability, though none of them liked him any better than he liked them. he had a way of regarding them all at first as of no interest, and then, if something kindled his imagination from them, of showing a sudden technical curiosity, which made the ladies, at least, feel as if he were dealing with them as so much material. they professed to think that it was only a question of time when they should all reappear in dramatic form, unless louise should detect them in the manuscript before they were put upon the stage and forbid his using them. if it were to be done before marriage they were not sure that she would do it, or could do it, for it was plain to be seen that she was perfectly infatuated with him. the faults they found in him were those of manner mostly, and they perceived that these were such as passion might forgive to his other qualities. there were some who said that they envied her for being so much in love with him, but these were not many; and some did not find him good-looking, or see what could have taken her with him. maxwell showed himself ignorant of the observances in every way, and if louise had not rather loved him the more for what he made her suffer because of them, she must certainly have given him up at times. he had never, to her thinking, known how to put a note properly on paper; his letters were perfectly fascinating, but they lacked a final charm in being often written on one side of half-sheets, and numbered in the upper right-hand corner, like printer's copy. she had to tell him that he must bring his mother to call upon her; and then he was so long doing it that louise imagined a timidity in his mother which he was too proud to own, and made her own mother go with her to see mrs. maxwell in the house which she partly let out in lodgings on a very modest street. it really did not matter about any of those things though, and she and maxwell's mother got on very well after the first plunge, though the country doctor's widow was distinctly a country person, with the narrow social horizons of a villager whose knowledge of the city was confined to the compass of her courageous ventures in it. to her own mother louise feigned to see nothing repulsive in the humility of these. she had been rather fastidiously worldly, she had been even aggressively worldly, in her preference for a luxurious and tasteful setting, and her mother now found it hard to bear her contented acceptance of the pervading commonness of things at mrs. maxwell's. either her senses were holden by her fondness for maxwell, or else she was trying to hoodwink her mother by an effect of indifference; but mrs. hilary herself was certainly not obtuse to that commonness. if she did not rub it into louise, which would have done no good, she did rub it into louise's father, though that could hardly have been said to do any good either. her report of the whole affair made him writhe, but when she had made him writhe enough she began to admit some extenuating circumstances. if mrs. maxwell was a country person, she was not foolish. she did not chant, in a vain attempt to be genteel in her speech; she did not expand unduly under mrs. hilary's graciousness, and she did not resent it. in fact, the graciousness had been very skilfully managed, and mrs. maxwell had not been allowed to feel that there was any condescension to her. she got on with louise very well; if mrs. maxwell had any overweening pride in her son, she kept it as wholly to herself as any overweening pride she might have had in her son's choice. mrs. hilary did not like her daughter's choice, but she had at last reached such resignation concerning it as the friends of a hopeless invalid may feel when the worst comes. she had tried to stop the affair when there was some hope or some use in trying, and now she determined to make the best of it. the worst was that maxwell was undoubtedly of different origin and breeding, and he would always, in society, subject louise to a consciousness of his difference if he did nothing more. but when you had said this, you seemed to have said all there was to say against him. the more the hilarys learned about the young fellow the more reason they had to respect him. his life, on its level, was blameless. every one who knew him spoke well of him, and those who knew him best spoke enthusiastically; he had believers in his talent and in his character. in a society so barometrical as ours, even in a city where it was the least barometrical, the obstacles to the acceptance of maxwell were mainly subjective. they were formed not so much of what people would say as of what mrs. hilary felt they had a right to say, and, in view of the necessities of the case, she found herself realizing that if they did not say anything to her it would be much as if they had not said anything at all. she dealt with the fact before her frankly, and in the duties which it laid upon her she began to like maxwell before hilary did. not that hilary disliked him, but there was something in the young fellow taking his daughter away from him, in that cool matter-of-fact way, as if it were quite in the course of nature that he should, instead of being abashed and overwhelmed by his good fortune, which left hilary with a misgiving lest he might realize it less and less as time went on. hilary had no definite ambition for her in marriage, but his vague dreams for her were not of a young man who meant to leave off being a newspaper writer to become a writer of plays. he instinctively wished her to be of his own order of things; and it had pleased him when he heard from his wife's report that louise had seen the folly of her fancy for the young journalist whom a series of accidents had involved with their lives, and had decided to give him up. when the girl decided again, more tacitly, that she could not give him up, hilary submitted, as he would have submitted to anything she wished. to his simple idolatry of her she was too good for anything on earth, and if he were to lose her, he found that after all he had no great choice in the matter. as soon as her marriage appeared inevitable, he agreed with his wife that their daughter must never have any unhappiness of their making; and they let her reverse without a word the purpose of going to spend the winter abroad which they had formed at her wish when she renounced maxwell. all this was still recent in point of time, and though marriage had remanded it to an infinite distance apparently with the young people, it had not yet taken away the importance or the charm of the facts and the feelings that had seemed the whole of life before marriage. when louise turned from her retrospect she went in through the window that opened on the veranda and stood beside her husband, where he sat with his manuscript before him, frowning at it in the lamplight that made her blink a little after the dark outside. she put her hand on his head, and carried it down his cheek over his mouth, so that he might kiss its palm. "going to work much longer, little man?" she asked, and she kissed the top of his head in her turn. it always amused her to find how smooth and soft his hair was. he flung his pen away and threw himself back in his chair. "oh, it's that infernal love business!" he said. she sat down and let her hands fall on her lap. "why, what makes it so hard?" "oh, i don't know. but it seems as if i were _fighting_ it, as the actors say, all the way. it doesn't go of itself at all. it's forced, from the beginning." "why do you have it in, then?" "i have to have it in. it has to be in every picture of life, as it has to be in every life. godolphin is perfectly right. i talked with him about leaving it out to-day, but i had to acknowledge that it wouldn't do. in fact, i was the first to suggest that there must be some sort of love business when i first talked the play over with him. but i wish there hadn't. it makes me sick every time i touch it. the confounded fools don't know what to do with their love." "they might get married with it," louise suggested. "i don't believe they have sense enough to think of that," said her husband. "the curse of their origin is on them, i suppose. i tried to imagine them when i was only fit to imagine a man hating a woman with all his might." louise laughed out her secure delight. "if the public could only know why your lovers were such feeble folk it would make the fortune of the play." maxwell laughed, too. "yes, fancy pinney getting hold of a fact like that and working it up with all his native delicacy in the sunday edition of the _events_!" pinney was a reporter of maxwell's acquaintance, who stood to louise for all that was most terrible in journalistic enterprise. "don't!" she shrieked. maxwell went on. "he would have both our portraits in, and your father's and mother's, and my mother's; and your house on commonwealth avenue, and our meek mansion on pinckney street. he would make it a work of art, pinney would, and he would believe that we were all secretly gratified with it, no matter how we pretended to writhe under it." he laughed and laughed, and then suddenly he stopped and was very grave. "i know what you're thinking of now," said his wife. "what?" "whether you couldn't use _our_ affair in the play?" "you're a witch! yes, i was! i was thinking it wouldn't do." "stuff! it _will_ do, and you must use it. who would ever know it? and i shall not care how blackly you show me up. i deserve it. if i was the cause of your hating love so much that you failed with your lovers on the old lines, i certainly ought to be willing to be the means of your succeeding on lines that had never been tried before." "generous girl!" he bent over--he had not to bend far--and kissed her. then he rose excitedly and began to walk the floor, with his hands in his pockets, and his head dropped forward. he broke into speech: "i could disguise it so that nobody would ever dream of it. i'll just take a hint from ourselves. how would it do to have had the girl actually reject him? it never came to that with us; and instead of his being a howling outside swell that was rather condescending to her, suppose i have him some sort of subordinate in her father's business? it doesn't matter much what; it's easy to arrange such a detail. she could be in love with him all the time, without even knowing it herself, or, at least, not knowing it when he offers himself; and she could always be vaguely hoping or expecting that he would come to time again." "that's what i did," said his wife, "and you hadn't offered yourself either." maxwell stopped, with an air of discomfiture and disappointment. "you wouldn't like me to use that point, then?" "what a simpleton! of course i should! i shouldn't care if all the world knew it." "ah, well, we won't give it to pinney, anyway; but i really think it could be done without involving our own facts. i should naturally work farther and farther away from them when the thing got to spinning. just take a little color from them now and then. i might have him hating her all the way through, or, supposing he hated her, and yet doing all sorts of nice little things, and noble big things for her, till it came out about her father's crime, and then--" he stopped again with a certain air of distaste. "that would be rather romantic, wouldn't it?" his wife asked. "that was what i was thinking," he answered. "it would be confoundedly romantic." "well, i'll tell you," said louise; "you could have them squabbling all the way through, and doing hateful things to one another." "that would give it the cast of comedy." "well?" "and that wouldn't do either." "not if it led up to the pathos and prettiness of their reconciliation in the end? shakespeare mixes the comic and the tragic all through!" "oh yes, i know that--" "and it would be very effective to leave the impression of their happiness with the audience, so that they might have strength to get on their rubbers and wraps after the tremendous ordeal of your haxard death-scene." "godolphin wouldn't stand that. he wants the gloom of haxard's death to remain in unrelieved inkiness at the end. he wants the people to go away thinking of godolphin, and how well he did the last gasp. he wouldn't stand any love business there. he would rather not have any in the play." "very well, if you're going to be a slave to godolphin--" "i'm not going to be a slave to godolphin, and if i can see my way to make the right use of such a passage at the close i'll do it even if it kills the play or godolphin." "now you're shouting," said louise. she liked to use a bit of slang when it was perfectly safe--as in very good company, or among those she loved; at other times she scrupulously shunned it. "but i can do it somehow," maxwell mused aloud. "now i have the right idea, i can make it take any shape or color i want. it's magnificent!" "and who thought of it?" she demanded. "who? why, _i_ thought of it myself." "oh, you little wretch!" she cried, in utter fondness, and she ran at him and drove him into a corner. "now, say that again and i'll tickle you." "no, no, no!" he laughed, and he fought away the pokes and thrusts she was aiming at him. "we both thought of it together. it was mind transference!" she dropped her hands with an instant interest in the psychological phenomena. "wasn't it strange? or, no, it wasn't, either! if our lives are so united in everything, the wonder is that we don't think more things and say more things together. but now i want you to own, brice, that i was the first to speak about your using our situation!" "yes, you were, and i was the first to think of it. but that's perfectly natural. you always speak of things before you think, and i always think of things before i speak." "well, i don't care," said louise, by no means displeased with the formulation. "i shall always say it was perfectly miraculous. and i want you to give me credit for letting you have the idea after you had thought of it." "yes, there's nothing mean about you, louise, as pinney would say. by jove, i'll bring pinney in! i'll have pinney interview haxard concerning greenshaw's disappearance." "very well, then, if you bring pinney in, you will leave me out," said louise. "i won't be in the same play with pinney." "well, i won't bring pinney in, then," said maxwell. "i prefer you to pinney--in a play. but i have got to have in an interviewer. it will be splendid on the stage, and i'll be the first to have him." he went and sat down at his table. "you're not going to work any more to-night!" his wife protested. "no, just jot down a note or two, to clinch that idea of ours in the right shape." he dashed off a few lines with pencil in his play at several points, and then he said: "there! i guess i shall get some bones into those two flabby idiots to-morrow. i see just how i can do it." he looked up and met his wife's adoring eyes. "you're wonderful, brice!" she said. "well, don't tell me so," he returned, "or it might spoil me. now i wouldn't tell you how good you were, on any account." "oh yes, do, dearest!" she entreated, and a mist came into her eyes. "i don't think you praise me enough." "how much ought i to praise you?" "you ought to say that you think i'll never be a hinderance to you." "let me see," he said, and he pretended to reflect. "how would it do to say that if i ever come to anything worth while, it'll be because you made me?" "oh, brice! but would it be true?" she dropped on her knees at his side. "well, i don't know. let's hope it would," and with these words he laughed again and put his arms round her. presently she felt his arm relax, and she knew that he had ceased to think about her and was thinking about his play again. she pulled away, and "well?" she asked. he laughed at being found out so instantly. "that was a mighty good thing your father said when you went to tell him of our engagement." "it was _very_ good. but if you think i'm going to let you use _that_ you're very much mistaken. no, brice! don't you touch papa. he wouldn't like it; he wouldn't understand it. why, what a perfect cormorant you are!" they laughed over his voracity, and he promised it should be held in check as to the point which he had thought for a moment might be worked so effectively into the play. the next morning louise said to her husband: "i can see, brice, that you are full of the notion of changing that love business, and if i stay round i shall simply bother. i'm going down to lunch with papa and mamma, and get back here in the afternoon, just in time to madden godolphin with my meddling." she caught the first train after breakfast, and in fifteen minutes she was at beverly farms. she walked over to her father's cottage, where she found him smoking his cigar on the veranda. he was alone; he said her mother had gone to boston for the day; and he asked: "did you walk from the station? why didn't you come back in the carriage? it had just been there with your mother." "i didn't see it. besides, i might not have taken it if i had. as the wife of a struggling young playwright, i should have probably thought it unbecoming to drive. but the struggle is practically over, you'll be happy to know." "what? has he given it up?" asked her father. "given it up! he's just got a new light on his love business!" "i thought his love business had gone pretty well with him," said hilary, with a lingering grudge in his humor. "this is another love business!" louise exclaimed. "the love business in the play. brice has always been so disgusted with it that he hasn't known what to do. but last night we thought it out together, and i've left him this morning getting his hero and heroine to stand on their legs without being held up. do you want to know about it?" "i think i can get on without," said hilary. louise laughed joyously. "well, you wouldn't understand what a triumph it was if i told you. i suppose, papa, you've no idea how philistine you are. but you're nothing to mamma!" "i dare say," said hilary, sulkily. but she looked at him with eyes beaming with gayety, and he could see that she was happy, and he was glad at heart. "when does maxwell expect to have his play done?" he relented so far as to ask. "why, it's done now, and has been for a month, in one sense, and it isn't done at all in another. he has to keep working it over, and he has to keep fighting godolphin's inspirations. he comes over from manchester with a fresh lot every afternoon." "i dare say maxwell will be able to hold his own," said hilary, but not so much proudly as dolefully. she knew he was braving it out about the theatre, and that secretly he thought it undignified, and even disreputable, to be connected with it, or to be in such close relations with an actor as maxwell seemed to be with this fellow who talked of taking his play. hilary could go back very easily to the time in boston when the theatres were not allowed open on saturday night, lest they should profane the approaching sabbath, and when you would no more have seen an actor in society than an elephant. he had not yet got used to meeting them, and he always felt his difference, though he considered himself a very liberal man, and was fond of the theatre--from the front. he asked now, "what sort of chap is he, really?" meaning godolphin, and louise did her best to reassure him. she told him godolphin was young and enthusiastic; and he had an ideal of the drama; and he believed in brice; and he had been two seasons with booth and barrett; and now he had made his way on the pacific coast, and wanted a play that he could take the road with. she parroted those phrases, which made her father's flesh creep, and she laughed when she saw it creeping, for sympathy; her own had crept first. "well," he said, at last, "he won't expect you and maxwell to take the road too with it?" "oh no, we shall only be with him in new york. he won't put the play on there first; they usually try a new play in the country." "oh, do they?" said hilary, with a sense that his daughter's knowledge of the fact was disgraceful to her. "yes. shall i tell you what they call that? trying it on a dog!" she shrieked, and hilary had to laugh, too. "it's dreadful," she went on. "then, if it doesn't kill the dog, godolphin will bring it to new york, and put it on for a run--a week or a month--as long as his money holds out. if he believes in it, he'll fight it." her father looked at her for explanation, and she said, with a gleeful perception of his suffering, "he'll keep it on if he has to play to paper every night. that is, to free tickets." "oh!" said hilary. "and are you to be there the whole time with him?" "why, not necessarily. but brice will have to be there for the rehearsals; and if we are going to live in new york--" hilary sighed. "i wish maxwell was going on with his newspaper work; i might be of use to him in that line, if he were looking forward to an interest in a newspaper; but i couldn't buy him a theatre, you know." louise laughed. "he wouldn't let you buy him anything, papa; brice is awfully proud. now, i'll tell you, if you want to know, just how we expect to manage in new york; brice and i have been talking it all over; and it's all going to be done on that thousand dollars he saved up from his newspaper work, and we're not going to touch a cent of my money till that is gone. don't you call that pretty business-like?" "very," said hilary, and he listened with apparent acquiescence to the details of a life which he divined that maxwell had planned from his own simple experience. he did not like the notion of it for his daughter, but he could not help himself, and it was a consolation to see that she was in love with it. she went back from it to the play itself, and told her father that now maxwell had got the greatest love business for it that there ever was. she would not explain just what it was, she said, because her father would get a wrong notion of it if she did. "but i have a great mind to tell you something else," she said, "if you think you can behave sensibly about it, papa. do you suppose you can?" hilary said he would try, and she went on: "it's part of the happiness of having got hold of the right kind of love business now, and i don't know but it unconsciously suggested it to both of us, for we both thought of the right thing at the same time; but in the beginning you couldn't have told it from a quarrel." her father started, and louise began to laugh. "yes, we had quite a little tiff, just like _real_ married people, about my satirizing one of godolphin's inspirations to his face, and wounding his feelings. brice is so cautious and so gingerly with him; and he was vexed with me, and told me he wished i wouldn't do it; and that vexed me, and i said i wouldn't have anything to do with his play after this; and i didn't speak to him again till after supper. i said he was self-centred, and he _is_. he's always thinking about his play and its chances; and i suppose i would rather have had him think more about me now and then. but i've discovered a way now, and i believe it will serve the same purpose. i'm going to enter so fully into his work that i shall be part of it; and when he is thinking of that he will be thinking of me without knowing it. now, you wouldn't say there was anything in that to cry about, would you? and yet you see i'm at it!" and with this she suddenly dropped her face on her father's shoulder. hilary groaned in his despair of being able to imagine an injury sufficiently atrocious to inflict on maxwell for having brought this grief upon his girl. at the sound of his groan, as if she perfectly interpreted his meaning in it, she broke from a sob into a laugh. "will you never," she said, dashing away the tears, "learn to let me cry, simply because i am a goose, papa, and a goose must weep without reason, because she feels like it? i won't have you thinking that i am not the happiest person in the world; and i was, even when i was suffering so because i had to punish brice for telling me i had done wrong. and if you think i'm not, i will never tell you anything more, for i see you can't be trusted. will you?" he said no to her rather complicated question, and he was glad to believe that she was really as happy as she declared, for if he could not have believed it, he would have had to fume away an intolerable deal of exasperation. this always made him very hot and uncomfortable, and he shrank from it, but he would have done it if it had been necessary. as it was, he got back to his newspaper again with a sufficiently light heart, when louise gave him a final kiss, and went indoors and put herself in authority for the day, and ordered what she liked for luncheon. the maids were delighted to have her, and she had a welcome from them all, which was full of worship for her as a bride whose honeymoon was not yet over. she went away before her mother got home, and she made her father own, before she left him, that he had never had such a lovely day since he could remember. he wanted to drive over to magnolia with her; but she accused him of wanting to go so that he could spy round a little, and satisfy himself of the misery of her married life; and then he would not insist. iv. louise kept wondering, the whole way back, how maxwell had managed the recasting of the love-business, and she wished she had stayed with him, so that he could have appealed to her at any moment on the points that must have come up all the time. she ought to have coached him more fully about it, and told him the woman's side of such a situation, as he never could have imagined how many advances a woman can make with a man in such an affair and the man never find it out. she had not made any advances herself when she wished to get him back, but she had wanted to make them; and she knew he would not have noticed it if she had done the boldest sort of things to encourage him, to let him know that she liked him; he was so simple, in his straightforward egotism, beside her sinuous unselfishness. she began to think how she was always contriving little sacrifices to his vanity, his modesty, and he was always accepting them with a serene ignorance of the fact that they were offered; and at this she strayed off on a little by-way in her revery, and thought how it was his mind, always, that charmed her; it was no ignoble fondness she felt; no poor, grovelling pleasure in his good looks, though she had always seen that in a refined sort he had a great deal of manly beauty. but she had held her soul aloof from all that, and could truly say that what she adored in him was the beauty of his talent, which he seemed no more conscious of than of his dreamy eyes, the scornful sweetness of his mouth, the purity of his forehead, his sensitive nostrils, his pretty, ineffective little chin. she had studied her own looks with reference to his, and was glad to own them in no wise comparable, though she knew she was more graceful, and she could not help seeing that she was a little taller; she kept this fact from herself as much as possible. her features were not regular, like his, but she could perceive that they had charm in their irregularity; she could only wonder whether he thought that line going under her chin, and suggesting a future double chin in the little fold it made, was so very ugly. he seemed never to have thought of her looks, and if he cared for her, it was for some other reason, just as she cared for him. she did not know what the reason could be, but perhaps it was her sympathy, her appreciation, her cheerfulness; louise believed that she had at least these small merits. the thought of them brought her back to the play again, and to the love-business, and she wondered how she could have failed to tell him, when they were talking about what should bring the lovers together, after their prefatory quarrel, that simply willing it would do it. she knew that after she began to wish maxwell back, she was in such a frenzy that she believed her volition brought him back; and now she really believed that you could hypnotize fate in some such way, and that your longings would fulfil themselves if they were intense enough. if he could not use that idea in this play, then he ought to use it in some other, something psychological, symbolistic, maeterlinckish. she was full of it when she dismounted from the barge at the hotel and hurried over to their cottage, and she was intolerably disappointed when she did not find him at work in the parlor. "brice! brice!" she shouted, in the security of having the whole cottage to herself. she got no answer, and ran up to their room, overhead. he was not there, either, and now it seemed but too probable that he had profited by her absence to go out for a walk alone, after his writing, and fallen from the rocks, and been killed--he was so absent-minded. she offered a vow to heaven that if he were restored to her she would never leave him again, even for a half-day, as long as either of them lived. in reward for this she saw him coming from the direction of the beach, where nothing worse could have befallen him than a chill from the water, if the wind was off shore and he had been taking a bath. she had not put off her hat yet, and she went out to meet him; she could not kiss him at once, if she went to meet him, but she could wait till she got back to the cottage, and then kiss him. it would be a trial to wait, but it would be a trial to wait for him to come in, and he might stroll off somewhere else, unless she went to him. as they approached each other she studied his face for some sign of satisfaction with his morning's work. it lighted up at sight of her, but there remained an inner dark in it to her eye. "what is the matter?" she asked, as she put her hand through his arm, and hung forward upon it so that she could look up into his face. "how did you get on with the love-business?" "oh, i think i've got that all right," he answered, with a certain reservation. "i've merely blocked it out, of course." "so that you can show it to godolphin?" "i guess so." "i see that you're not sure of it. we must go over it before he comes. he hasn't been here yet?" "not yet." "why are you so quiet, brice? is anything the matter? you look tired." "i'm not particularly tired." "then you are worried. what is it?" "oh, you would have to know, sooner or later." he took a letter from his pocket and gave it to her. "it came just after i had finished my morning's work." she pulled it out of the envelope and read: "manchester-by-the-sea, friday. "dear sir: i beg leave to relinquish any claim that you may feel i have established to the play you have in hand. as it now stands, i do not see my part in it, and i can imagine why you should be reluctant to make further changes in it, in order to meet my requirements. "if i can be of any service to you in placing the piece, i shall be glad to have you make use of me. "yours truly, "launcelot godolphin." "you blame _me_!" she said, after a blinding moment, in which the letter darkened before her eyes, and she tottered in her walk. she gave it back to him as she spoke. "what a passion you have for blaming!" he answered, coldly. "if i fixed the blame on you it wouldn't help." "no," louise meekly assented, and they walked along towards their cottage. they hardly spoke again before they reached it and went in. then she asked, "did you expect anything like this from the way he parted with you yesterday?" maxwell gave a bitter laugh. "from the way we parted yesterday i was expecting him early this afternoon, with the world in the palm of his hand, to lay it at my feet. he all but fell upon my neck when he left me. i suppose his not actually doing it was an actor's intimation that we were to see each other no more." "i wish you had nothing to do with actors!" said louise. "_they_ appear to have nothing to do with me," said maxwell. "it comes to the same thing." they reached the cottage, and sat down in the little parlor where she had left him so hopefully at work in the morning, where they had talked his play over so jubilantly the night before. "what are you going to do?" she asked, after an abysmal interval. "nothing. what is there to do?" "you have a right to an explanation; you ought to demand it." "i don't need any explanation. the case is perfectly clear. godolphin doesn't want my play. that is all." "oh, brice!" she lamented. "i am so dreadfully sorry, and i know it was my fault. why don't you let me write to him, and explain--" maxwell shook his head. "he doesn't want any explanation. he doesn't want the play, even. we must make up our minds to that, and let him go. now we can try it with your managers." louise felt keenly the unkindness of his calling them her managers, but she was glad to have him unkind to her; deep within her unitarianism she had the puritan joy in suffering for a sin; her treatment of godolphin's suggestion of a skirt-dance, while very righteous in itself, was a sin against her husband's interest, and she would rather he were unkind to her than not. the sooner she was punished for it and done with it, the better; in her unscientific conception of life, the consequences of a sin ended with its punishment. if maxwell had upbraided her with the bitterness she merited, it would have been to her as if it were all right again with godolphin. his failure to do so left the injury unrepaired, and she would have to do something. "i suppose you don't care to let me see what you've written to-day?" "no, not now," said maxwell, in a tone that said, "i haven't the heart for it." they sat awhile without speaking, and then she ventured, "brice, i have an idea, but i don't know what you will think of it. why not take godolphin's letter on the face of it, and say that you are very sorry he must give up the play, and that you will be greatly obliged to him if he can suggest some other actor? that would be frank, at least." maxwell broke into a laugh that had some joy in it. "do you think so? it isn't my idea of frankness exactly." "no, of course not. you always say what you mean, and you don't change. that is what is so beautiful in you. you can't understand a nature that is one thing to-day and another thing to-morrow." "oh, i think i can," said maxwell, with a satirical glance. "brice!" she softly murmured; and then she said, "well, i don't care. he _is_ just like a woman." "you didn't like my saying so last night." "that was a different thing. at any rate, it's i that say so now, and i want you to write that to him. it will bring him back flying. will you?" "i'll think about it," said maxwell; "i'm not sure that i want godolphin back, or not at once. it's a great relief to be rid of him, in a certain way, though a manager might be worse slavery. still, i think i would like to try a manager. i have never shown this play to one, and i know the odeon people in boston, and, perhaps--" "you are saying that to comfort me." "i wouldn't comfort you for worlds, my dear. i am saying this to distress you. but since i have worked that love-business over, it seems to me much less a one-part play, and if i could get a manager to take a fancy to it i could have my own way with it much better; at least, he wouldn't want me to take all the good things out of the other characters' mouths and stuff them into haxard's." "do you really think so?" "i really thought so before i got godolphin's letter. that made him seem the one and only man for me." "yes," louise assented, with a sad intelligence. maxwell seemed to have got some strength from confronting his calamity. at any rate, he said, almost cheerfully, "i'll read you what i wrote this morning," and she had to let him, though she felt that it was taking her at a moment when her wish to console him was so great that she would not be able to criticise him. but she found that he had done it so well there was no need of criticism. "you are wonderful, brice!" she said, in a transport of adoration, which she indulged as simply his due. "you are miraculous! well, this is the greatest triumph yet, even of _your_ genius. how you have seized the whole idea! and so subtly, so delicately! and so completely disguised! the girl acts just as a girl _would_ have acted. how could you know it?" "perhaps i've seen it," he suggested, demurely. "no, no, you _didn't_ see it! that is the amusing part of it. you were as blind as a bat all the time, and you never had the least suspicion; you've told me so." "well, then, i've seen it retrospectively." "perhaps that way. but i don't believe you've seen it at all. you've divined it; and that's where your genius is worth all the experience in the world. the girl is twice as good as the man, and you never experienced a girl's feelings or motives. you divined them. it's pure inspiration. it's the prophet in you!" "you'll be stoning me next," said maxwell. "i don't think the man is so very bad, even if i didn't divine him." "yes, for a poor creature of experience and knowledge, he will do very well. but he doesn't compare with the girl." "i hadn't so good a model." she hugged him for saying that. "you pay the prettiest compliments in the world, even if you don't pick up handkerchiefs." their joy in the triumph of his art was unalloyed by the hope of anything outside of it, of any sort of honor or profit from it, though they could not keep the thought of these out very long. "yes," she said, after one of the delicious silences that divided their moments of exaltation. "there won't be any trouble about getting your play taken, _now_." after supper they strolled down for the sunset and twilight on the rocks. there, as the dusk deepened, she put her wrap over his shoulders as well as her own, and pulled it together in front of them both. "i am not going to have you taking cold, now, when you need all your health for your work more than ever. that love-business seems to me perfect just as it is, but i know you won't be satisfied till you have put the very last touch on it." "yes, i see all sorts of things i can do to it. louise!" "well, what?" "don't you see that the love-business is the play now? i have got to throw away all the sin-interest, all the haxard situation, or keep them together as they are, and write a new play altogether, with the light, semi-comic motive of the love-business for the motive of the whole. it's out of tone with haxard's tragedy, and it can't be brought into keeping with it. the sin-interest will kill the love-business, or the love-business will kill the sin-interest. don't you see?" "why, of course! you must make this light affair now, and when it's opened the way for you with the public you can bring out the old play," she assented, and it instantly became the old play in both their minds; it became almost the superannuated play. they talked it over in this new aspect, and then they went back to the cottage, to look at the new play as it shadowed itself forth in the sketch maxwell had made. he read the sketch to her again, and they saw how it could be easily expanded to three or four acts, and made to fill the stage and the evening. "and it will be the most original thing that ever was!" she exulted. "i don't think there's been anything exactly like it before," he allowed. from time to time they spoke to each other in the night, and she asked if he were asleep, and he if she were asleep, and then they began to talk of the play again. towards morning they drowsed a little, but at their time of life the loss of a night's sleep means nothing, and they rose as glad as they had lain down. "i'll tell you, brice," she said, the first thing, "you must have it that they have been engaged, and you can call the play 'the second chapter,' or something more alliterative. don't you think that would be a good name?" "it would make the fortune of any play," he answered, "let alone a play of such merit as this." "well, then, sha'n't you always say that i did something towards it?" "i shall say you did everything towards it. you originated the idea, and named it, and i simply acted as your amanuensis, as it were, and wrote it out mostly from your dictation. it shall go on the bills, 'the second chapter,' a demi-semi-serious comedy by mrs. louise hilary maxwell--in letters half a foot high--and by b. maxwell--in very small lower case, that can't be read without the aid of a microscope." "oh, brice! if you make him talk that way to her, it will be perfectly killing." "i dare say the audience will find it so." they were so late at breakfast, and sat there so long talking, for maxwell said he did not feel like going to work quite so promptly as usual, that it was quite ten o'clock when they came out of the dining-room, and then they stayed awhile gossiping with people on the piazza of the hotel before they went back to their cottage. when they came round the corner in sight of it they saw the figure of a man pacing back and forth on the veranda, with his head dropped forward, and swinging a stick thoughtfully behind him. louise pulled maxwell convulsively to a halt, for the man was godolphin. "what do you suppose it means?" she gasped. "i suppose he will tell us," said maxwell, dryly. "don't stop and stare at him. he has got eyes all over him, and he's clothed with self-consciousness as with a garment, and i don't choose to let him think that his being here is the least important or surprising." "no, of course not. that would be ridiculous," and she would have liked to pause for a moment's worship of her husband's sense, which appeared to her almost as great as his genius. but it seemed to her an inordinately long time before they reached the cottage-gate, and godolphin came half-way down the walk to meet them. he bowed seriously to her, and then said, with dignity, to her husband, "mr. maxwell, i feel that i owe you an apology--or an explanation, rather--for the abrupt note i sent you yesterday. i wish to assure you that i had no feeling in the matter, and that i am quite sincere in my offer of my services." "why, you're very good, mr. godolphin," said maxwell. "i knew that i could fully rely on your kind offer. won't you come in?" he offered the actor his hand, and they moved together towards the cottage; louise had at once gone before, but not so far as to be out of hearing. "why, thank you, i _will_ sit down a moment. i found the walk over rather fatiguing. it's going to be a hot day." he passed his handkerchief across his forehead, and insisted upon placing a chair for mrs. maxwell before he could be made to sit down, though she said that she was going indoors, and would not sit. "you understand, of course, mr. maxwell, that i should still like to have your play, if it could be made what i want?" maxwell would not meet his wife's eye in answering. "oh, yes; the only question with me is, whether i can make it what you want. that has been the trouble all along. i know that the love-business in the play, as it stood, was inadequate. but yesterday, just before i got your note, i had been working it over in a perfectly new shape. i wish, if you have a quarter of an hour to throw away, you'd let me show you what i've written. perhaps you can advise me." "why, i shall be delighted to be of any sort of use, mr. maxwell," said godolphin, with softened state; and he threw himself back in his chair with an air of eager readiness. "i will get your manuscript, brice," said louise, at a motion her husband made to rise. she ran in and brought it out, and then went away again. she wished to remain somewhere within earshot, but, upon the whole, she decided against it, and went upstairs, where she kept herself from eavesdropping by talking with the chambermaid, who had come over from the hotel. v. louise did not come down till she heard godolphin walking away on the plank. she said to herself that she had shipwrecked her husband once by putting in her oar, and she was not going to do it again. when the actor's footfalls died out in the distance she descended to the parlor, where she found maxwell over his manuscript at the table. she had to call to him, "well?" before he seemed aware of her presence. even then he did not look round, but he said, "godolphin wants to play atland." "the lover?" "yes. he thinks he sees his part in it." "and do you?" "how do i know?" "well, i am glad i let him get safely away before i came back, for i certainly couldn't have held in when he proposed that, if i had been here. i don't understand you, brice! why do you have anything more to do with him? why do you let him touch the new play? was he ever of the least use with the old one?" maxwell lay back in his chair with a laugh. "not the least in the world." the realization of the fact amused him more and more. "i was just thinking how everything he ever got me to do to it," he looked down at the manuscript, "was false and wrong. they talk about a knowledge of the stage as if the stage were a difficult science, instead of a very simple piece of mechanism whose limitations and possibilities any one can seize at a glance. all that their knowledge of it comes to is clap-trap, pure and simple. they brag of its resources, and tell you the carpenter can do anything you want nowadays, but if you attempt anything outside of their tradition they are frightened. they think that their exits and their entrances are great matters, and that they must come on with such a speech, and go off with such another; but it is not of the least consequence how they come or go if they have something interesting to say or do." "why don't you say these things to godolphin?" "i do, and worse. he admits their truth with a candor and an intelligence that are dismaying. he has a perfect conception of atland's part, and he probably will play it in a way to set your teeth on edge." "why do you let him? why don't you keep your play and offer it to a manager or some actor who will know how to do it?" demanded louise, with sorrowful submission. "godolphin will know how to do it, even if he isn't able to. and, besides, i should be a fool to fling him away for any sort of promising uncertainty." "he was willing to fling you away!" "yes, but i'm not so important to him as he is to me. he's the best i can do for the present. it's a compromise all the way through--a cursed spite from beginning to end. your own words don't represent your ideas, and the more conscience you put into the work the further you get from what you thought it would be. then comes the actor with the infernal chemistry of his personality. he imagines the thing perfectly, not as you imagined it, but as you wrote it, and then he is no more able to play it as he imagined it than you were to write it as you imagined it. what the public finally gets is something three times removed from the truth that was first in the dramatist's mind. but i'm very lucky to have godolphin back again." "i hope you're not going to let him see that you think so." "oh, no! i'm going to keep him in a suppliant attitude throughout, and i'm going to let you come in and tame his spirit, if he--kicks." "don't be vulgar, brice," said louise, and she laughed rather forlornly. "i don't see how you have the heart to joke, if you think it's so bad as you say." "i haven't. i'm joking without any heart." he stood up. "let us go and take a bath." she glanced at him with a swift inventory of his fagged looks, and said, "indeed, you shall not take a bath this morning. you couldn't react against it. you won't, will you?" "no, i'll only lie on the sand, if you can pick me out a good warm spot, and watch you." "i shall not bathe, either." "well, then, i'll watch the other women." he put out his hand and took hers. she felt his touch very cold. "you are excited i can see. i wish--" "what? that i was not an intending dramatist?" "that you didn't have such excitements in your life. they will kill you." "they are all that will keep me alive." they went down to the beach, and walked back and forth on its curve several times before they dropped in the sand at a discreet distance from several groups of hotel acquaintance. people were coming and going from the line of bath-houses that backed upon the low sand-bank behind them, with its tufts of coarse silvery-green grasses. the maxwells bowed to some of the ladies who tripped gayly past them in their airy costumes to the surf, or came up from it sobered and shivering. four or five young fellows, with sun-blackened arms and legs, were passing ball near them. a pony-carriage drove by on the wet sand; a horseman on a crop-tailed roan thumped after it at a hard trot. dogs ran barking vaguely about, and children with wooden shovels screamed at their play. far off shimmered the sea, of one pale blue with the sky. the rooks were black at either end of the beach; a line of sail-boats and dories swung across its crescent beyond the bathers, who bobbed up and down in the surf, or showed a head here and there outside of it. "what a singular spectacle," said maxwell. "the casting off of the conventional in sea-bathing always seems to me like the effect of those dreams where we appear in society insufficiently dressed, and wonder whether we can make it go." "yes, isn't it?" his wife tried to cover all the propositions with one loosely fitting assent. "i'm surprised," maxwell went on, "that some realistic wretch hasn't put this sort of thing on the stage. it would be tremendously effective; if he made it realistic enough it would be attacked by the press as improper and would fill the house. couldn't we work a sea-bathing scene into the 'second chapter'? it would make the fortune of the play, and it would give godolphin a chance to show his noble frame in something like the majesty of nature. godolphin would like nothing better. we could have atland rescue salome, and godolphin could flop round among the canvas breakers for ten minutes, and come on for a recall with the heroine, both dripping real water all over the stage." "don't be disgusting, brice," said his wife, absently. she had her head half turned from him, watching a lady who had just come out of her bath-house and was passing very near them on her way to the water. maxwell felt the inattention in his wife's tone and looked up. the bather returned their joint gaze steadily from eyes that seemed, as maxwell said, to smoulder under their long lashes, and to question her effect upon them in a way that he was some time finding a phrase for. he was tormented to make out whether she were a large person or not; without her draperies he could not tell. but she moved with splendid freedom, and her beauty expressed a maturity of experience beyond her years; she looked young, and yet she looked as if she had been taking care of herself a good while. she was certainly very handsome, louise owned to herself, as the lady quickened her pace, and finally ran down to the water and plunged into a breaker that rolled in at the right moment in uncommon volume. "well?" she asked her husband, whose eyes had gone with hers. "we ought to have clapped." "do you think she is an actress?" "i don't know. i never saw her before. she seemed to turn the sunshine into lime-light as she passed. why! that's rather pretty, isn't it? and it's a verse. i wonder what it is about these people. the best of them have nothing of the stage in them--at least, the men haven't. i'm not sure, though, that the women haven't. there are lots of women off the stage who are actresses, but they don't seem so. they're personal; this one was impersonal. she didn't seem to regard me as a man; she regarded me as a house. did you feel that?" "yes, that was it, i suppose. but she regarded you more than she did me, i think." "why, of course. you were only a matinée." they sat half an hour longer in the sand, and then he complained that the wind blew all the warmth out of him as fast as the sun shone it into him. she felt his hand next her and found it still cold; after a glance round she furtively felt his forehead. "you're still thinking," she sighed. "come! we must go back." "yes. that girl won't be out of the water for half an hour yet; and we couldn't wait to see her clothed and in her right mind afterwards." "what makes you think she's a girl?" asked his wife, as they moved slowly off. he did not seem to have heard her question. he said, "i don't believe i can make the new play go, louise; i haven't the strength for it. there's too much good stuff in haxard; i can't throw away what i've done on it." "that is just what i was thinking, brice! it would be too bad to lose that. the love-business as you've remodeled it is all very well. but it _is_ light; it's comedy; and haxard is such splendid tragedy. i want you to make your first impression in that. you can do comedy afterwards; but if you did comedy first, the public would never think your tragedy was serious." "yes, there's a law in that. a clown mustn't prophesy. if a prophet chooses to joke, now and then, all well and good. i couldn't begin now and expand that love-business into a whole play. it must remain an episode, and godolphin must take it or leave it. of course he'll want atland emaciated to fatten haxard, as he calls it. but atland doesn't amount to much, as it is, and i don't believe i could make him; it's essentially a passive part; salome must make the chief effect in that business, and i think i'll have her a little more serious, too. it'll be more in keeping with the rest." "i don't see why she shouldn't be serious. there's nothing ignoble in what she does." "no. it can be very impassioned." louise thought of the smouldering eyes of that woman, and she wondered if they were what suggested something very impassioned to maxwell; but with all the frankness between them, she did not ask him. on their way to the cottage they saw one of the hotel bell-boys coming out. "just left a telegram in there for you," he called, as he came towards them. louise began, "oh, dear, i hope there's nothing the matter with papa! or your mother." she ran forward, and maxwell followed at his usual pace, so that she had time to go inside and come out with the despatch before he mounted the veranda steps. "you open it!" she entreated, piteously, holding it towards him. he pulled it impatiently open, and glanced at the signature. "it's from godolphin;" and he read, "don't destroy old play. keep new love-business for episode. will come over this afternoon." maxwell smiled. "more mind transference." louise laughed in hysterical relief. "now you can make him do just what you want." vi. maxwell, now, at least, knew that he had got his play going in the right direction again. he felt a fresh pleasure in returning to the old lines after his excursion in the region of comedy, and he worked upon them with fresh energy. he rehabilitated the love-business as he and his wife had newly imagined it, and, to disguise the originals the more effectively, he made the girl, whom he had provisionally called salome, more like himself than louise in certain superficial qualities, though in an essential nobleness and singleness, which consisted with a great deal of feminine sinuosity and subtlety, she remained a portrait of louise. he was doubtful whether the mingling of characteristics would not end in unreality, but she was sure it would not; she said he was so much like a woman in the traits he had borrowed from himself that salome would be all the truer for being like him; or, at any rate, she would be finer, and more ideal. she said that it was nonsense, the way people regarded women as altogether different from men; she believed they were very much alike; a girl was as much the daughter of her father as of her mother; she alleged herself as proof of the fact that a girl was often a great deal more her father's daughter, and she argued that if maxwell made salome quite in his own spiritual image, no one would dream of criticising her as unwomanly. then he asked if he need only make atland in her spiritual image to have him the manliest sort of fellow. she said that was not what she meant, and, in any case, a man could have feminine traits, and be all the nicer for them, but, if a woman had masculine traits, she would be disgusting. at the same time, if you drew a man from a woman, he would be ridiculous. "then you want me to model atland on myself, too," said maxwell. she thought a moment. "yes, i do. if salome is to be taken mostly from me, i couldn't bear to have him like anybody but you. it would be indelicate." "well, now, i'll tell you what, i'm not going to stand it," said maxwell. "i am going to make atland like pinney." but she would not be turned from the serious aspect of the affair by his joking. she asked, "do you think it would intensify the situation if he were not equal to her? if the spectator could be made to see that she was throwing herself away on him, after all?" "wouldn't that leave the spectator a little too inconsolable? you don't want the love-business to double the tragedy, you want to have it relieved, don't you?" "yes, that is true. you must make him worth all the sacrifice. i couldn't stand it if he wasn't." maxwell frowned, as he always did when he became earnest, and said with a little sigh, "he must be passive, negative, as i said; you must simply feel that he is _good_, and that she will be safe with him, after the worst has happened to her father. and i must keep the interest of the love-business light, without letting it become farcical. i must get charm, all i can, into her character. you won't mind my getting the charm all from you?" "oh, brice, what sweet things you say to me! i wish everybody could know how divine you are." "the women would all be making love to me, and i should hate that. one is quite enough." "_am_ i quite enough?" she entreated. "you have been up to the present time." "and do you think i shall always be?" she slid from her chair to her knees on the floor beside him, where he sat at his desk, and put her arms round him. he did not seem to know it. "look here, louise, i have got to connect this love-business with the main action of the play, somehow. it won't do simply to have it an episode. how would it do to have atland know all the time that haxard has killed greenshaw, and be keeping it from salome, while she is betraying her love for him?" "wouldn't that be rather tawdry?" louise let her arms slip down to her side, and looked up at him, as she knelt. "yes, it would," he owned. he looked very unhappy about it, and she rose to her feet, as if to give it more serious attention. "brice, i want your play to be thoroughly honest and true from beginning to end, and not to have any sort of catchpenny effectivism in it. you have planned it so nobly that i can't bear to have you lower the standard the least bit; and i think the honest and true way is to let the love-business be a pleasant fact in the case, as it might very well be. those things _do_ keep going on in life alongside of the greatest misery, the greatest unhappiness." "well," said maxwell, "i guess you are right about the love-business. i'll treat it frankly for what it is, a fact in the case. that will be the right way, and that will be the strong way. it will be like life. i don't know that you are bound to relate things strictly to each other in art, any more than they are related in life. there are all sorts of incidents and interests playing round every great event that seem to have no more relation to it than the rings of saturn have to saturn. they form the atmosphere of it. if i can let haxard's wretchedness be seen at last through the atmosphere of his daughter's happiness!" "yes," she said, "that will be quite enough." she knew that they had talked up to the moment when he could best begin to work, and now left him to himself. within a week he got the rehabilitated love-business in place, and the play ready to show to godolphin again. he had managed to hold the actor off in the meantime, but now he returned in full force, with suggestions and misgivings which had first to be cleared away before he could give a clear mind to what maxwell had done. then maxwell could see that he was somehow disappointed, for he began to talk as if there were no understanding between them for his taking the play. he praised it warmly, but he said that it would be hard to find a woman to do the part of salome. "that is the principal part in the piece now, you know," he added. "i don't see how," maxwell protested. "it seems to me that her character throws haxard's into greater relief than before, and gives it more prominence." "you've made the love-business too strong, i think. i supposed you would have something light and graceful to occupy the house in the suspense between the points in haxard's case. if i were to do him, i should be afraid that people would come back from salome to him with more or less of an effort, i don't say they would, but that's the way it strikes me now; perhaps some one else would look at it quite differently." "then, as it is, you don't want it?" "i don't say that. but it seems to me that salome is the principal figure now. i think that's a mistake." "if it's a fact, it's a mistake. i don't want to have it so," said maxwell, and he made such effort as he could to swallow his disgust. godolphin asked, after a while, "in that last scene between her and her father, and in fact in all the scenes between them, couldn't you give more of the strong speeches to him? she's a great creation now, but isn't she too great for atland?" "i've kept atland under, purposely, because the part is necessarily a negative one, and because i didn't want him to compete with haxard at all." "yes, that is all right; but as it is, _she_ competes with haxard." after godolphin had gone, louise came down, and found maxwell in a dreary muse over his manuscript. he looked up at her with a lack-lustre eye, and said, "godolphin is jealous of salome now. what he really wants is a five-act monologue that will keep him on the stage all the time. he thinks that as it is, she will take all the attention from him." louise appeared to reflect. "well, isn't there something in that?" "good heavens! i should think you were going to play haxard, too!" "no; but of course you can't have two characters of equal importance in your play. some one has to be first, and godolphin doesn't want an actress taking all the honors away from him." "then why did you pretend to like the way i had done it," maxwell demanded, angrily, "if you think she will take the honors from him?" "i didn't say that i did. all that i want is that you should ask yourself whether she would or not." "are _you_ jealous of her?" "now, my dear, if you are going to be unreasonable, i will not talk with you." nothing maddened maxwell so much as to have his wife take this tone with him, when he had followed her up through the sinuosities that always began with her after a certain point. short of that she was as frank and candid as a man, and he understood her, but beyond that the eternal womanly began, and he could make nothing of her. she evaded, and came and went, and returned upon her course, and all with as good a conscience, apparently, as if she were meeting him fairly and squarely on the question they started with. sometimes he doubted if she really knew that she was behaving insincerely, or whether, if she knew it, she could help doing it. he believed her to be a more truthful nature than himself, and it was insufferable for her to be less so, and then accuse him of illogicality. "i have no wish to talk," he said, smothering his rage, and taking up a page of manuscript. "of course," she went on, as if there had been no break in their good feeling, "i know what a goose godolphin is, and i don't wonder you're vexed with him, but you know very well that i have nothing but the good of the play in view as a work of art, and i should say that if you couldn't keep salome from rivalling haxard in the interest of the spectator, you had better go back to the idea of making two plays of it. i think that the 'second chapter' would be a very good thing to begin with." "why, good heavens! you said just the contrary when we decided to drop it." "yes, but that was when i thought you would be able to subdue salome." "there never was any question of subduing salome; it was a question of subduing atland!" "it's the same thing; keeping the love-business in the background." "i give it up!" maxwell flung down his manuscript in sign of doing so. "the whole thing is a mess, and you seem to delight in tormenting me about it. how am i to give the love-business charm, and yet keep it in the background?" "i should think you could." "how?" "well, i was afraid you would give salome too much prominence." "didn't you know whether i had done so or not? you knew what i had done before godolphin came!" "if godolphin thinks she is too prominent, you ought to trust his instinct." maxwell would not answer her. he went out, and she saw him strolling down the path to the rocks. she took the manuscript and began to read it over. he did not come back, and when she was ready to go to supper she had to go down to the rocks for him. his angry fit seemed to have passed, but he looked abjectly sad, and her heart ached at sight of him. she said, cheerfully, "i have been reading that love-business over again, brice, and i don't find it so far out as i was afraid it was. salome is a little too _prononcée_, but you can easily mend that. she is a delightful character, and you have given her charm--too much charm. i don't believe there's a truer woman in the whole range of the drama. she is perfect, and that is why i think you can afford to keep her back a little in the passages with haxard. of course, godolphin wants to shine there. you needn't give him her speeches, but you can put them somewhere else, in some of the scenes with atland; it won't make any difference how much she outshines _him_, poor fellow." he would not be entreated at once, but after letting her talk on to much the same effect for awhile, he said, "i will see what can be done with it. at present i am sick of the whole thing." "yes, just drop it for the present," she said. "i'm hungry, aren't you?" "i didn't know it was time." she was very tender with him, walking up to the hotel, and all that evening she kept him amused, so that he would not want to look at his manuscript. she used him, as a wife is apt to use her husband when he is fretted and not very well, as if he were her little boy, and she did this so sweetly that maxwell could not resent it. the next morning she let him go to his play again, and work all the morning. he ended about noon, and told her he had done what she wanted done to the love-business, he thought, but he would not show it to her, for he said he was tired of it, and would have to go over it with godolphin, at any rate, when he came in the afternoon. they went to the beach, but the person with the smouldering eyes failed to appear, and in fact they did not see her again at magnolia, and they decided that she must have been passing a few days at one of the other hotels, and gone away. godolphin arrived in the sunniest good-humor, as if he had never had any thought of relinquishing the play, and he professed himself delighted with the changes maxwell had made in the love-business. he said the character of salome had the true proportion to all the rest now; and maxwell understood that he would not be jealous of the actress who played the part, or feel her a dangerous rival in the public favor. he approved of the transposition of the speeches that maxwell had made, or at least he no longer openly coveted them for haxard. what was more important to maxwell was that louise seemed finally contented with the part, too, and said that now, no matter what godolphin wanted, she would never let it be touched again. "i am glad you have got that 'impassioned' rubbish out. i never thought that was in character with salome." the artistic consciousness of maxwell, which caught all the fine reluctances and all the delicate feminine preferences of his wife, was like a subtle web woven around him, and took everything, without his willing it, from within him as well as from without, and held it inexorably for future use. he knew the source of the impassioned rubbish which had displeased his wife; and he had felt while he was employing it that he was working in a commoner material than the rest of salome's character; but he had experimented with it in the hope that she might not notice it. the fact that she had instantly noticed it, and had generalized the dislike which she only betrayed at last, after she had punished him sufficiently, remained in the meshes of the net he wore about his mind, as something of value, which he could employ to exquisite effect if he could once find a scheme fit for it. in the meantime it would be hard to say whether godolphin continued more a sorrow or a joy to maxwell, who was by no means always of the same mind about him. he told his wife sometimes, when she was pitying him, that it was a good discipline for him to work with such a man, for it taught him a great deal about himself, if it did not teach him much else. he said that it tamed his overweening pride to find that there was artistic ability employing itself with literature which was so unlike literary ability. godolphin conceived perfectly of the literary intention in the fine passages of the play, and enjoyed their beauty, but he did not value them any more than the poorest and crudest verbiage that promised him a point. in fact, maxwell found that in two or three places the actor was making a wholly wrong version of his words, and maturing in his mind an effect from his error that he was rather loath to give up, though when he was instructed as to their true meaning, he saw how he could get a better effect out of it. he had an excellent intelligence, but this was employed so entirely in the study of impression that significance was often a secondary matter with him. he had not much humor, and maxwell doubted if he felt it much in others, but he told a funny story admirably, and did character-stuff, as he called it, with the subtlest sense; he had begun in sketches of the variety type. sometimes maxwell thought him very well versed in the history and theory of the drama; but there were other times when his ignorance seemed almost creative in that direction. he had apparently no feeling for values; he would want a good effect used, without regard to the havoc it made of the whole picture, though doubtless if it could have been realized to him, he would have abhorred it as thoroughly as maxwell himself. he would come over from manchester one day with a notion for the play so bad that it almost made maxwell shed tears; and the next with something so good that maxwell marvelled at it; but godolphin seemed to value the one no more than the other. he was a creature of moods the most extreme; his faith in maxwell was as profound as his abysmal distrust of him; and his frank and open nature was full of suspicion. he was like a child in the simplicity of his selfishness, as far as his art was concerned, but in all matters aside from it he was chaotically generous. his formlessness was sometimes almost distracting; he presented himself to the author's imagination as mere human material, waiting to be moulded in this shape or that. from day to day, from week to week, maxwell lived in a superficial uncertainty whether godolphin had really taken his play, or would ever produce it; yet at the bottom of his heart he confided in the promises which the actor lavished upon him in both the written and the spoken word. they had an agreement carefully drawn up as to all the business between them, but he knew that godolphin would not be held by any clause of it that he wished to break; he did not believe that godolphin understood what it bound him to, either when he signed it or afterward; but he was sure that he would do not only what was right, but what was noble, if he could be taken at the right moment. upon the whole, he liked him; in a curious sort, he respected and honored him; and he defended him against mrs. maxwell when she said godolphin was wearing her husband's life out, and that if he made the play as greatly successful as "hamlet," or the "trip to chinatown," he would not be worth what it cost them both in time and temper. they lost a good deal of time and temper with the play, which was almost a conjugal affair with them, and the struggle to keep up a show of gay leisure before the summering world up and down the coast told upon mrs. maxwell's nerves. she did not mind the people in the hotel so much; they were very nice, but she did not know many of them, and she could not care for them as she did for her friends who came up from beverly farms and over from manchester. she hated to call maxwell from his work at such times, not only because she pitied him, but because he came to help her receive her friends with such an air of gloomy absence and open reluctance; and she had hated still worse to say he was busy with his play, the play he was writing for mr. godolphin. her friends were apparently unable to imagine anyone writing a play so seriously, and they were unable to imagine mr. godolphin at all, for they had never heard of him; the splendor of his unknown name took them more than anything else. as for getting maxwell to return their visits with her, when men had come with the ladies who called upon her, she could only manage it if he was so fagged with working at his play that he was too weak to resist her will, and even then he had to be torn from it almost by main force. he behaved so badly in the discharge of some of these duties to society, and was, to her eye at least, so bored and worried by them that she found it hard to forgive him, and made him suffer for it on the way home till she relented at the sight of his thin face, the face that she loved, that she had thought the world well lost for. after the third or fourth time she made him go with her she gave it up and went alone, though she was aware that it might look as if they were not on good terms. she only obliged him after that to go with her to her father's, where she would not allow any shadow of suspicion to fall upon their happiness, and where his absent-mindedness would be accounted for. her mother seemed to understand it better than her father, who, she could see, sometimes inwardly resented it as neglect. she also exacted of maxwell that he should not sit silent through a whole meal at the hotel, and that, if he did not or could not talk, he should keep looking at her, and smiling and nodding, now and then. if he would remember to do this she would do all the talking herself. sometimes he did not remember, and then she trod on his foot in vain. the droll side of the case often presented itself for her relief, and, after all, she knew beforehand that this was the manner of man she was marrying, and she was glad to marry him. she was happier than she had ever dreamed of being. she was one of those women who live so largely in their sympathies that if these were employed she had no thought of herself, and not to have any thought of one's self is to be blessed. maxwell had no thought of anything but his work, and that made his bliss; if she could have no thought but of him in his work, she could feel herself in heaven with him. vii. july and august went by, and it was time for godolphin to take the road again. by this time maxwell's play was in as perfect form as it could be until it was tried upon the stage and then overhauled for repairs. godolphin had decided to try it first in toronto, where he was going to open, and then to give it in the west as often as he could. if it did as well as he expected he would bring it on for a run in new york about the middle of december. he would want maxwell at the rehearsals there, but for the present he said he preferred to stage-manage it himself; they had talked it up so fully that he had all the author's intentions in mind. he came over from manchester the day before his vacation ended to take leave of the maxwells. he was in great spirits with the play, but he confessed to a misgiving in regard to the lady whom he had secured for the part of salome. he said there was only one woman he ever saw fit to do that part, but when he named the actress the maxwells had to say they had never heard of her before. "she is a southerner. she is very well known in the west," godolphin said. louise asked if she had ever played in boston, and when he said she had not, louise said "oh!" maxwell trembled, but godolphin seemed to find nothing latent in his wife's offensive tone, and after a little further talk they all parted on the friendliest terms. the maxwells did not hear from him for a fortnight, though he was to have tried the play in toronto at least a week earlier. then there came a telegram from midland: "_tried play here last night. went like wildfire. will write._ godolphin. the message meant success, and the maxwells walked the air. the production of the piece was mentioned in the associated press despatches to the boston papers, and though mrs. maxwell studied these in vain for some verbal corroboration of godolphin's jubilant message, she did not lose faith in it, nor allow her husband to do so. in fact, while they waited for godolphin's promised letter, they made use of their leisure to count the chickens which had begun to hatch. the actor had agreed to pay the author at the rate of five dollars an act for each performance of the play, and as it was five acts long a simple feat of arithmetic showed that the nightly gain from it would be twenty-five dollars, and that if it ran every night and two afternoons, for matinées, the weekly return from it would be two hundred dollars. besides this, godolphin had once said, in a moment of high content with the piece, that if it went as he expected it to go he would pay maxwell over and above this twenty-five dollars a performance five per cent. of the net receipts whenever these passed one thousand dollars. his promise had not been put in writing, and maxwell had said at the time that he should be satisfied with his five dollars an act, but he had told his wife of it, and they had both agreed that godolphin would keep it. they now took it into the account in summing up their gains, and mrs. maxwell thought it reasonable to figure at least twenty-five dollars more from it for each time the play was given; but as this brought the weekly sum up to four hundred dollars, she so far yielded to her husband as to scale the total at three hundred dollars, though she said it was absurd to put it at any such figure. she refused, at any rate, to estimate their earnings from the season at less than fifteen thousand dollars. it was useless for maxwell to urge that godolphin had other pieces in his repertory, things that had made his reputation, and that he would naturally want to give sometimes. she asked him whether godolphin himself had not voluntarily said that if the piece went as he expected he would play nothing else as long as he lived, like jefferson with rip van winkle; and here, she said, it had already, by his own showing, gone at once like wildfire. when maxwell pleaded that they did not know what wildfire meant she declared that it meant an overwhelming house and unbridled rapture in the audience; it meant an instant and lasting triumph for the play. she began to praise godolphin, or, at least, to own herself mistaken in some of her decrials of him. she could not be kept from bubbling over to two or three ladies at the hotel, where it was quickly known what an immense success the first performance of maxwell's play had been. he was put to shame by several asking him when they were to have it in boston, but his wife had no embarrassment in answering that it would probably be kept the whole winter in new york, and not come to boston till some time in the early spring. she was resolved, now, that he should drive over to beverly farms with her, and tell her father and mother about the success of the play. she had instantly telegraphed them on getting godolphin's despatch, and she began to call out to her father as soon as she got inside the house, and saw him coming down the stairs in the hall, "_now_, what do you say, papa? isn't it glorious? didn't i tell you it would be the greatest success? did you ever hear anything like it? where's mamma? if she shouldn't be at home, i don't know what i shall do!" "she's here," said her father, arriving at the foot of the stairs, where louise embraced him, and then let him shake hands with her husband. "she's dressing. we were just going over to see you." "well, you've been pretty deliberate about it! here it's after lunch, and i telegraphed you at ten o'clock." she went on to bully her father more and more, and to flourish maxwell's triumph in his face. "we're going to have three hundred dollars a week from it at the very least, and fifteen thousand dollars for the season. what do you think of that? isn't that pretty good, for two people that had nothing in the world yesterday? what do you say _now_, papa?" there were all sorts of lurking taunts, demands, reproaches, in these words, which both the men felt, but they smiled across her, and made as if they were superior to her simple exultation. "i should say you had written the play yourself, louise," said her father. "no," answered her husband, "godolphin wrote the play; or i've no doubt he's telling the reporters so by this time." louise would not mind them. "well, i don't care! i want papa to acknowledge that i was right, for once. anybody could believe in brice's genius, but i believed in his star, and i always knew that he would get on, and i was all for his giving up his newspaper work, and devoting himself to the drama; and now the way is open to him, and all he has got to do is to keep on writing." "come now, louise," said her husband. "well," her father interposed, "i'm glad of your luck, maxwell. it isn't in my line, exactly, but i don't believe i could be any happier, if it were. after all, it's doing something to elevate the stage. i wish someone would take hold of the pulpit." maxwell shrugged. "i'm not strong enough for that, quite. and i can't say that i had any conscious intention to elevate the stage with my play." "but you had it unconsciously, brice," said louise, "and it can't help having a good effect on life, too." "it will teach people to be careful how they murder people," maxwell assented. "well, it's a great chance," said hilary, with the will to steer a middle course between maxwell's modesty and louise's overweening pride. "there really isn't anything that people talk about more. they discuss plays as they used to discuss sermons. if you've done a good play, you've done a good thing." his wife hastened to make answer for him. "he's done a _great_ play, and there are no ifs or ans about it." she went on to celebrate maxwell's achievement till he was quite out of countenance, for he knew that she was doing it mainly to rub his greatness into her father, and he had so much of the old grudge left that he would not suffer himself to care whether hilary thought him great or not. it was a relief when mrs. hilary came in. louise became less defiant in her joy then, or else the effect of it was lost in mrs. hilary's assumption of an entire expectedness in the event. her world was indeed so remote from the world of art that she could value success in it only as it related itself to her family, and it seemed altogether natural to her that her daughter's husband should take its honors. she was by no means a stupid woman; for a woman born and married to wealth, with all the advantages that go with it, she was uncommonly intelligent; but she could not help looking upon æsthetic honors of any sort as in questionable taste. she would have preferred position in a son-in-law to any distinction appreciable to the general, but wanting that it was fit he should be distinguished in the way he chose. in her feeling it went far to redeem the drama that it should be related to the hilarys by marriage, and if she had put her feeling into words, which always oversay the feelings, they would have been to the effect that the drama had behaved very well indeed, and deserved praise. this is what mrs. hilary's instinct would have said, but, of course, her reason would have said something quite different, and it was her reason that spoke to maxwell, and expressed a pleasure in his success that was very gratifying to him. he got on with her better than with hilary, partly because she was a woman and he was a man, and partly because, though she had opposed his marriage with louise more steadily than her husband, there had been no open offence between them. he did not easily forgive a hurt to his pride, and hilary, with all his good will since, and his quick repentance at the time, had never made it quite right with maxwell for treating him rudely once, when he came to him so helplessly in the line of his newspaper work. they were always civil to each other, and they would always be what is called good friends; they had even an air of mutual understanding, as regarded louise and her exuberances. still, she was so like her father in these, and so unlike her mother, that it is probable the understanding between hilary and maxwell concerning her was only the understanding of men, and that maxwell was really more in sympathy with mrs. hilary, even about louise, even about the world. he might have liked it as much as she, if he had been as much of it, and he thought so well of it as a world that he meant to conquer one of the chief places in it. in the meantime he would have been very willing to revenge himself upon it, to satirize it, to hurt it, to humble it--but for his own pleasure, not the world's good. hilary wanted the young people to stay the afternoon, and have dinner, but his wife perceived that they wished to be left alone in their exultation, and she would not let him keep them beyond a decent moment, or share too much in their joy. with only that telegram from godolphin they could not be definite about anything but their future, which louise, at least, beheld all rose color. just what size or shape their good fortune had already taken they did not know, and could not, till they got the letter godolphin had promised, and she was in haste to go back to magnolia for that, though it could not arrive before the next morning at the earliest. she urged that he might have written before telegraphing, or when he came from the theatre after the play was given. she was not satisfied with the reception of her news, and she said so to maxwell, as soon as they started home. "what did you want?" he retorted, in a certain vexation. "they were as cordial as they could be." "cordial is not enough. you can't expect anything like uproar from mamma, but she took it too much as a matter of course, and i _did_ suppose papa would be a little more riotous." "if you are going to be as exacting as that with people," maxwell returned, "you are going to disappoint yourself frightfully; and if you insist, you will make them hate you. people can't share your happiness any more than they can share your misery; it's as much as they can do to manage their own." "but i did think my own father and mother might have entered into it a little more," she grieved. "well, you are right, brice, and i will try to hold in after this. it wasn't for myself i cared." "i know," said maxwell, so appreciatively that she felt all her loss made up to her, and shrunk closer to him in the buggy he was driving with a lax, absent-minded rein. "but i think a little less fourth of july on my account would be better." "yes, you are wise, and i shall not say another word about it to anybody; just treat it as a common every-day event." he laughed at what was so far from her possibilities, and began to tell her of the scheme for still another play that had occurred to him while they were talking with her father. she was interested in the scheme, but more interested in the involuntary workings of his genius, and she celebrated that till he had to beg her to stop, for she made him ashamed of himself even in the solitude of the woodland stretches they were passing through. then he said, as if it were part of the same strain of thought, "you have to lose a lot of things in writing a play. now, for instance, that beautiful green light there in the woods." he pointed to a depth of the boscage where it had almost an emerald quality, it was so vivid, so intense. "if i were writing a story about two lovers in such a light, and how it bathed their figures and illumined their faces, i could make the reader feel it just as i did. i could make them see it. but if i were putting them in a play, i should have to trust the carpenter and the scene-painter for the effect; and you know what broken reeds they are." "yes," she sighed, "and some day i hope you will write novels. but now you've made such a success with this play that you must do some others, and when you've got two or three going steadily you can afford to take up a novel. it would be wicked to turn your back on the opportunity you've won." he silently assented and said, "i shall be all the the better novelist for waiting a year or two." viii. there was no letter from godolphin in the morning, but in the course of the forenoon there came a newspaper addressed in his handwriting, and later several others. they were midland papers, and they had each, heavily outlined in ink, a notice of the appearance of mr. launcelot godolphin in a new play written expressly for him by a young boston _littérateur_. mr. godolphin believed the author to be destined to make his mark high in the dramatic world, he said in the course of a long interview in the paper which came first, an evening edition preceeding the production of the piece, and plainly meant to give the public the right perspective. he had entered into a generous expression of his own feelings concerning it, and had given maxwell full credit for the lofty conception of an american drama, modern in spirit, and broad in purpose. he modestly reserved to himself such praise as might be due for the hints his life-long knowledge of the stage had enabled him to offer the dramatist. he told how they had spent the summer near each other on the north shore of massachusetts, and had met almost daily; and the reporter got a picturesque bit out of their first meeting at the actor's hotel, in boston, the winter before, when the dramatist came to lay the scheme of the play before godolphin, and godolphin made up his mind before he had heard him half through, that he should want the piece. he had permitted himself a personal sketch of maxwell, which lost none of its original advantages in the diction of the reporter, and which represented him as young, slight in figure, with a refined and delicate face, bearing the stamp of intellectual force; a journalist from the time he left school, and one of the best exponents of the formative influences of the press in the training of its votaries. from time to time it was hard for maxwell to make out whose words the interview was couched in, but he acquitted godolphin of the worst, and he certainly did not accuse him of the flowery terms giving his patriotic reasons for not producing the piece first in toronto as he had meant to do. it appeared that, upon second thoughts, he had reserved this purely american drama for the opening night of his engagement in one of the most distinctively american cities, after having had it in daily rehearsal ever since the season began. "i should think they had pinney out there," said maxwell, as he and his wife looked over the interview, with their cheeks together. "not at all!" she retorted. "it isn't the least like pinney," and he was amazed to find that she really liked the stuff. she said that she was glad, now, that she understood why godolphin had not opened with the play in toronto, as he had promised, and she thoroughly agreed with him that it ought first to be given on our own soil. she was dashed for a moment when maxwell made her reflect that they were probably the losers of four or five hundred dollars by the delay; then she said she did not care, that it was worth the money. she did not find the personal account of maxwell offensive, though she contended that it did not do him full justice, and she cut out the interview and pasted it in a book, where she was going to keep all the notices of his play and every printed fact concerning it. he told her she would have to help herself out with some of the fables, if she expected to fill her book, and she said she did not care for that, either, and probably it was just such things as this interview that drew attention to the play, and must have made it go like wildfire that first night in midland. maxwell owned that it was but too likely, and then he waited hungrily for further word of his play, while she expected the next mail in cheerful faith. it brought them four or five morning papers, and it seemed from these that a play might have gone like wildfire, and yet not been seen by a very large number of people. the papers agreed in a sense of the graceful compliment paid their city by mr. godolphin, who was always a favorite there, in producing his new piece at one of their theatres, and confiding it at once to the judgment of a cultivated audience, instead of trying it first in a subordinate place, and bringing it on with a factitious reputation worked up from all sorts of unknown sources. they agreed, too, that his acting had never been better; that it had great smoothness, and that it rose at times into passion, and was full of his peculiar force. his company was well chosen, and his support had an even excellence which reflected great credit upon the young star, who might be supposed, if he had followed an unwise tradition, to be willing to shine at the expense of his surroundings. his rendition of the rôle of haxard was magnificent in one journal, grand in another, superb in a third, rich, full and satisfying in a fourth, subtle and conscientious in a fifth. beyond this, the critics ceased to be so much of one mind. they were, by a casting vote, adverse to the leading lady, whom the majority decided an inadequate salome, without those great qualities which the author had evidently meant to redeem a certain coquettish lightness in her; the minority held that she had grasped the rôle with intelligence, and expressed with artistic force a very refined intention in it. the minority hinted that salome was really the great part in the piece, and that in her womanly endeavor to win back the lover whom she had not at first prized at his true worth, while her heart was wrung by sympathy with her unhappy father in the mystery brooding over him, she was a far more interesting figure than the less complex haxard; and they intimated that godolphin had an easier task in his portrayal. they all touched more or less upon the conduct of the subordinate actors in their parts, and the maxwells, in every case, had to wade through their opinions of the playing before they got to their opinions of the play, which was the only vital matter concerned. louise would have liked to read them, as she had read the first, with her arm across maxwell's shoulder, and, as it were, with the same eye and the same mind, but maxwell betrayed an uneasiness under the experiment which made her ask: "don't you _like_ to have me put my arm round you, brice?" "yes, yes," he answered, impatiently, "i like to have you put your arm around me on all proper occasions; but--it isn't favorable to collected thought." "why, _i_ think it is," she protested with pathos, and a burlesque of her pathos. "i never think half so well as when i have my arm around you. then it seems as if i thought with your mind. i feel so judicial." "perhaps i feel too emotional, under the same conditions, and think with _your_ mind. at any rate, i can't stand it; and we can't both sit in the same chair either. now, you take one of the papers and go round to the other side of the table. i want to have all my faculties for the appreciation of this noble criticism; it's going to be full of instruction." he made her laugh, and she feigned a pout in obeying him; but, nevertheless, in her heart she felt herself postponed to the interest that was always first in him, and always before his love. "and don't talk," he urged, "or keep calling out, or reading passages ahead. i want to get all the sense there doesn't seem to be in this thing." in fact the critics had found themselves confronted with a task which is always confusing to criticism, in the necessity of valuing a work of art so novel in material that it seems to refuse the application of criterions. as he followed their struggles in the endeavor to judge his work by such canons of art as were known to them, instead of taking it frankly upon the plane of nature and of truth, where he had tried to put it, and blaming or praising him as he had failed or succeeded in this, he was more and more bowed down within himself before the generous courage of godolphin in rising to an appreciation of his intention. he now perceived that he was a man of far more uncommon intelligence than he had imagined him, and that in taking his play godolphin had shown a zeal for the drama which was not likely to find a response in criticism, whatever its fate with the public might be. the critics frankly owned that in spite of its defects the piece had a cordial reception from the audience; that the principal actors were recalled again and again, and they reported that godolphin had spoken both for the author and himself in acknowledging the applause, and had disclaimed all credit for their joint success. this made maxwell ashamed of the suspicion he had harbored that godolphin would give the impression of a joint authorship, at the least. he felt that he had judged the man narrowly and inadequately, and he decided that as soon as he heard from him, he would write and make due reparation for the tacit wrong he had done him. upon the whole he had some reason to be content with the first fortune of his work, whatever its final fate might be. to be sure, if the audience which received it was enthusiastic, it was confessedly small, and it had got no more than a foothold in the public favor. it must remain for further trial to prove it a failure or a success. his eye wandered to the column of advertised amusements for the pleasure of seeing the play announced there for the rest of the week. there was a full list of the pieces for the time of godolphin's stay; but it seemed that neither at night nor at morning was maxwell's play to be repeated. the paper dropped from his hand. "what is the matter?" his wife asked, looking up from her own paper. "this poor man is the greatest possible goose. he doesn't seem to know what he is talking about, even when he praises you. but of course he has to write merely from a first impression. do you want to change papers?" maxwell mechanically picked his up, and gave it to her. "the worst of it is," he said, with the sardonic smile he had left over from an unhappier time of life, "that he won't have an opportunity to revise his first impression." "what do you mean?" he told her, but she could not believe him till she had verified the fact by looking at the advertisements in all the papers. then she asked: "what in the world _does_ he mean?" "not to give it there any more, apparently. he hasn't entered upon the perpetual performance of the piece. but if he isn't like jefferson, perhaps he's like rip; he don't count this time. well, i might have known it! why did i ever trust one of that race?" he began to walk up and down the room, and to fling out, one after another, the expressions of his scorn and his self-scorn. "they have no idea of what good faith is, except as something that brings down the house when they register a noble vow. but i don't blame him; i blame myself. what an ass, what an idiot, i was! why, _he_ could have told me not to believe in his promises; he is a perfectly honest man, and would have done it, if i had appealed to him. he didn't expect me to believe in them, and from the wary way i talked, i don't suppose he thought i did. he hadn't the measure of my folly; i hadn't, myself!" "now, brice!" his wife called out to him, severely, "i won't have you going on in that way. when i denounced godolphin you wouldn't listen to me; and when i begged and besought you to give him up, you always said he was the only man in the world for you, till i got to believing it, and i believe it now. why, dearest," she added, in a softer tone, "don't you see that he probably had his programme arranged all beforehand, and couldn't change it, just because your play happened to be a hit? i'm sure he paid you a great compliment by giving it the first night. now, you must just wait till you hear from him, and you may be sure he will have a good reason for not repeating it there." "oh, godolphin would never lack for a good reason. and i can tell you what his reason in this case will be: that the thing was practically a failure, and that he would have lost money if he had kept it on." "is that what is worrying you? i don't believe it was a failure. i think from all that the papers say, and the worst that they say, the piece was a distinct success. it was a great success with nice people, you can see that for yourself, and it will be a popular success, too; i know it will, as soon as it gets a chance. but you may be sure that godolphin has some scheme about it, and that if he doesn't give it again in midland, it's because he wants to make people curious about it, and hold it in reserve, or something like that. at any rate, i think you ought to wait for his letter before you denounce him." maxwell laughed again at these specious arguments, but he could not refuse to be comforted by them, and he had really nothing to do but to wait for godolphin's letter. it did not come the next mail, and then his wife and he collated his dispatch with the newspaper notices, and tried to make up a judicial opinion from their combined testimony concerning the fate of the play with the audience. their scrutiny of the telegram developed the fact that it must have been sent the night of the performance, and while godolphin was still warm from his recalls and from the congratulations of his friends; it could not have reached them so soon as it did in the morning if it had been sent to the office then; it was not a night message, but it had probably lain in the office over night. in this view it was not such valuable testimony to the success of the play as it had seemed before. but a second and a third reading of the notices made them seem friendlier than at first. the maxwells now perceived that they had first read them in the fever of their joy from godolphin's telegram, and that their tempered approval had struck cold upon them because they were so overheated. they were really very favorable, after all, and they witnessed to an interest in the play which could not be ignored. very likely the interest in it was partly from the fact that godolphin had given it, but apart from this it was evident that the play had established a claim of its own. the mail, which did not bring a letter from godolphin, brought another copy of that evening paper which had printed the anticipatory interview with him, and this had a long and careful consideration of the play in its editorial columns, apparently written by a lover of the drama, as well as a lover of the theatre. very little regard was paid to the performance, but a great deal to the play, which was skilfully analyzed, and praised and blamed in the right places. the writer did not attempt to forecast its fate, but he said that whatever its fate with the public might be, here, at least, was a step in the direction of the drama dealing with facts of american life--simply, vigorously, and honestly. it had faults of construction, but the faults were not the faults of weakness. they were rather the effects of a young talent addressing itself to the management of material too rich, too abundant for the scene, and allowing itself to touch the borders of melodrama in its will to enforce some tragic points of the intrigue. but it was not mawkish and it was not romantic. in its highest reaches it made you think, by its stern and unflinching fidelity to the implications, of ibsen; but it was not too much to say that it had a charm often wanting to that master. it was full of the real american humor; it made its jokes, as americans did, in the very face of the most disastrous possibilities; and in the love-passages it was delicious. the whole episode of the love between haxard's daughter, salome, and atland was simply the sweetest and freshest bit of nature in the modern drama. it daringly portrayed a woman in circumstances where it was the convention to ignore that she ever was placed, and it lent a grace of delicate comedy to the somber ensemble of the piece, without lowering the dignity of the action or detracting from the sympathy the spectator felt for the daughter of the homicide; it rather heightened this. louise read the criticism aloud, and then she and maxwell looked at each other. it took their breath away; but louise got her breath first. "who in the world would have dreamed that there was any one who could write such a criticism, _out there_?" maxwell took the paper, and ran the article over again. then he said, "if the thing did nothing more than get itself appreciated in that way, i should feel that it had done enough. i wonder who the fellow is! could it be a woman?" there was, in fact, a feminine fineness in the touch, here and there, that might well suggest a woman, but they finally decided against the theory: louise said that a woman writer would not have the honesty to own that the part salome played in getting back her lover was true to life, though every woman who saw it would know that it was. she examined the wrapper of the newspaper, and made sure that it was addressed in godolphin's hand, and she said that if he did not speak of the article in his letter, maxwell must write out to the newspaper and ask who had done it. godolphin's letter came at last, with many excuses for his delay. he said he had expected the newspaper notices to speak for him, and he seemed to think that they had all been altogether favorable to the play. it was not very consoling to have him add that he now believed the piece would have run the whole week in midland, if he had kept it on; but he had arranged merely to give it a trial, and maxwell would understand how impossible it was to vary a programme which had once been made out. one thing was certain, however: the piece was an assured success, and a success of the most flattering and brilliant kind, and godolphin would give it a permanent place in his _répertoire_. there was no talk of his playing nothing else, and there was no talk of putting the piece on for a run, when he opened in new york. he said he had sent maxwell a paper containing a criticism in the editorial columns, which would serve to show him how great an interest the piece had excited in midland, though he believed the article was not written by one of the regular force, but was contributed from the outside by a young fellow who had been described to godolphin as a sort of ibsen crank. at the close, he spoke of certain weaknesses which the piece had developed in the performance, and casually mentioned that he would revise it at these points as he found the time; it appeared to him that it needed overhauling, particularly in the love episode; there was too much of that, and the interest during an entire act centred so entirely upon salome that, as he had foreseen, the rôle of haxard suffered. ix. the maxwells stared at each other in dismay when they had finished this letter, which louise had opened, but which they had read together, she looking over his shoulder. all interest in the authorship of the article of the ibsen crank, all interest in godolphin's apparent forgetfulness of his solemn promises to give the rest of his natural life to the performance of the piece, was lost in amaze at the fact that he was going to revise it to please himself, and to fashion maxwell's careful work over in his own ideal of the figure he should make in it to the public. the thought of this was so petrifying that even louise could not at once find words for it, and they were both silent, as people sometimes are, when a calamity has befallen them, in the hope that if they do not speak it will turn out a miserable dream. "well, brice," she said at last, "you certainly never expected _this_!" "no," he answered with a ghastly laugh; "this passes my most sanguine expectations, even of godolphin. good heaven! fancy the botch he will make of it!" "you mustn't let him touch it. you must demand it back, peremptorily. you must telegraph!" "what a mania you have for telegraphing," he retorted. "a special delivery postage-stamp will serve every purpose. he isn't likely to do the piece again for a week, at the earliest." he thought for awhile, and then he said: "in a week he'll have a chance to change his mind so often, that perhaps he won't revise and overhaul it, after all." "but he mustn't think that you would suffer it for an instant," his wife insisted. "it's an indignity that you should not submit to; it's an outrage!" "very likely," maxwell admitted, and he began to walk the floor, with his head fallen, and his fingers clutched together behind him. the sight of his mute anguish wrought upon his wife and goaded her to more and more utterance. "it's an insult to your genius, brice, dear, and you must resent it. i am sure i have been as humble about the whole affair as any one could be, and i should be the last person to wish you to do anything rash. i bore with godolphin's suggestions, and i let him worry you to death with his plans for spoiling your play, but i certainly didn't dream of anything so high-handed as his undertaking to work it over himself, or i should have insisted on your breaking with him long ago. how patient you have been through it all! you've shown so much forbearance, and so much wisdom, and so much delicacy in dealing with his preposterous ideas, and then, to have it all thrown away! it's too bad!" maxwell kept walking hack and forth, and louise began again at a new point. "i was willing to have it remain simply a _succès d'estime_, as far as midland was concerned, though i think you were treated abominably in that, for he certainly gave you reason to suppose that he would do it every night there. he says himself that it would have run the whole week; and you can see from that article how it was growing in public favor all the time. what has become of his promise to play nothing else, i should like to know? and he's only played it once, and now he proposes to revise it himself!" still maxwell walked on and she continued: "i don't know what i shall say to my family. they can never understand such a thing, never! papa couldn't conceive of giving a promise and not keeping it, much less giving a promise just for the _pleasure_ of breaking it. what shall i tell them, brice? i can't bear to say that godolphin is going to make your play over, unless i can say at the same time that you've absolutely forbidden him to do so. that's why i wanted you to telegraph. i wanted to say you had telegraphed." maxwell stopped in his walk and gazed at her, but she could feel that he did not see her, and she said: "i don't know that it's actually necessary for me to say anything at present. i can show them the notices, or that article alone. it's worth all the rest put together, and then we can wait, and see if we hear anything more from godolphin. but now i don't want you to lose any more time. you must write to him at once, and absolutely forbid him to touch your play. will you?" her husband returned from his wanderings of mind and body, and as he dropped upon the lounge at her side, he said, gently, "no, i don't think i'll write at all, louise." "not write at all! then you're going to let him tamper with that beautiful work of yours?" "i'm going to wait till i hear from him again. godolphin is a good fellow--" "oh!" "and he won't be guilty of doing me injustice. besides," and here maxwell broke off with a laugh that had some gayety in it, "he couldn't. godolphin is a fine actor, and he's going to be a great one, but his gifts are not in the line of literature." "i should think not!" "he couldn't change the piece any more than if he couldn't read or write. and if he could, when it came to touching it, i don't believe he would, because the fact would remind him that it wasn't fair. he has to realize things in the objective way before he can realize them at all. that's the stage. if they can have an operator climbing a real telegraph-pole to tap the wire and telegraph the girl he loves that he is dead, so that she can marry his rich rival and go to europe and cultivate her gift for sculpture, they feel that they have got real life." louise would not be amused, or laugh with her husband at this. "then what in the world does godolphin mean?" she demanded. "why, being interpreted out of actor's parlance, he means that he wishes he could talk the play over with me again and be persuaded that he is wrong about it." "i must say," louise remarked, after a moment for mastering the philosophy of this, "that you take it very strangely, brice." "i've thought it out," said maxwell. "and what are you going to do?" "i am going to wait the turn of events. my faith in godolphin is unshaken--such as it is." "and what is going to be our attitude in regard to it?" "attitude? with whom?" "with our friends. suppose they ask us about the play, and how it is getting along. and my family?" "i don't think it will be necessary to take any attitude. they can think what they like. let them wait the turn of events, too. if we can stand it, they can." "no, brice," said his wife. "that won't do. we might be silently patient ourselves, but if we left them to believe that it was all going well, we should be living a lie." "what an extraordinary idea!" "i've told papa and mamma--we've both told them, though i did the talking, you can say--that the play was a splendid success, and godolphin was going to give it seven or eight times a week; and now if it's a failure--" "it _isn't_ a failure!" maxwell retorted, as if hurt by the notion. "no matter! if he's only going to play it once a fortnight or so, and is going to tinker it up to suit himself without saying by-your-leave to you, i say we're occupying a false position, and that's what i mean by living a lie." maxwell looked at her in that bewilderment which he was beginning to feel at the contradictions of her character. she sometimes told outright little fibs which astonished him; society fibs she did not mind at all; but when it came to people's erroneously inferring this or that from her actions, she had a yearning for the explicit truth that nothing else could appease. he, on the contrary, was indifferent to what people thought, if he had not openly misled them. let them think this, or let them think that; it was altogether their affair, and he did not hold himself responsible; but he was ill at ease with any conventional lie on his conscience. he hated to have his wife say to people, as he sometimes overheard her saying, that he was out, when she knew he had run upstairs with his writing to escape them; she contended that it was no harm, since it deceived nobody. now he said, "aren't you rather unnecessarily complex?" "no, i'm not. and i shall tell papa as soon as i see him just how the case stands. why, it would be dreadful if we let him believe it was all going well, and perhaps tell others that it was, and we knew all the time that it wasn't. he would hate that, and he wouldn't like us for letting him." "hadn't you better give the thing a chance to go right? there hasn't been time yet." "no, dearest, i feel that since i've bragged so to papa, i ought to eat humble-pie before him as soon as possible." "yes. why should you make me eat it, too?" "i can't help that; i would if i could. but, unfortunately, we are one." "and you seem to be the one. suppose i should ask you not to eat humble-pie before your father?" "then, of course, i should do as you asked. but i hope you won't." maxwell did not say anything, and she went on, tenderly, entreatingly, "and i hope you'll never allow me to deceive myself about anything you do. i should resent it a great deal more than if you had positively deceived me. will you promise me, if anything sad or bad happens, that you don't want me to know because it will make me unhappy or disagreeable, you'll tell me at once?" "it won't be necessary. you'll find it out." "no, do be serious, dearest. _i_ am _very_ serious. will you?" "what is the use of asking such a thing as that? it seems to me that i've invited you to a full share of the shame and sorrow that godolphin has brought upon me." "yes, you have," said louise, thoughtfully. "and you may be sure that i appreciate it. don't you like to have me share it?" "well, i don't know. i might like to get at it first myself." "ah, you didn't like my opening godolphin's letter when it came!" "i shouldn't mind, now, if you would answer it." "i shall be only too glad to answer it, if you will let me answer it as it deserves." "that needs reflection." x. the weather grew rough early in september, and all at once, all in a moment, as it were, the pretty watering-place lost its air of summer gayety. the sky had an inner gray in its blue; the sea looked cold. a few hardy bathers braved it out on select days in the surf, but they were purple and red when they ran up to the bath-houses, and they came out wrinkled, and hurried to their hotels, where there began to be a smell of steam-heat and a snapping of radiators in the halls. the barges went away laden to the stations, and came back empty, except at night, when they brought over the few and fewer husbands whose wives were staying down simply because they hated to go up and begin the social life of the winter. the people who had thronged the grassy-bordered paths of the village dwindled in number; the riding and driving on the roads was less and less; the native life showed itself more in the sparsity of the sojourners. the sweet fern in the open fields, and the brakes and blackberry-vines among the bowlders, were blighted with the cold wind; even the sea-weed swaying at the foot of the rocks seemed to feel a sharper chill than that of the brine. a storm came, and strewed the beach with kelp, and blew over half the bath-houses; and then the hardiest lingerer ceased to talk of staying through october. there began to be rumors at the maxwells' hotel that it would close before the month was out; some ladies pressed the landlord for the truth, and he confessed that he expected to shut the house by the th. this spread dismay; but certain of the boarders said they would go to the other hotels, which were to keep open till october. the dependent cottages had been mostly emptied before; those who remained in them, if they did not go away, came into the hotel. the maxwells themselves did this at last, for the sake of the warmth and the human companionship around the blazing hearth-fires in the parlors. they got a room with a stove in it, so that he could write; and there was a pensive, fleeting coziness in it all, with the shrinking numbers in the vast dining-room grouped at two or three tables for dinner, and then gathered in the light of the evening lamps over the evening papers. in these conditions there came, if not friendship, an intensification of acquaintance, such as is imaginable of a company of cultured castaways. ladies who were not quite socially certain of one another in town gossiped fearlessly together; there was whist among the men; more than once it happened that a young girl played or sang by request, and not, as so often happens where a hotel is full, against the general desire. it came once to a wish that mr. maxwell would read something from his play; but no one had the courage to ask him. in society he was rather severe with women, and his wife was not sorry for that; she made herself all the more approachable because of it. but she discouraged the hope of anything like reading from him; she even feigned that he might not like to do it without consulting mr. godolphin, and if she did not live a lie concerning the status of his play, she did not scruple to tell one, now and then. that is, she would say it was going beyond their expectations, and this was not so fabulous as it might seem, for their expectations were not so high as they had been, and godolphin was really playing the piece once or twice a week. they heard no more from him by letter, for maxwell had decided that it would be better not to answer his missive from midland; but he was pretty faithful in sending the newspaper notices whenever he played, and so they knew that he had not abandoned it. they did not know whether he had carried out his threat of overhauling it; and maxwell chose to remain in ignorance of the fact till godolphin himself should speak again. unless he demanded the play back he was really helpless, and he was not ready to do that, for he hoped that when the actor brought it on to new york he could talk with him about it, and come to some understanding. he had not his wife's belief in the perfection of the piece; it might very well have proved weak in places, and after his first indignation at the notion of godolphin's revising it, he was willing to do what he could to meet his wishes. he did not so much care what shape it had in these remote theatres of the west; the real test was new york, and there it should appear only as he wished. it was a comfort to his wife when he took this stand, and she vowed him to keep it; she would have made him go down on his knees and hold up his right hand, which was her notion of the way an oath was taken in court, but she did not think he would do it, and he might refuse to seal any vow at all if she urged it. in the meanwhile she was not without other consolations. at her insistence he wrote to the newspaper which had printed the ibsen crank's article on the play, and said how much pleasure it had given him, and begged his thanks to the author. they got a very pretty letter back from him, adding some praises of the piece which he said he had kept out of print because he did not want to seem too gushing about it; and he ventured some wary censures of the acting, which he said he had preferred not to criticise openly, since the drama was far more important to him than the theatre. he believed that mr. godolphin had a perfect conception of the part of haxard, and a thorough respect for the piece, but his training had been altogether in the romantic school; he was working out of it, but he was not able at once to simplify himself. this was in fact the fault of the whole company. the girl who did salome had moments of charming reality, but she too suffered from her tradition, and the rest went from bad to worse. he thought that they would all do better as they familiarized themselves with the piece, and he deeply regretted that mr. godolphin had been able to give it only once in midland. at this mrs. maxwell's wounds inwardly bled afresh, and she came little short of bedewing the kind letter with her tears. she made maxwell answer it at once, and she would not let him deprecate the writer's worship of him as the first american dramatist to attempt something in the spirit of the great modern masters abroad. she contended that it would be as false to refuse this tribute as to accept one that was not due him, and there could be no doubt but it was fully and richly merited. the critic wrote again in response to maxwell, and they exchanged three or four letters. what was even more to louise was the admirable behavior of her father when she went to eat humble-pie before him. he laughed at the notion of godolphin's meddling with the play, and scolded her for not taking her husband's view of the case, which he found entirely reasonable, and the only reasonable view of it. he argued that godolphin simply chose to assert in that way a claim to joint authorship, which he had all along probably believed he had, and he approved of maxwell's letting him have his head in the matter, so far as the west was concerned. if he attempted to give it with any alterations of his own in the east, there would be time enough to stop him. louise seized the occasion to confirm herself in her faith that her father admired maxwell's genius as much as she did herself; and she tried to remember just the words he used in praising it, so that she could repeat them to maxwell. she also committed to memory his declaration that the very fact of godolphin's playing the piece every now and then was proof positive that he would be very reluctant to part with it, if it came to that. this seemed to her very important, and she could hardly put up with maxwell's sardonic doubt of it. before they left magnolia there came a letter from godolphin himself, wholly different in tone from his earlier letter. he said nothing now of overhauling the piece, which he felt was gradually making its way. he was playing it at various one-night stands in the northwest, preparatory to bringing it to chicago and putting it on for a week, and he asked if maxwell could not come out and see it there. he believed they were all gradually getting down to it, and the author's presence at the rehearsals would be invaluable. he felt more and more that they had a fortune in it, and it only needed careful working to realize a bonanza. he renewed his promises, in view of his success so far, to play it exclusively if the triumph could be clinched by a week's run in such a place as chicago. he wrote from grand rapids, and asked maxwell to reply to him at oshkosh. "tell him you'll come, of course," said his wife. maxwell shook his head. "he doesn't mean this any more than he meant to revise the thing himself. he probably finds that he can't do that, and wants me to do it. but if i did it he might take it off after the first night in chicago if the notices were unfavorable." "but they won't be," she argued. "i _know_ they won't." "i should simply break him up from the form he's got into, if i went to the rehearsals. he must keep on doing it in his own way till he comes to new york." "but think of the effect it will have in new york if you should happen to make it go in chicago." "it won't have the slightest effect. when he brings it east, it will have to make its way just as if it had never been played anywhere before." a bright thought occurred to louise. "then tell him that if he will bring it on to boston you will superintend all the rehearsals. and i will go with you to them." maxwell only laughed at this. "boston wouldn't serve any better than chicago, as far as new york is concerned. we shall have to build a success from the ground up there, if we get one. it might run a whole winter in boston, and then we should probably begin with half a house in new york, or a third. the only advantage of trying it anywhere before, is that the actors will be warm in their parts. besides, do you suppose godolphin could get a theatre in boston out of the order of his engagement there next spring?" "why not?" "simply because every night at every house is taken six months beforehand." "who would ever have dreamt," said louise, ruefully, "that simply writing a play would involve any one in all these exasperating business details." "nobody can get free of business," maxwell returned. "then i will tell you," she brightened up to say. "why not sell him the piece outright, and wash your hands of it?" "because he wouldn't buy it outright, and if i washed my hands of it he could do what he pleased with it. if he couldn't tinker it up himself he could hire some one else to do it, and that would be worse yet." "well, then, the only thing for us to do is to go on to new york, and wait there till godolphin comes. i suppose papa and mamma would like to have us stay through october with them in boston, but i don't see much sense in that, and i don't choose to have the air of living on them. i want to present an unbroken front of independence from the beginning, as far as inquiring friends are concerned; and in new york we shall be so lost to sight that nobody will know how we are living. you can work at your new play while we're waiting, and we can feel that the onset in the battle of life has sounded." maxwell laughed, as she meant him, at the mock heroics of her phrase, and she pulled off his hat, and rubbed his hair round on his skull in exultation at having arrived at some clear understanding. "i wouldn't have hair like silk," she jeered. "and i wouldn't have hair like corn-silk," he returned. "at least not on my own head." "yes, it _is_ coarse. and it's yours quite as much as mine," she said, thoughtfully. "we _do_ belong to each other utterly, don't we? i never thought of it in that light before. and now our life has gone into your work, already! i can't tell you, brice, how sweet it is to think of that love-business being our own! i shall be so proud of it on the stage! but as long as we live no one but ourselves must know anything about it. do you suppose they will?" she asked, in sudden dismay. he smiled. "should you care?" she reflected a moment. "no!" she shouted, boldly. "what difference?" "godolphin would pay any sum for the privilege of using the fact as an advertisement. if he could put it into pinney's hands, and give him _carte blanche_, to work in all the romance he liked--" "brice!" she shrieked. "well, we needn't give it away, and if _we_ don't, nobody else will." "no, and we must always keep it sacredly secret. promise me one thing!" "twenty!" "that you will let me hold your hand all through the first performance of that part. will you?" "why, we shall be set up like two brazen images in a box for all the first-nighters to stare at and the society reporters to describe. what would society journalism say to your holding my hand throughout the tender passages? it would be onto something personal in them in an instant." "no; now i will show you how we will do." they were sitting in a nook of the rocks, in the pallor of the late september sunshine, with their backs against a warm bowlder. "now give me your hand." "why, you've got hold of it already." "oh yes, so i have! well, i'll just grasp it in mine firmly, and let them both rest on your knee, so; and fling the edge of whatever i'm wearing on my shoulders over them, or my mantle, if it's hanging on the back of the chair, so"--she flung the edge of her shawl over their clasped hands to illustrate--"and nobody will suspect the least thing. suppose the sea was the audience--a sea of faces you know; would any one dream down there that i was squeezing your hand at all the important moments, or you squeezing mine?" "i hope they wouldn't think me capable of doing anything so indelicate as squeezing a lady's hand," said maxwell. "i don't know what they might think of you, though, if there was any such elaborate display of concealment as you've got up here." "oh, this is merely rehearsing. of course, i shall be more adroit, more careless, when i really come to it. but what i mean is that when we first see it together, the love-business, i shall want to feel that you are feeling every instant just as i do. will you?" "i don't see any great objection to that. we shall both be feeling very anxious about the play, if that's what you mean." "that's what i mean in one sense," louise allowed. "sha'n't you be very anxious to see how they have imagined salome and atland?" "not so anxious as about how godolphin has 'created' haxard." "i care nothing about that. but if the woman who does _me_ is vulgar, or underbred, or the least bit coarse, and doesn't keep the character just as sweet and delicate as you imagined it, i don't know what i shall do to her." "nothing violent, i hope," maxwell suggested languidly. "i am not so sure," said louise. "it's a dreadfully intimate affair with me, and if i didn't like it i should hiss, anyway." maxwell laughed long and loud. "what a delightful thing that would be for society journalism. 'at one point the wife of the author was apparently unable to control her emotions, and she was heard to express her disapprobation by a prolonged sibilation. all eyes were turned upon the box where she sat with her husband, their hands clasped under the edge of her mantle.' no, you mustn't hiss, my dear; but if you find salome getting too much for you you can throw a dynamite bomb at the young woman who is doing her. i dare say we shall want to blow up the whole theatre before the play is over." "oh, i don't believe we shall. i know the piece will go splendidly if the love-business is well done. but you can understand, can't you, just how i feel about salome?" "i think i can, and i am perfectly sure that you will be bitterly disappointed in her, no matter how she's done, unless you do her yourself." "i wish i could!" "then the other people might be disappointed." xi. the maxwells went to new york early in october, and took a little furnished flat for the winter on the west side, between two streets among the eighties. it was in a new apartment-house, rather fine on the outside, and its balconies leaned caressingly towards the tracks of the elevated road, whose trains steamed back and forth under them night and day. at first they thought it rather noisy, but their young nerves were strong, and they soon ceased to take note of the uproar, even when the windows were open. the weather was charming, as the weather of the new york october is apt to be. the month proved much milder than september had been at magnolia. they were not very far from central park, and they went for whole afternoons into it. they came to have such a sense of ownership in one of the seats in the ramble, that they felt aggrieved when they found anybody had taken it, and they resented other people's intimacy with the squirrels, which louise always took a pocketful of nuts to feed; the squirrels got a habit of climbing into her lap for them. sometimes maxwell hired a boat and rowed her lazily about on the lake, while he mused and she talked. sometimes, to be very lavish, they took places in the public carriage which plied on the drives of the park, and went up to the tennis-grounds beyond the reservoirs, and watched the players, or the art-students sketching the autumn scenery there. they began to know, without acquaintance, certain attached or semi-attached couples; and no doubt they passed with these for lovers themselves, though they felt a vast superiority to them in virtue of their married experience; they looked upon them, though the people were sometimes their elders, as very young things, who were in the right way, but were as yet deplorably ignorant how happy they were going to be. they almost always walked back from these drives, and it was not so far but they could walk over to the north river for the sunset before their dinner, which they had late when they did that, and earlier when they did not do it. dinner was rather a matter of caprice with them. sometimes they dined at a french or italian _table d'hôte_; sometimes they foraged for it before they came in from their sunset, or their afternoon in the park. when dinner consisted mainly of a steak or chops, with one of the delicious salads their avenue abounded in, and some improvisation of potatoes, and coffee afterward, it was very easy to get it up in half an hour. they kept one maid, who called herself a sweden's girl, and louise cooked some of the things herself. she did not cook them so well as the maid, but maxwell never knew what he was eating, and he thought it all alike good. in their simple circumstances, louise never missed the affluence that had flattered her whole life in her father's house. it seemed to her as if she had not lived before her marriage--as if she had always lived as she did now. she made the most of her house-keeping, but there was not a great deal of that, at the most. she knew some new york people, but it was too early yet for them to be back to town, and, besides, she doubted if she should let them know where she was; for society afflicted maxwell, and she could not care for it unless he did. she did not wish to do anything as yet, or be anything apart from him; she was timid about going into the street without him. she wished to be always with him, and always talking to him; but it soon came to his imploring her not to talk when she was in the room where he was writing; and he often came to the table so distraught that the meal might have passed without a word but for her. he valued her all she could possibly have desired in relation to his work, and he showed her how absolutely he rested upon her sympathy, if not her judgment, in it. he submitted everything to her, and forbore, and changed, and amended, and wrote and rewrote at her will; or when he revolted, and wrote on in defiance of her, he was apt to tear the work up. he destroyed a good deal of good literature in this way, and more than once it happened that she had tacitly changed her mind and was of his way of thinking when it was too late. in view of such a chance she made him promise that he would always show her what he had written, even when he had written wholly against her taste and wish. he was not to let his pride keep him from doing this, though, as a general thing, she took a good deal of pride in his pride, having none herself, as she believed. whether she had or not, she was very wilful, and rather prepotent; but she never bore malice, as the phrase is, when she got the worst of anything, though she might have been quite to blame. she had in all things a high ideal of conduct, which she expected her husband to live up to when she was the prey of adverse circumstances. at other times she did her share of the common endeavor. all through the month of october he worked at the new play, and from time to time they heard from the old play, which godolphin was still giving, here and there, in the west. he had not made any reply to maxwell's letter of regret that he could not come to the rehearsals at chicago, but he sent the notices marked in the newspapers, at the various points where he played, and the maxwells contented themselves as they could with these proofs of an unbroken amity. they expected something more direct and explicit from him when he should get to chicago, where his engagement was to begin the first week in november. in the meantime the kind of life they were living had not that stressful unreality for louise that it had for maxwell on the economic side. for the first time his regular and serious habits of work did not mean the earning of money, but only the chance of earning money. ever since he had begun the world for himself, and he had begun it very early, there had been some income from his industry; however little it was, it was certain; the salary was there for him at the end of the week when he went to the cashier's desk. his mother and he had both done so well and so wisely in their several ways of taking care of themselves, that maxwell had not only been able to live on his earnings, but he had been able to save out of them the thousand dollars which louise bragged of to her father, and it was this store which they were now consuming, not rapidly, indeed, but steadily, and with no immediate return in money to repair the waste. the fact kept maxwell wakeful at night sometimes, and by day he shuddered inwardly at the shrinkage of his savings, so much swifter than their growth, though he was generously abetted by louise in using them with frugality. she could always have had money from her father, but this was something that maxwell would not look forward to. there could be no real anxiety for them in the situation, but for maxwell there was care. he might be going to get a great deal out of the play he was now writing, but as yet it was in no form to show to a manager or an actor; and he might be going to get a great deal out of his old play, but so far godolphin had made no sign that he remembered one of the most essential of the obligations which seemed all to rest so lightly upon him. maxwell hated to remind him of it, and in the end he was very glad that he never did, or that he had not betrayed the slightest misgiving of his good faith. one morning near the end of the month, when he was lower in his spirits than usual from this cause, there came a letter from the editor of the boston _abstract_ asking him if he could not write a weekly letter from new york for his old newspaper. it was a temptation, and maxwell found it a hardship that his wife should have gone out just then to do the marketing for the day; she considered this the duty of a wife, and she fulfilled it often enough to keep her sense of it alive, but she much preferred to forage with him in the afternoon; that was poetry, she said, and the other was prose. he would have liked to talk the proposition over with her; to realize the compliment while it was fresh, to grumble at it a little, and to be supported in his notion that it would be bad business just then for him to undertake a task that might draw him away from his play too much; to do the latter well would take a great deal of time. yet he did not feel quite that he ought to refuse it, in view of the uncertainties of the future, and it might even be useful to hold the position aside from the money it would bring him; the new york correspondent of the boston _abstract_ might have a claim upon the attention of the managers which a wholly unaccredited playwright could not urge; there was no question of their favor with maxwell; he would disdain to have that, even if he could get it, except by the excellence, or at least the availability of his work. louise did not come in until much later than usual, and then she came in looking very excited. "well, my dear," she began to call out to him as soon as the door was opened for her, "i have seen that woman again!" "what woman?" he asked. "you know. that smouldering-eyed thing in the bathing-dress." she added, in answer to his stupefied gaze: "i don't mean that she was in the bathing-dress still, but her eyes were smouldering away just as they were that day on the beach at magnolia." "oh!" said maxwell, indifferently. "where did you see her?" "on the avenue, and i know she lives in the neighborhood somewhere, because she was shopping here on the avenue, and i could have easily followed her home if she had not taken the elevated for down town." "why didn't you take it, too? it might have been a long way round, but it would have been certain. i've been wanting you here badly. just tell me what you think of that." he gave her the editor's letter, and she hastily ran it through. "i wouldn't think of it for a moment," she said. "were there any letters for me?" "it isn't a thing to be dismissed without reflection," he began. "i thought you wanted to devote yourself entirely to the drama?" "of course." "and you've always said there was nothing so killing to creative work as any sort of journalism." "this wouldn't take more than a day or two each week, and twenty-five dollars a letter would be convenient while we are waiting for our cards to turn up." "oh, very well! if you are so fickle as all that, _i_ don't know what to say to you." she put the letter down on the table before him, and went out of the room. he tried to write, but with the hurt of what he felt her unkindness he could not, and after a certain time he feigned an errand into their room, where she had shut herself from him, and found her lying down. "are you sick?" he asked, coldly. "not at all," she answered. "i suppose one may lie down without being sick, as you call it. i should say ill, myself." "i'm so glad you're not sick that i don't care what you call it." he was going out, when she spoke again: "i didn't know you cared particularly, you are always so much taken up with your work. i suppose, if you wrote those letters for the _abstract_, you need never think of me at all, whether i was ill or well." "you would take care to remind me of your existence from time to time, i dare say. you haven't the habit of suffering in silence a great deal." "you would like it better, of course, if i had." "a great deal better, my dear. but i didn't know that you regarded my work as self-indulgence altogether. i have flattered myself now and then that i was doing it for you, too." "oh yes, very likely. but if you had never seen me you would be doing it all the same." "i'm afraid so. i seem to have been made that way. i'm sorry you don't approve. i supposed you did once." "oh, i do approve--highly." he left her, and she heard him getting his hat and stick in the little hallway, as if he were going out of doors. she called to him, "what i wonder is how a man so self-centred that he can't look at his wife for days together, can tell whether another woman's eyes are smouldering or not." maxwell paused, with his hand on the knob, as if he were going to make some retort, but, perhaps because he could think of none, he went out without speaking. he stayed away all the forenoon, walking down the river along the squalid waterside avenues; he found them in sympathy with the squalor in himself which always followed a squabble with his wife. at the end of one of the westward streets he found himself on a pier flanked by vast flotillas of canal-boats. as he passed one of these he heard the sound of furious bickering within, and while he halted a man burst from the gangway and sprang ashore, followed by the threats and curses of a woman, who put her head out of the hatch to launch them after him. the incident turned maxwell faint; he perceived that the case of this unhappy man, who tried to walk out of earshot with dignity, was his own in quality, if not in quantity. he felt the shame of their human identity, and he reached home with his teeth set in a hard resolve to bear and forbear in all things thereafter, rather than share ever again in misery like that, which dishonored his wife even more than it dishonored him. at the same time he was glad of a thought the whole affair suggested to him, and he wondered whether he could get a play out of it. this was the notion of showing the evil eventuation of good. their tiffs came out of their love for each other, and no other quarrels could have the bitterness that these got from the very innermost sweetness of life. it would be hard to show this dramatically, but if it could be done the success would be worth all the toil it would cost. at his door he realized with a pang that he could not submit the notion to his wife now, and perhaps never. but the door was pulled open before he could turn his latch-key in the lock, and louise threw her arms round his neck. "oh, dearest, guess!" she commanded between her kisses. "guess what?" he asked, walking her into the parlor with his arms round her. she kept her hands behind her when he released her, and they stood confronted. "what should you consider the best news--or not news exactly; the best thing--in the world?" "why, i don't know. has the play been a great success in chicago?" "better than that!" she shouted, and she brought an open letter from behind her, and flourished it before him, while she went on breathlessly: "it's from godolphin, and of course i opened it at once, for i thought if there was anything worrying in it, i had better find it out while you were gone, and prepare you for it. he's sent you a check for $ --twelve performances of the play--and he's written you the sweetest letter in the world, and i take back everything i ever said against him! here, shall i read it? or, no, you'll want to read it yourself. now, sit down at your desk, and i'll put it before you, with the check on top!" she pushed him into his chair, and he obediently read the check first, and then took up the letter. it was dated at chicago, and was written with a certain histrionic consciousness, as if godolphin enjoyed the pose of a rising young actor paying over to the author his share of the profits of their joint enterprise in their play. there was a list of the dates and places of the performances, which maxwell noted were chiefly matinées; and he argued a distrust of the piece from this fact, which godolphin did not otherwise betray. he said that the play constantly grew upon him, and that with such revision as they should be able to give it together when he reached new york, they would have one of the greatest plays of the modern stage. he had found that wherever he gave it the better part of his audience was best pleased with it, and he felt sure that when he put it on for a run the houses would grow up to it in every way. he was going to test it for a week in chicago; there was no reference to his wish that maxwell should have been present at the rehearsals there; but otherwise godolphin's letter was as candid as it was cordial. maxwell read it with a silent joy which seemed to please his wife as well as if he had joined her in rioting over it. she had kept the lunch warm for him, and now she brought it in from the kitchen herself and set it before him, talking all the time. "well, now we can regard it as an accomplished fact, and i shall not allow you to feel any anxiety about it from this time forward. i consider that godolphin has done his whole duty by it. he has kept the spirit of his promises if he hasn't the letter, and from this time forward i am going to trust him implicitly, and i'm going to make you. no more question of godolphin in _this_ family! don't you long to know how it goes in chicago? but i don't really care, for, as you say, that won't have the slightest influence in new york; and i know it will go here, anyway. yes, i consider it, from this time on, an assured success. and isn't it delightful that, as godolphin says, it's such a favorite with refined people?" she went on a good while to this effect, but when she had talked herself out, maxwell had still said so little that she asked, "what is it, brice?" "do you think we deserve it?" he returned, seriously. "for squabbling so? why, i suppose i was tired and overwrought, or i shouldn't have done it." "and i hadn't even that excuse," said maxwell. "oh, yes you had," she retorted. "i provoked you. and if any one was to blame, i was. do you mind it so much?" "yes, it tears my heart. and it makes me feel so low and mean." "oh, how good you are!" she began, but he stopped her. "don't! i'm not good; and i don't deserve success. i don't feel as if this belonged to me. i ought to send godolphin's check back, in common honesty, common decency." he told of the quarrel he had witnessed on the canal-boat, and she loved him for his simple-hearted humility; but she said there was nothing parallel in the cases, and she would not let him think so; that it was morbid, and showed he had been overworking. "and now," she went on, "you must write to mr. ricker at once and thank him, and tell him you can't do the letters for him. will you?" "i'll see." "you must. i want you to reserve your whole strength for the drama. that's your true vocation, and it would be a sin for you to turn to the right or left." he continued silent, and she went on: "are you still thinking about our scrap this morning? well, then, i'll promise never to begin it again. will that do?" "oh, i don't know that you began it. and i wasn't thinking--i was thinking of an idea for a play--the eventuation of good in evil--love evolving in hate." "that will be grand, if you can work it out. and now you see, don't you, that there is some use in squabbling, even?" "i suppose nothing is lost," said maxwell. he took out his pocket-book, and folded godolphin's check into it. xii. a week later there came another letter from godolphin. it was very civil, and in its general text it did not bear out the promise of severity in its change of address to _dear sir_, from the _dear mr. maxwell_ of the earlier date. it conveyed, in as kindly terms as could have been asked, a fact which no terms could have flattered into acceptability. godolphin wrote, after trying the play two nights and a matinée in chicago, to tell the author that he had withdrawn it because its failure had not been a failure in the usual sense but had been a grievous collapse, which left him no hopes that it would revive in the public favor if it were kept on. maxwell would be able to judge, he said, from the newspapers he sent, of the view the critics had taken of the piece; but this would not have mattered at all if it had not been the view of the public, too. he said he would not pain maxwell by repeating the opinions which he had borne the brunt of alone; but they were such as to satisfy him fully and finally that he had been mistaken in supposing there was a part for him in the piece. he begged to return it to _maxwell_, and he ventured to send his prompt-book with the original manuscript, which might facilitate his getting the play into other hands. the parcel was brought in by express while they were sitting in the dismay caused by the letter, and took from them the hope that godolphin might have written from a mood and changed his mind before sending back the piece. neither of them had the nerve to open the parcel, which lay upon maxwell's desk, very much sealed and tied and labelled, diffusing a faint smell of horses, as express packages mostly do, through the room. maxwell found strength, if not heart, to speak first. "i suppose i am to blame for not going to chicago for the rehearsals." louise said she did not see what that could have done to keep the play from failing, and he answered that it might have kept godolphin from losing courage. "you see, he says he had to take the brunt of public opinion _alone_. he was sore about that." "oh, well, if he is so weak as that, and would have had to be bolstered up all along, you are well rid of him." "i am certainly rid of him," maxwell partially assented, and they both lapsed into silence again. even louise could not talk. they were as if stunned by the blow that had fallen on them, as all such blows fall, when it was least expected, and it seemed to the victims as if they were least able to bear it. in fact, it was a cruel reverse from the happiness they had enjoyed since godolphin's check came, and although maxwell had said that they must not count upon anything from him, except from hour to hour, his words conveyed a doubt that he felt no more than louise. now his gloomy wisdom was justified by a perfidy which she could paint in no colors that seemed black enough. perhaps the want of these was what kept her mute at first; even when she began to talk she could only express her disdain by urging her husband to send back godolphin's check to him. "we want nothing more to do with such a man. if he felt no obligation to keep faith with you, it's the same as if he had sent that money out of charity." "yes, i have thought of that," said maxwell. "but i guess i shall keep the money. he may regard the whole transaction as child's play; but i don't, and i never did. i worked very hard on the piece, and at the rates for space-work, merely, i earned his money and a great deal more. if i can ever do anything with it, i shall be only too glad to give him his three hundred dollars again." she could see that he had already gathered spirit for new endeavor with the play, and her heart yearned upon him in pride and fondness. "oh, you dear! what do you intend to do next?" "i shall try the managers." "brice!" she cried in utter admiration. he rose and said, as he took up the express package, and gave godolphin's letter a contemptuous push with his hand, "you can gather up this spilt milk. put it away somewhere; i don't want to see it or think of it again." he cut open the package, and found the prompt-book, which he laid aside, while he looked to see if his own copy of the play were all there. "you are going to begin at once?" gasped louise. "this instant," he said. "it will be slow enough work at the best, and we mustn't lose time. i shall probably have to go the rounds of all the managers, but i am not going to stop till i have gone the rounds. i shall begin with the highest, and i sha'n't stop till i reach the lowest." "but when? how? you haven't thought it out." "yes, i have. i have been thinking it out ever since i got the play into godolphin's hands. i haven't been at peace about him since that day when he renounced me in magnolia, and certainly till we got his check there has been nothing in his performance to restore my confidence. come, now, louise, you mustn't stop me, dear," he said, for she was beginning to cling about him. "i shall be back for lunch, and then we can talk over what i have begun to do. if i began to talk of it before, i should lose all heart for it. kiss me good luck!" she kissed him enough for all the luck in the world, and then he got himself out of her arms while she still hardly knew what to make of it all. he was half-way down the house-stairs, when her eye fell on the prompt-book. she caught it up and ran out upon the landing, and screamed down after him, "brice, brice! you've forgotten something." he came flying back, breathless, and she held the book out to him. "oh, i don't want that," he panted, "it would damage the play with a manager to know that godolphin had rejected it." "but do you think it would be quite right--quite frank--to let him take it without telling him?" "it will be right to show it him without telling him. it will be time enough to tell him if he likes it." "that is true," she assented, and then she kissed him again and let him go; he stood a step below her, and she had to stoop a good deal; but she went in doors, looking up to him as if he were a whole flight of steps above her, and saying to herself that he had always been so good and wise that she must now simply trust him in everything. louise still had it on her conscience to offer maxwell reparation for the wrong she thought she had done him when she had once decided that he was too self-seeking and self-centred, and had potentially rejected him on that ground. the first thing she did after they became engaged was to confess the wrong, and give him a chance to cast her off if he wished; but this never seemed quite reparation enough, perhaps because he laughed and said that she was perfectly right about him, and must take him with those faults or not at all. she now entered upon a long, delightful review of his behavior ever since that moment, and she found that, although he was certainly as self-centred as she had ever thought or he had owned himself to be, self-seeking he was not, in any mean or greedy sense. she perceived that his self-seeking, now, at least, was as much for her sake as his own, and that it was really after all not self-seeking, but the helpless pursuit of aims which he was born into the world to achieve. she had seen that he did not stoop to achieve them, but had as haughty a disdain of any but the highest means as she could have wished him to have, and much haughtier than she could have had in his place. if he forgot her in them, he forgot himself quite as much, and they were equal before his ambition. in fact, this seemed to her even more her charge than his, and if he did not succeed as with his genius he had a right to succeed, it would be constructively her fault, and at any rate she should hold herself to blame for it; there would be some satisfaction in that. she thought with tender pathos how hard he worked, and was at his writing all day long, except when she made him go out with her, and was then often so fagged that he could scarcely speak. she was proud of his almost killing himself at it, but she must study more and more not to let him kill himself, and must do everything that was humanly possible to keep up his spirits when he met with a reverse. she accused herself with shame of having done nothing for him in the present emergency, but rather flung upon him the burden of her own disappointment. she thought how valiantly he had risen up under it, and had not lost one moment in vain repining; how instantly he had collected himself for a new effort, and taken his measures with a wise prevision that omitted no detail. in view of all this, she peremptorily forbade herself to be uneasy at the little reticence he was practising with regard to godolphin's having rejected his play; and imagined the splendor he could put on with the manager after he had accepted it, in telling him its history, and releasing him, if he would, from his agreement. she imagined the manager generously saying this made no difference whatever, though he appreciated mr. maxwell's candor in the matter, and should be all the happier to make a success of it because godolphin had failed with it. but she returned from this flight into the future, and her husband's part in it, to the present and her own first duty in regard to him; and it appeared to her, that this was to look carefully after his health in the strain put upon it, and to nourish him for the struggle before him. it was to be not with one manager only, but many managers, probably, and possibly with all the managers in new york. that was what he had said it would be before he gave up, and she remembered how flushed and excited he looked when he said it, and though she did not believe he would get back for lunch--the manager might ask him to read his play to him, so that he could get just the author's notion--she tried to think out the very most nourishing lunch she could for him. oysters were in season, and they were very nourishing, but they had already had them for breakfast, and beefsteak was very good, but he hated it. perhaps chops would do, or, better still, mushrooms on toast, only they were not in the market at that time of year. she dismissed a stewed squab, and questioned a sweetbread, and wondered if there were not some kind of game. in the end she decided to leave it to the provision man, and she lost no time after she reached her decision in going out to consult him. he was a bland, soothing german, and it was a pleasure to talk with him, because he brought her married name into every sentence, and said, "no, mrs. maxwell;" "yes, mrs. maxwell;" "i send it right in, mrs. maxwell." she went over his whole list of provisions with him, and let him persuade her that a small fillet was the best she could offer a person whose frame needed nourishing, while at the same time his appetite needed coaxing. she allowed him to add a can of mushrooms, as the right thing to go with it, and some salad; and then while he put the order up she stood reproaching herself for it, since it formed no fit lunch, and was both expensive and commonplace. she was roused from her daze, when she was going to countermand the whole stupid order by the man's saying: "what can i do for you this morning, mrs. harley?" and she turned round to find at her elbow the smouldering-eyed woman of the bathing-beach. she lifted her heavy lids and gave louise a dull glance, which she let a sudden recognition burn through for a moment and then quenched. but in that moment the two women sealed a dislike that had been merely potential before. their look said for each that the other was by nature, tradition, and aspiration whatever was most detestable in their sex. mrs. harley, whoever she was, under a name that louise electrically decided to be fictitious, seemed unable to find her voice at first in their mutual defiance, and she made a pretence of letting her strange eyes rove about the shop before she answered. her presence was so repugnant to louise that she turned abruptly and hurried out of the place without returning the good-morning which the german sent after her with the usual addition of her name. she resented it now, for if it was not tantamount to an introduction to that creature, it was making her known to her, and louise wished to have no closer acquaintance with her than their common humanity involved. it seemed too odious to have been again made aware that they were inhabitants of the same planet, and the anger that heaved within her went out in a wild flash of resentment towards her husband for having forever fixed that woman in her consciousness with a phrase. if it had not been for that, she would not have thought twice of her when they first saw her, and she would not have known her when they met again, and at the worst would merely have been harassed with a vague resemblance which would never have been verified. she had climbed the stairs to their apartment on the fourth floor, when she felt the need to see more, know more, of this hateful being so strong upon her, that she stopped with her latch-key in her door and went down again. she did not formulate her intention, but she meant to hurry back to the provision store, with the pretext of changing her order, and follow the woman wherever she went, until she found out where she lived; and she did not feel, as a man would, the disgrace of dogging her steps in that way so much as she felt a fatal dread of her. if she should be gone by the time louise got back to the shop, she would ask the provision man about her, and find out in that way. she stayed a little while to rehearse the terms of her inquiry, and while she lingered the woman herself came round the corner of the avenue and mounted the steps where louise stood and, with an air of custom, went on upstairs to the second floor, where louise heard her putting a latch-key into the door, which then closed after her. xiii. maxwell went to a manager whom he had once met in boston, where they had been apparently acceptable to each other in a long talk they had about the drama. the manager showed himself a shrewd and rather remorseless man of business in all that he said of the theatre, but he spoke as generously and reverently of the drama as maxwell felt, and they parted with a laughing promise to do something for it yet. in fact, if it had not been for the chances that threw him into godolphin's hand afterwards, he would have gone to this manager with his play in the first place, and he went to him now, as soon as he was out of godolphin's hands, not merely because he was the only manager he knew in the city, but because he believed in him as much as his rather sceptical temper permitted him to believe in any one, and because he believed he would give him at least an intelligent audience. the man in the box-office, where he stood in the glow of an electric light at midday, recovered himself from the disappointment he suffered when maxwell asked for the manager instead of a seat for the night's performance. he owned that the manager was in his room, but said he was very much engaged, and he was hardly moved from this conviction by maxwell's urgence that he should send in his card; perhaps something in maxwell's tone and face as of authority prevailed with him; perhaps it was the title of the boston _abstract_, which maxwell wrote under his name, to recall himself better to the manager's memory. the answer was a good while getting back; people came in and bought tickets and went away, while maxwell hung about the vestibule of the theatre and studied the bill of the play which formed its present attraction, but at last the man in the box-office put his face sidewise to the semi-circular opening above the glass-framed plan of seats and, after he had identified maxwell, said, "mr. grayson would like to see you." at the same time the swinging doors of the theatre opened, and a young man came out, to whom the other added, indicating maxwell, "this is the gentleman;" and the young man held the door open for him to pass in, and then went swiftly before him into the theatre, and led the way around the orchestra circle to a little door that opened in the wall beside one of the boxes. there was a rehearsal going on in the glare of some grouped incandescent bulbs on the stage, and people moving about in top hats and bonnets and other every-day outside gear, which maxwell lost sight of in his progress through the wings and past a rough brick wall before he arrived at another door down some winding stairs in the depths of the building. his guide knocked at it, and when an answering voice said, "come in!" he left maxwell to go in alone. the manager had risen from his chair at his table, and stood, holding out his hand, with a smile of kindly enough welcome. he said, "i've just made you out, mr. maxwell. do you come as a friendly interviewer, or as a deadly dramatist!" "as both or as neither, whichever you like," said maxwell, and he gladly took the manager's hand, and then took the chair which he cleared of some prompt-books for him to sit down in. "i hadn't forgotten the pleasant talk i had with you in boston, you see," the manager began again, "but i had forgotten whom i had it with." "i can't say i had even done that," maxwell answered, and this seemed to please the manager. "well, that counts you one," he said. "you noticed that we have put on 'engaged?' we've made a failure of the piece we began with; it's several pieces now. _couldn't_ you do something like 'engaged?'" "i wish i could! but i'm afraid gilbert is the only man living who can do anything like 'engaged.' my hand is too heavy for that kind." "well, the heavy hand is not so bad if it hits hard enough," said the manager, who had a face of lively intelligence and an air of wary kindliness. he looked fifty, but this was partly the effect of overwork. there was something of the jew, something of the irishman, in his visage; but he was neither; he was a yankee, from maine, with a boston training in his business. "what have you got?" he asked, for maxwell's play was evident. "something i've been at work on for a year, more or less." maxwell sketched the plot of his play, and the manager seemed interested. "rather ibsenish, isn't it?" he suggested at the end. the time had passed with maxwell when he wished to have this said of his play, not because he did not admire ibsen, but because he preferred the recognition of the original quality of his work. "i don't know that it is, very. perhaps--if one didn't like it." "oh, i don't know that i should dislike it for its ibsenism. the time of that sort of thing may be coming. you never can be sure, in this business, when the time of anything is coming. i've always thought that a naturalized ibsenism wouldn't be so bad for our stage. you don't want to be quite so bleak, you know, as the real norwegian ibsen." "i've tried not to be very bleak, because i thought it wasn't in the scheme," said maxwell. "i don't understand that it ends well?" "unless you consider the implicated marriage of the young people a good ending. haxard himself, of course, is past all surgery. but the thing isn't pessimistic, as i understand, for its doctrine is that harm comes only from doing wrong." the manager laughed. "oh, the average public would consider that _very_ pessimistic. they want no harm to come even from doing wrong. they want the drama to get round it, somehow. if you could show that divine providence forgets wrong-doing altogether in certain cases, you would make the fortune of your piece. come, why couldn't you try something of that kind? it would be the greatest comfort to all the sinners in front, for every last man of them--or woman--would think she was the one who was going to get away." "i might come up to that, later," said maxwell, willing to take the humorous view of the matter, if it would please the manager and smooth the way for the consideration of his work; but, more obscurely, he was impatient, and sorry to have found him in so philosophical a mood. the manager was like the man of any other trade; he liked to talk of his business, and this morning he talked of it a long time, and to an effect that maxwell must have found useful if he had not been so bent upon getting to his manuscript that he had no mind for generalities. at last the manager said, abruptly, "you want me to read your play?" "very much," maxwell answered, and he promptly put the packet he had brought into the manager's extended hand. he not only took it, but he untied it, and even glanced at the first few pages. "all right," he said, "i'll read it, and let you hear from me as soon as i can. your address--oh, it's on the wrapper, here. by-the-way, why shouldn't you lunch with me? we'll go over to the players' club." maxwell flushed with eager joy; then he faltered. "i should like to do it immensely. but i'm afraid--i'm afraid mrs. maxwell will be waiting for me." "oh, all right; some other time," answered the manager; and then maxwell was vexed that he had offered any excuse, for he thought it would have been very pleasant and perhaps useful for him to lunch at the players'. but the manager did not urge him. he only said, as he led the way to the stage-door, "i didn't know there was a mrs. maxwell." "she's happened since we met," said maxwell, blushing with fond pride. "we're such a small family that we like to get together at lunch," he added. "oh, yes, i can understand that stage of it," said the manager. "by-the-way, are you still connected with the _abstract_? i noticed the name on your card." "not quite in the old way. but," and with the words a purpose formed itself in maxwell's mind, "they've asked me to write their new york letter." "well, drop in now and then. i may have something for you." the manager shook hands with him cordially, and maxwell opened the door and found himself in the street. he was so little conscious of the transit homeward that he seemed to find himself the next moment with louise in their little parlor. he remembered afterwards that there was something strange in her manner towards him at first, but, before he could feel presently cognizant of it, this wore off in the interest of what he had to tell. "the sum of it all," he ended his account of the interview with the manager, "is that he's taken the thing to read, and that he's to let me hear from him when he's read it. when that will be nobody knows, and i should be the last to ask. but he seemed interested in my sketch of it, and he had an intelligence about it that was consoling. and it was a great comfort, after godolphin, and godolphin's pyrotechnics, to have him take it in a hard, business way. he made no sort of promises, and he held out no sort of hopes; he didn't commit himself in any sort of way, and he can't break his word, for he hasn't given it. i wish, now, that i had never let godolphin have the play back after he first renounced it; i should have saved a great deal of time and wear and tear of feelings. yes, if i had taken your advice then--" at this generous tribute to her wisdom, all that was reluctant ceased from louise's manner and behavior. she put her arm around his neck and protested. "no, no! i can't let you say that, brice! you were right about that, as you are about everything. if you hadn't had this experience with godolphin, you wouldn't have known how to appreciate mr. grayson's reception of you, and you might have been unreasonable. i can see now that it's all been for the best, and that we needed just this discipline to prepare us for prosperity. but i guess godolphin will wish, when he hears that mr. grayson has taken your piece, and is going to bring it out at the argosy, here--" "oh, good heavens! do give those poor chickens a chance to get out of the shell this time, my dear!" "well, i know it vexes you, and i know it's silly; but still i feel sure that mr. grayson will take it. you don't mind that, do you?" "not if you don't say it. i want you to realize that the chances are altogether against it. he was civil, because i think he rather liked me personally--" "of _course_ he did!" "oh!" "well, never mind. personally--" "and i don't suppose it did me any harm with him to suppose that i still had a newspaper connection. i put boston _abstract_ on my card--for purposes of identification, as the editors say--because i was writing for it when i met him in boston." "oh, well, as long as you're not writing for it now, i don't care. i want you to devote yourself entirely to the drama, brice." "yes, that's all very well. but i think i shall do ricker's letters for him this winter at least. i was thinking of it on the way down. it'll be work, but it'll be money, too, and if i have something coming in i sha'n't feel as if i were ruined every time my play gets back from a manager." "mr. grayson will take it!" "now, louise, if you say that, you will simply drive me to despair, for i shall know how you will feel when he doesn't--" "no, i shall not feel so; and you will see. but if you don't let me hope for you--" "you know i can't stand hoping. the only safe way is to look for the worst, and if anything better happens it is so much pure gain. if we hadn't been so eager to pin our faith to godolphin--" "how much better off should we have been? what have we lost by it?" she challenged him. he broke off with a laugh. "we have lost the pins. well, hope away! but, remember, you take the whole responsibility." maxwell pulled out his watch. "isn't lunch nearly ready? this prosperity is making me hungry, and it seems about a year since breakfast." "i'll see what's keeping it," said louise, and she ran out to the kitchen with a sudden fear in her heart. she knew that she had meant to countermand her order for the fillet and mushrooms, and she thought that she had forgotten to order anything else for lunch. she found the cook just serving it up, because such a dish as that took more time than an ordinary lunch, and the things had come late. louise said, yes, she understood that; and went back to maxwell, whom she found walking up and down the room in a famine very uncommon for him. she felt the motherly joy a woman has in being able to appease the hunger of the man she loves, and now she was glad that she had not postponed the fillet till dinner as she had thought of doing. everything was turning out so entirely for the best that she was beginning to experience some revival of an ancestral faith in providence in a heart individually agnostic, and she was piously happy when maxwell said at sight of the lunch, "isn't this rather prophetic? if it isn't that, it's telepathic. i sha'n't regret now that i didn't go with grayson to lunch at the players' club." "did he ask you to do that?" maxwell nodded with his mouth full. a sudden misgiving smote her. "oh, brice, you ought to have gone! why didn't you go?" "it must have been a deep subconsciousness of the fillet and mushrooms. or perhaps i didn't quite like to think of your lunching alone." "oh, you dear, faithful little soul!" she cried. the tears came into her eyes, and she ran round the table to kiss him several times on the top of his head. he kept on eating as well as he could, and when she got back to her place, "of course, it would have been a good thing for me to go to the players'," he teased, "for it would have pleased grayson, and i should probably have met some other actors and managers there, and made interest with them provisionally for my play, if he shouldn't happen to want it." "oh, i know it," she moaned. "you have ruined yourself for me. i'm not worth it. no, i'm not! now, i want you to promise, dearest, that you'll never mind me again, but lunch or dine, or breakfast, or sup whenever anybody asks you?" "well, i can't promise all that, quite." "i mean, when the play is at stake." "oh, in that case, yes." "what in the world did you say to mr. grayson?" "very much what i have said to you: that i hated to leave you to lunch alone here." "oh, didn't he think it very silly?" she entreated, fondly. "don't you think he'll laugh at you for it!" "very likely. but he won't like me the less for it. men are glad of marital devotion in other men; they feel that it acts as a sort of dispensation for them." "you oughtn't to waste those things on me," she said, humbly. "you ought to keep them for your plays." "oh, they're not wasted, exactly. i can use them over again. i can say much better things than that with a pen in my hand." she hardly heard him. she felt a keen remorse for something she had meant to do and to say when he came home. now she put it far from her; she thought she ought not to keep even an extinct suspicion in her heart against him, and she asked, "brice, did you know that woman was living in this house?" "what woman?" louise was ashamed to say anything about the smouldering eyes. "that woman on the bathing-beach at magnolia--the one i met the other day." he said, dryly: "she seems to be pursuing us. how did you find it out?" she told him, and she added, "i think she _must_ be an actress of some sort." "very likely, but i hope she won't feel obliged to call because we're connected with the profession." some time afterwards louise was stitching at a centre-piece she was embroidering for the dining-table, and maxwell was writing a letter for the _abstract_, which he was going to send to the editor with a note telling him that if it were the sort of thing he wanted he would do the letters for them. "after all," she breathed, "that look of the eyes may be purely physical." "what look?" maxwell asked, from the depths of his work. she laughed in perfect content, and said: "oh, nothing." but when he finished his letter, and was putting it into the envelope, she asked: "did you tell mr. grayson that godolphin had returned the play?" "no, i didn't. that wasn't necessary at this stage of the proceedings." "no." xiv. during the week that passed before maxwell heard from the manager concerning his play, he did another letter for the _abstract_, and, with a journalistic acquaintance enlarged through certain boston men who had found places on new york papers, familiarized himself with new york ways and means of getting news. he visited what is called the coast, a series of points where the latest intelligence grows in hotel bars and lobbies of a favorable exposure, and is nurtured by clerks and barkeepers skilled in its culture, and by inveterate gossips of their acquaintance; but he found this sort of stuff generally telegraphed on by the associated press before he reached it, and he preferred to make his letter a lively comment on events, rather than a report of them. the editor of the _abstract_ seemed to prefer this, too. he wrote maxwell some excellent criticism, and invited him to appeal to the better rather than the worse curiosity of his readers, to remember that this was the principle of the _abstract_ in its home conduct. maxwell showed the letter to his wife, and she approved of it all so heartily that she would have liked to answer it herself. "of course, brice," she said, "it's _you_ he wants, more than your news. any wretched reporter could give him that, but you are the one man in the world who can give him your mind about it." "why not say universe?" returned maxwell, but though he mocked her he was glad to believe she was right, and he was proud of her faith in him. in another way this was put to proof more than once during the week, for louise seemed fated to meet mrs. harley on the common stairs now when she went out or came in. it was very strange that after living with her a whole month in the house and not seeing her, she should now be seeing her so much. mostly she was alone, but sometimes she was with an elderly woman, whom louise decided at one time to be her mother, and at another time to be a professional companion. the first time she met them together she was sure that mrs. harley indicated her to the chaperon, and that she remembered her from magnolia, but she never looked at louise, any more than louise looked at her, after that. she wondered if maxwell ever met her, but she was ashamed to ask him, and he did not mention her. only once when they were together did they happen to encounter her, and then he said, quite simply, "i think she's certainly an actress. that public look of the eyes is unmistakable. emotional parts, i should say." louise forced herself to suggest, "you might get her to let you do a play for her." "i doubt if i could do anything unwholesome enough for her." at last the summons they were expecting from grayson came, just after they had made up their minds to wait another week for it. louise had taken the letter from the maid, and she handed it to maxwell with a gasp at sight of the argosy theatre address printed in the corner of the envelope. "i know it's a refusal." "if you think that will make it an acceptance," he had the hardihood to answer, "it won't. i've tried that sort of thing too often;" and he tore open the letter. it was neither a refusal nor an acceptance, and their hopes soared again, hers visibly, his secretly, to find it a friendly confession that the manager had not found time to read the play until the night before, and a request that maxwell would drop in any day between twelve and one, which was rather a leisure time with him, and talk it over. "don't lose an instant, dear!" she adjured him. "it's only nine o'clock," he answered, "and i shall have to lose several instants." "that is so," she lamented; and then they began to canvas the probable intention of the manager's note. she held out passionately to the end for the most encouraging interpretation of it, but she did not feel that it would have any malign effect upon the fact for him to say, "oh, it's just a way of letting me down easy," and it clearly gave him great heart to say so. when he went off to meet his fate, she watched him, trembling, from the window; as she saw him mounting the elevated steps, she wondered at his courage; she had given him all her own. the manager met him with "ah, i'm glad you came soon. these things fade out of one's mind so, and i really want to talk about your play. i've been very much interested in it." maxwell could only bow his head and murmur something about being very glad, very, very glad, with a stupid iteration. "i suppose you know, as well as i do, that it's two plays, and that it's only half as good as if it were one." the manager wheeled around from his table, and looked keenly at the author, who contrived to say, "i think i know what you mean." "you've got the making of the prettiest kind of little comedy in it, and you've got the making of a very strong tragedy. but i don't think your oil and water mix, exactly," said grayson. "you think the interest of the love-business will detract from the interest of the homicide's fate?" "and vice versa. excuse me for asking something that i can very well understand your not wanting to tell till i had read your play. isn't this the piece godolphin has been trying out west?" "yes, it is," said maxwell. "i thought it might prejudice you against it, if--" "oh, that's all right. why have you taken it from him?" maxwell felt that he could make up for his want of earlier frankness now. "i didn't take it from him; he gave it back to me." he sketched the history of his relation to the actor, and the manager said, with smiling relish, "just like him, just like godolphin." then he added, "i'll tell you, and you mustn't take it amiss. godolphin may not know just why he gave the piece up, and he probably thinks it's something altogether different, but you may depend upon it the trouble was your trying to ride two horses in it. didn't you feel that it was a mistake yourself?" "i felt it so strongly at one time that i decided to develop the love-business into a play by itself and let the other go for some other time. my wife and i talked it over. we even discussed it with godolphin. he wanted to do atland. but we all backed out simultaneously, and went back to the play as it stood." "godolphin saw he couldn't make enough of atland," said the manager, as if he were saying it to himself. "well, you may be sure he feels now that the character which most appeals to the public in the play is salome." "he felt that before." "and he was right. now, i will tell you what you have got to do. you have either got to separate the love-business from the rest of the play and develop it into a comedy by itself--" "that would mean a great deal of work, and i am rather sick of the whole thing." "or," the manager went on without minding maxwell, "you have got to cut the part of salome, and subordinate it entirely to haxard"--maxwell made a movement of impatience and refusal, and the manager finished--"or else you have got to treat it frankly as the leading part in the piece, and get it into the hands of some leading actress." "do you mean," the author asked, "that you--or any manager--would take it if that were done?" grayson looked a little unhappy. "no, that isn't what i mean, exactly. i mean that as it stands, no manager would risk it, and that as soon as an actor had read it, he would see, as godolphin must have seen from the start, that haxard was a subordinate part. what you want to do is to get it in the hands of some woman who wants to star, and would take the road with it." the manager expatiated at some length on the point, and then he stopped, and sat silent, as if he had done with the subject. maxwell perceived that the time had come for him to get up and go away. "i'm greatly obliged to you for all your kindness, mr. grayson, and i won't abuse your patience any further. you've been awfully good to me, and--" he faltered, in a dejection which he could not control. against all reason, he had hoped that the manager would have taken his piece just as it stood, and apparently he would not have taken it in any event. "you mustn't speak of that," said the manager. "i wish you would let me see anything else you do. there's a great deal that's good in this piece, and i believe that a woman who would make it her battle-horse could make it go." maxwell asked, with melancholy scorn, "but you don't happen to know any leading lady who is looking round for a battle-horse?" the manager seemed trying to think. "yes, i do. you wouldn't like her altogether, and i don't say she would be the ideal salome, but she would be, in her way, effective; and i know that she wants very much to get a play. she hasn't been doing anything for a year or two but getting married and divorced, but she made a very good start. she used to call herself yolande havisham; i don't suppose it was her name; and she had a good deal of success in the west; i don't think she's ever appeared in new york. i believe she was of quite a good southern family; the southerners all are; and i hear she has money." "godolphin mentioned a southern girl for the part," said maxwell. "i wonder if--" "very likely it's the same one. she does emotional leads. she and godolphin played together in california, i believe. i was trying to think of her married name--or her unmarried name--" some one knocked at the door, and the young man put his head in, with what maxwell fancied a preconcerted effect, and gave the manager a card. he said, "all right; bring him round," and he added to maxwell, "shall i send your play--" "no, no, i will take it," and maxwell carried it away with a heavier heart than he had even when he got it back from godolphin. he did not know how to begin again, and he had to go home and take counsel with his wife as to the next step. he could not bear to tell her of his disappointment, and it was harder still to tell her of the kind of hope the manager had held out to him. he revolved a compromise in his mind, and when they sat down together he did not mean to conceal anything, but only to postpone something; he did not clearly know why. he told her the alternatives the manager had suggested, and she agreed with him they were all impossible. "besides," she said, "he doesn't promise to take the play, even if you do everything to a 't.' did he ask you to lunch again?" "no, that seemed altogether a thing of the past." "well, let us have ours, and then we can go into the park, and forget all about it for a while, and perhaps something new will suggest itself." that was what they did, but nothing new suggested itself. they came home fretted with their futile talk. there seemed nothing for maxwell to do but to begin the next day with some other manager. they found a note from grayson waiting maxwell. "well, you open it," he said, listlessly, to his wife, and in fact he felt himself at that moment physically unable to cope with the task, and he dreaded any fluctuation of emotion that would follow, even if it were a joyous one. "what does this mean, brice?" demanded his wife, with a terrible provisionality in her tone, as she stretched out the letter to him, and stood before him where he lounged in the cushioned window-seat. grayson had written: "if you care to submit your play to yolande havisham, you can easily do so. i find that her address is the same as yours. her name is harley. but i was mistaken about the divorce. it was a death." maxwell lay stupidly holding the note before him. "will you tell me what it means?" his wife repeated. "or why you didn't tell me before, if you meant to give your play to that creature?" "i don't mean to give it to her," said maxwell, doggedly. "i never did, for an instant. as for not telling you that grayson had suggested it--well, perhaps i wished to spare myself a scene like the present." "do you think i will believe you?" "i don't think you will insult me. why shouldn't you believe i am telling you the truth?" "because--because you didn't tell me at once." "that is nonsense, and you know it. if i wanted to keep this from you, it was to spare you the annoyance i can't help now, and because the thing was settled in my mind as soon as grayson proposed it." "then, why has he written to you about it?" "i suppose i didn't say it was settled." "suppose? don't you _know_ whether you did?" "come, now, louise! i am not on the witness-stand, and i won't be cross-questioned. you ought to be ashamed of yourself. what is the matter with you? am i to blame because a man who doesn't imagine your dislike of a woman that you never spoke to suggests her taking part in a play that she probably wouldn't look at? you're preposterous! try to have a little common-sense!" these appeals seemed to have a certain effect with his wife; she looked daunted; but maxwell had the misfortune to add, "one would think you were jealous of the woman." "_now_ you are insulting _me_!" she cried. "but it's a part of the vulgarity of the whole business. actors, authors, managers, you're all alike." maxwell got very pale. "look out, louise!" he warned her. "i _won't_ look out. if you had any delicacy, the least delicacy in the world, you could imagine how a woman who had given the most sacred feelings of her nature to you for your selfish art would loathe to be represented by such a creature as that, and still not be jealous of her, as you call it! but i am justly punished! i might have expected it." the maid appeared at the door and said something, which neither of them could make out at once, but which proved to be the question whether mrs. maxwell had ordered the dinner. "no, i will go--i was just going out for it," said louise. she had in fact not taken off her hat or gloves since she came in from her walk, and she now turned and swept out of the room without looking at her husband. he longed to detain her, to speak some kindly or clarifying word, to set himself right with her, to set her right with herself; but the rage was so hot in his heart that he could not. she came back to the door a moment, and looked in. "_i_ will do _my_ duty." "it's rather late," he sneered, "but if you're very conscientious, i dare say we shall have dinner at the usual time." he did not leave the window-seat, and it was as if the door had only just clashed to after her when there came a repeated and violent ringing at the bell, so that he jumped up himself, to answer it, without waiting for the maid. "your wife--your wife!" panted the bell-boy, who stood there. "she's hurt herself, and she's fainted." "my wife? where--how?" he ran down stairs after the boy, and in the hallway on the ground floor he found louise stretched upon the marble pavement, with her head in the lap of a woman, who was chafing her hands. he needed no look at this woman's face to be sure that it was the woman of his wife's abhorrence, and he felt quite as sure that it was the actress yolande havisham, from the effective drama of her self-possession. "don't be frightened. your wife turned her foot on the steps here. i was coming into the house, and caught her from falling. it's only a swoon." she spoke with the pseudo-english accent of the stage, but with a southern slip upon the vowels here and there. "get some water, please." the hall-boy came running up the back stairs with some that he had gone to get, and the woman bade maxwell sprinkle his wife's face. but he said: "no--you," and he stooped and took his wife's head into his own hands, so that she might not come to in the lap of mrs. harley; in the midst of his dismay he reflected how much she would hate that. he could hardly keep himself from being repellant and resentful towards the woman. in his remorse for quarrelling with louise, it was the least reparation he could offer her. mrs. harley, if it were she, seemed not to notice his rudeness. she sprinkled louise's face, and wiped her forehead with the handkerchief she dipped in the water; but this did not bring her out of her faint, and maxwell began to think she was dead, and to feel that he was a murderer. with a strange æsthetic vigilance he took note of his sensations for use in revising haxard. the janitor of the building had somehow arrived, and mrs. harley said: "i will go for a doctor, if you can get her up to your apartment;" and she left louise with the two men. the janitor, a burly irishman, lifted her in his arms, and carried her up the three flights of steps; maxwell followed, haggardly, helplessly. on her own bed, louise revived, and said: "my shoe--oh, get it off!" the doctor came a few minutes later, but mrs. harley did not appear with him as maxwell had dreaded she would. he decided that mrs. maxwell had strained, not sprained, her ankle, and he explained how the difference was all the difference in the world, as he bound the ankle up with a long ribbon of india-rubber, and issued directions for care and quiet. he left them there, and maxwell heard him below in parley, apparently with the actress at her door. louise lay with her head on her husband's arm, and held his other hand tight in hers, while he knelt by the bed. the bliss of repentance and mutual forgiveness filled both their hearts, while she told him how she had hurt herself. "i had got down to the last step, and i was putting my foot to the pavement, and i thought, now i am going to turn my ankle. wasn't it strange? and i turned it. how did you get me upstairs?" "the janitor carried you." "how lucky he happened to be there! i suppose the hall-boy kept me from falling--poor little fellow! you must give him some money. how did you find out about me?" "he ran up to tell," maxwell said this, and then he hesitated. "i guess you had better know all about it. can you bear something disagreeable, or would you rather wait--" "no, no, tell me now! i can't bear to wait. what is it?" "it wasn't the hall-boy that caught you. it was that--woman." he felt her neck and hand grow rigid, but he went on, and told her all about it. at the end some quiet tears came into her eyes. "well, then, we must be civil to her. i am glad you told me at once, brice!" she pulled his head down and kissed him, and he was glad, too. xv. louise sent maxwell down to mrs. harley's apartment to thank her, and tell her how slight the accident was; and while he was gone she abandoned herself to an impassioned dramatization of her own death from blood-poisoning, and her husband's early marriage with the actress, who then appeared in all his plays, though they were not happy together. her own spectre was always rising between them, and she got some fearful joy out of that. she counted his absence by her heart-beats, but he came back so soon that she was ashamed, and was afraid that he had behaved so as to give the woman a notion that he was not suffered to stay longer. he explained that he had found her gloved and bonneted to go out, and that he had not stayed for fear of keeping her. she had introduced him to her mother, who was civil about louise's accident, and they had both begged him to let them do anything they could for her. he made his observations, and when louise, after a moment, asked him about them, he said they affected him as severally typifying the old south and the new south. they had a photograph over the mantel, thrown up large, of an officer in confederate uniform. otherwise the room had nothing personal in it; he suspected the apartment of having been taken furnished, like their own. louise asked if he should say they were ladies, and he answered that he thought they were. "of course," she said, and she added, with a wide sweep of censure: "they get engaged to four or five men at a time, down there. well," she sighed, "you mustn't stay in here with me, dear. go to your writing." "i was thinking whether you couldn't come out and lie on the lounge. i hate to leave you alone in here." "no, the doctor said to be perfectly quiet. perhaps i can, to-morrow, if it doesn't swell up any worse." she kept her hold of his hand, which he had laid in hers, and he sat down beside the bed, in the chair he had left there. he did not speak, and after a while she asked, "what are you thinking of?" "oh, nothing. the confounded play, i suppose." "you're disappointed at grayson's not taking it." "one is always a fool." "yes," said louise, with a catching of the breath. she gripped his hand hard, and said, as well as she could in keeping back the tears, "well, i will never stand in your way, brice. you may do anything--_anything_--with it that you think best." "i shall never do anything you don't like," he answered, and he leaned over and kissed her, and at this her passion burst in a violent sobbing, and when she could speak she made him solemnly promise that he would not regard her in the least, but would do whatever was wisest and best with the play, for otherwise she should never be happy again. as she could not come out to join him at dinner, he brought a little table to the bedside, and put his plate on it, and ate his dinner there with her. she gave him some attractive morsels off her own plate, which he had first insisted on bestowing upon her. they had such a gay evening that the future brightened again, and they arranged for maxwell to take his play down-town the next day, and not lose a moment in trying to place it with some manager. it all left him very wakeful, for his head began to work upon this scheme and that. when he went to lock the outer door for the night, the sight of his overcoat hanging in the hall made him think of a theatrical newspaper he had bought coming home, at a certain corner of broadway, where numbers of smooth-shaven, handsome men, and women with dark eyes and champagned hair were lounging and passing. he had got it on the desperate chance that it might suggest something useful to him. he now took it out of his coat-pocket, and began to look its advertisements over in the light of his study lamp, partly because he was curious about it, and partly because he knew that he should begin to revise his play otherwise, and then he should not sleep all night. in several pages of the paper ladies with flowery and alliterative names and pseudonyms proclaimed themselves in large letters, and in smaller type the parts they were presently playing in different combinations; others gave addresses and announced that they were at liberty, or specified the kinds of rôles they were accustomed to fill, as leads or heavies, dancing soubrettes and boys; leads, emotional and juvenile; heavy or juvenile or emotional leads. there were gentlemen seeking engagements who were artistic whistling soloists, magicians, leading men, leading heavies, singing and dancing comedians, and there were both ladies and gentlemen who were now starring in this play or that, but were open to offers later. a teacher of stage dancing promised instruction in skirt and serpentine dancing, as well as high kicking, front and back, the backward bend, side practice, toe-practice, and all novelties. dramatic authors had their cards among the rest, and one poor fellow, as if he had not the heart to name himself, advertised a play to be heard of at the office of the newspaper. whatever related to the theatre was there, in bizarre solidarity, which was droll enough to maxwell in one way. but he hated to be mixed up with all that, and he perceived that he must be mixed up with it more and more, if he wrote for the theatre. whether he liked it or not, he was part of the thing which in its entirety meant high-kicking and toe-practice, as well as the expression of the most mystical passions of the heart. there was an austerity in him which the fact offended, and he did what he could to appease this austerity by reflecting that it was the drama and never the theatre that he loved; but for the time this was useless. he saw that if he wrote dramas he could not hold aloof from the theatre, nor from actors and actresses--heavies and juveniles, and emotionals and soubrettes. he must know them, and more intimately; and at first he must be subject to them, however he mastered them at last; he must flatter their oddities and indulge their caprices. his experience with godolphin had taught him that, and his experience with godolphin in the construction of his play could be nothing to what he must undergo at rehearsals and in the effort to adapt his work to a company. he reminded himself that shakespeare even must have undergone all that. but this did not console him. he was himself, and what another, the greatest, had suffered would not save him. besides, it was not the drama merely that maxwell loved; it was not making plays alone; it was causing the life that he had known to speak from the stage, and to teach there its serious and important lesson. in the last analysis he was a moralist, and more a moralist than he imagined. to enforce, in the vividest and most palpable form, what he had thought true, it might be worth while to endure all the trials that he must; but at that moment he did not think so; and he did not dare submit his misgiving to his wife. they had now been six months married, and if he had allowed himself to face the fact he must have owned that, though they loved each other so truly, and he had known moments of exquisite, of incredible rapture, he had been as little happy as in any half-year he had lived. he never formulated his wife's character, or defined the precise relation she bore to his life; if he could have been challenged to do so, he would have said that she was the whole of life to him, and that she was the most delightful woman in the world. he tasted to its last sweetness the love of loving her and of being loved by her. at the same time there was an obscure stress upon him which he did not trace to her at once; a trouble in his thoughts which, if he could have seen it clearly, he would have recognized for a lurking anxiety concerning how she would take the events of their life as they came. without realizing it, for his mind was mostly on his work, and it was only in some dim recess of his spirit that the struggle took place, he was perpetually striving to adjust himself to the unexpected, or rather the unpredictable. but when he was most afraid of her harassing uncertainty of emotion or action he was aware of her fixed loyalty to him; and perhaps it was the final effect with himself that he dreaded. should he always be able to bear and forbear, as he felt she would, with all her variableness and turning? the question did not put itself in words, and neither did his conviction that his relation to the theatre was doubled in difficulty through her. but he perceived that she had no love for the drama, and only a love for his love of it; and sometimes he vaguely suspected that if he had been in business she would have been as fond of business as she was of the drama. he never perhaps comprehended her ideal, and how it could include an explicit and somewhat noisy devotion to the aims of his ambition, because it was his, and a patronizing reservation in regard to the ambition itself. but this was quite possible with louise, just as it was possible for her to have had a humble personal joy in giving herself to him, while she had a distinct social sense of the sacrifice she had made in marrying him. in herself she looked up to him; as her father's and mother's daughter, as the child of her circumstance, there is no doubt she looked down upon him. but neither of these attitudes held in their common life. love may or may not level ranks, but marriage unquestionably does, and is the one form of absolute equality. the maxwells did not take themselves or each other objectively; they loved and hated, they made war and made peace, without any sense of the difference or desert that might have been apparent to the spectators. maxwell had never been so near the standpoint of the impartial observer as now when he confronted the question of what he should do, with a heart twice burdened by the question whether his wife would not make it hard for him to do it, whatever it was. he thought, with dark foreboding, of the difficulties he should have to smooth out for her if it ever came to a production of the piece. the best thing that could happen, perhaps, would be its rejection, final and total, by all possible managers and actors; for she would detest any one who took the part of salome, and would hold him responsible for all she should suffer from it. he recurred to what he had felt so strongly himself, and what grayson had suggested, and thought how he could free himself from fealty to her by cutting out the whole love-business from his play. but that would be very hard. the thing had now knitted itself in one texture in his mind, and though he could sever the ties that bound the parts together, it would take from the piece the great element of charm. it was not symmetrical as it stood, but it was not two distinct motives; the motives had blended, and they really belonged to each other. he would have to invent some other love-business if he cut this out, but still it could be done. then it suddenly flashed upon him that there was something easier yet, and that was to abandon the notion of getting his piece played at all, and to turn it into a novel. he could give it narrative form without much trouble, if any, beyond that of copying it, and it would be thought a very dramatic story. he saw instantly how he could keep and even enhance all the charm of the love-business as it stood, in a novel; and in his revulsion of feeling he wished to tell his wife. he made a movement towards the door of her room, but he heard the even breathing of her sleep, and he stopped and flung himself on the lounge to think. it was such a happy solution of the whole affair! he need not even cease trying it with the managers, for he could use the copy of the play that godolphin had returned for that, and he could use the copy he had always kept for recasting it in narrative. by the time that he had got his play back from the last manager he would have his novel ready for the first publisher. in the meantime he should be writing his letters for the _abstract_, and not consuming all his little savings. the relief from the stress upon him was delicious. he lay at rest and heard the soft breathing of his wife from the other room, and an indescribable tenderness for her filled his heart. then he heard her voice saying, "well, don't wake him, poor boy!" xvi. maxwell opened his eyes and found the maid lightly escaping from the room. he perceived that he had slept all night on the lounge, and he sent a cheery hail into his wife's room, and then followed it to tell her how he had thought it all out. she was as glad as he was; she applauded his plan to the ceiling; and he might not have thought of her accident if he had not seen presently that she was eating her breakfast in bed. then he asked after her ankle, and she said, "oh, that is perfectly well, or the same as perfectly. there's no pain at all there to speak of, and i shall get up to luncheon. you needn't mind me any more. if you haven't taken your death of cold sleeping there on the lounge--" "i haven't." "i want you to go down town to some manager with your play, and get some paper, the kind i like; and then, after lunch, we'll begin turning it into a novel, from your copy. it will be so easy for you that you can dictate, and i'll do the writing, and we'll work it up together. shall you like collaborating with me?" "ah!--" "it will be our story, and i shall like it twice as well as if it were a play. we shall be independent of the theatre, that's one satisfaction; they can take the play, if they like, but it will be perfectly indifferent to us. i shall help you get in all those nice touches that you said you could never get into a play, like that green light in the woods. i know just how we shall manage that love business, and we sha'n't have any horror of an actress interpreting our inspirations to the public. we'll play atland and salome ourselves. we'll--ow!" she had given her foot a twist in the excitement and she fell back on the pillow rather faint. but she instantly recovered herself with a laugh, and she hurried him away to his breakfast, and then away with his play. he would rather have stayed and begun turning it into a story at once. but she would not let him; she said it would be a loss of time, and she should fret a good deal more to have him there with her, than to have him away, for she should know he was just staying to cheer her up. when he was gone she sent for whatever papers the maid could find in the parlor, so that she need not think of him in the amusement she would get out of them. among the rest was that dramatic newspaper which caught her eye first, with the effigy of a very dramatized young woman whose portrait filled the whole first page. louise abhorred her, but with a novel sense of security in the fact that maxwell's play was going so soon to be turned into a story; and she felt personally aloof from all the people who had dragged him down with a sense of complicity in their professional cards. she found them neither so droll nor so painful as he had, but she was very willing to turn from them, and she was giving the paper a parting glance before dropping it when she was arrested by an advertisement which made her start: wanted.--a drama for prominent star; light comic and emotional: star part must embody situations for the display of intense effects. address l. sterne, this office. a series of effects as intense as the advertiser could have desired in a drama followed one another in the mind of louise. she now wildly reproached herself that she had, however unwittingly, sent her husband out of reach for four or five hours, when his whole future might depend upon his instantly answering this notice. whether he had already seen the notice and rashly decided to ignore it, or had not seen it, he might involve himself with some manager irretrievably before he could be got at with a demand which seemed specifically framed to describe his play. she was in despair that there was no means of sending a messenger-boy after him with any chance of finding him. the light comic reliefs which the advertiser would have wished to give the dark phases of her mood were suggested by her reckless energy in whirling herself into her dressing-gown, and hopping out to maxwell's desk in the other room, where she dashed off a note in reply to the advertisement in her husband's name, and then checked herself with the reflection that she had no right to sign his name: even in such a cause she must not do anything wrong. something must be done, however, right or wrong, and she decided that a very formal note in the third person would involve the least moral trespass. she fixed upon these terms, after several experiments, almost weeping at the time they cost her, when every moment was precious: _mr. brice maxwell writes to mr. l. sterne and begs to inform him that he has a play which he believes will meet the requirements of mr. sterne, as stated in his advertisement in the theatrical register of november the tenth. mr. maxwell asks the favor of an interview with mr. sterne at any time and place that mr. sterne may appoint._ it seemed to her that this violated no law of man or god, or if it did the exigency was such that the action could be forgiven, if not justified. she ransacked maxwell's desk for a special delivery stamp, and sent the letter out beyond recall; and then it occurred to her that its opening terms were too much those of a lady addressing a seamstress; but after a good deal of anguish on this point she comforted herself with the hope that a man would not know the form, or at least would not suspect another man of using it offensively. she passed the time till maxwell came back, in doubt whether to tell him what she had done. there was no reason why she should not, except that he might have seen the advertisement and decided not to answer it for some reason; but in that case it might be said that he ought to have spoken to her about it. she told him everything at once, but there were many things that he did not tell her till long afterwards; it would be a good thing to let him realize how that felt; besides, it would be a pleasure to keep it and let it burst upon him, if that l. sterne, whoever he was, asked to see the play. in any case, it would not be a great while that she need keep from him what she had done, but at sight of him when he came in she could hardly be silent. he was gloomy and dispirited, and he confessed that his pleasant experience with grayson had not been repeated with the other managers. they had all been civil enough, and he had seen three or four of them, but only one had consented to let him even leave his play with him; the others said that it would be useless for them to look at it. she could not forbear showing him the advertisement she had answered as they sat at lunch; but he glanced at it with disdain, and said there must be some sort of fake in it; if it was some irresponsible fellow getting up a combination he would not scruple to use the ideas of any manuscript submitted to him and work them over to suit himself. louise could not speak. all heart went out of her; she wanted to cry, and she did not tell what she had done. neither of them ate much. he asked her if she was ready to begin on the story with him; she said, "oh yes;" and she hobbled off into the other room. then he seemed to remember her hurt for the first time; he had been so full of his failure with the play before. he asked her how she was, and she said much better; and then he stretched himself on the lounge and tried to dictate, and she took her place at his desk and tried to write. but she either ran ahead of him and prompted him, which vexed him, or she lagged so far behind that he lost the thread of what he was saying and became angry. at last she put her head down on the paper and blotted it with her tears. at that he said, "oh, you'd better go back to bed," and then, though he spoke harshly, he lifted her tenderly and half carried her to her room. xvii. they did not try working the play into a story again together. maxwell kept doggedly at it, though he said it was of no use; the thing had taken the dramatic form with inexorable fixity as it first came from his mind; it could be changed, of course, but it could only be changed for the worse, artistically. if he could sell it as a story, the work would not be lost; he would gain the skill that came from doing, in any event, and it would keep him alive under the ill-luck that now seemed to have set in. none of the managers wanted his play. some of them seemed to want it less than others; some wanted it less immediately than others; some did not want it after reading; some refused it without reading it; some had their arrangements made for an indefinite time, others in the present uncertain state of affairs could not make any arrangements; some said it was an american play; others that it was un-american in its pessimistic spirit; some found it too literary; others, lacking in imagination. they were nearly all so kind that at first maxwell was guilty of the folly of trying to persuade them against the reasons they gave; when he realized that these reasons were also excuses, he set his teeth and accepted them in silence. for a number of days louise suffered in momentary expectation of a reply from l. sterne. she thought it would come by district messenger the day she wrote; and for several days afterwards she had the letters brought to her first, so that she could read them, and not disturb maxwell with them at his work, if it were not necessary. he willingly agreed to that; he saw that it helped to pass the irksome time for her. she did not mean to conceal any answer she should have from l. sterne, but she meant when the answer came to prepare her husband for it in such sort that he would understand her motive, and though he condemned it, would easily forgive her. but the days went and no letter from l. sterne came, and after a season of lively indignation at his rudeness, louise began to forget him a little, though she still kept her surveillance of the mail. it was always on her conscience, in the meantime, to give some of the first moments of her recovery to going with maxwell and thanking mrs. harley for the kindness she had shown her in her accident. she was the more strenuous in this intention because the duty was so distasteful, and she insisted upon maxwell's company, though he argued that he had already done enough himself in thanking her preserver, because she wished to punish a certain reluctance of her own in having him go. she promised herself that she would do everything that was right by the creature; and perhaps she repaired to her presence in rather overwhelming virtue. if this was so, mrs. harley showed herself equal to the demand upon her, and was overwhelming in her kind. she not only made nothing of what she had done for louise, but she made nothing of louise, and contrived with a few well-directed strokes to give her distinctly the sense of being a chit, a thing louise was not at all used to. she was apparently one of those women who have no use for persons of their own sex; but few women, even of that sort, could have so promptly relegated louise to the outside of their interest, or so frankly devoted themselves to maxwell. the impartial spectator might easily have imagined that it was his ankle which had been strained, and that louise was at best an intrusive sympathizer. sometimes mrs. harley did not hear what she said; at other times, if she began a response to her, she ended it in a question to him; even when she talked to louise, her eyes were smouldering upon maxwell. if this had all or any of it been helpless or ignorant rudeness, it could have been borne and forgiven; but louise was aware of intention, of perfect intelligence in it; she was sensible of being even more disliked than disliking, and of finally being put to flight with a patronizing benevolence for her complete recovery that was intolerable. what was worse was that, while the woman had been so offensive, she could not wholly rid herself of the feeling that her punishment was in a measure merited, though it was not justice that had dealt with her. "well, that is over," said maxwell, when they were again by themselves. "yes, forever," sighed louise, and for once she was not let have the last word. "i hope you'll remember that i didn't want to go." at least, they had not misunderstood each other about mrs. harley. towards the end of the month, louise's father and mother came on from boston. they professed that they had been taken with that wish to see the autumn exhibition at the national academy which sometimes affects bostonians, and that their visit had nothing to do with the little hurt that louise wrote them of when she was quite well of it. they drove over from their hotel the morning they arrived, and she did not know anything of their coming till she heard their voices at the door; her father's voice was rather husky from the climb to her apartment. the apartment was looking somewhat frouzy, for the maxwells breakfasted late, and the house-maid had not had time to put it in order. louise saw it through her father's and mother's eyes with the glance they gave it, and found the rooms ridiculously little, and furnished with cheap fourteenth street things; but she bragged all the more noisily of it on that account, and made her mother look out of the window for the pretty view they had from their corner room. mrs. hilary pulled her head back from the prospect of the railroad-ridden avenue with silent horror, and louise burst into a wild laugh. "well, it _isn't_ commonwealth avenue, mamma; i don't pretend that, you know." "where's maxwell?" asked hilary, still puffing from the lounge he had sunk upon as soon as he got into the room. "oh, he's down town interviewing a manager about his play." "i thought that fellow out west had his play. or is this a new one?" "no," said louise, very slowly and thoughtfully, "brice has taken back his play from mr. godolphin." this was true; he _had_ taken it back in a sense. she added, as much to herself as to her father, "but he _has_ got a new play--that he's working at." "i hope he hasn't been rash with godolphin; though i always had an idea that it would have been better for him to deal with a manager. it seems more business-like." "oh, much," said louise. after a little while they were more at home with each other; she began to feel herself more their child, and less maxwell's wife; the barriers of reluctance against him, which she always knew were up with them, fell away from between them and herself. but her father said they had come to get her and maxwell to lunch with them at their hotel, and then louise felt herself on her husband's side of the fence again. she said no, they must stay with her; that she was sure brice would be back for lunch; and she wanted to show them her house-keeping. mrs. hilary cast her eye about the room at the word, as if she had seen quite enough of it already, and this made louise laugh again. she was no better in person than the room was, and she felt her mother's tacit censure apply to her slatternly dressing-gown. "i know what you're thinking, mamma. but i got the habit of it when i had my strained ankle." "oh, i'm sure it must be very comfortable," mrs. hilary said, of the dressing-gown. "is it entirely well now?" she added, of the ankle; and she and hilary both looked at louise in a way that would have convinced her that their final anxiety concerning it had brought them to new york, if she had not guessed it already. "the doctor," and by this she meant their old family doctor, as if he were the only one, "said you couldn't be too careful." "well, i haven't been careful," said louise, gayly; "but i'm quite well, and you can go back at once, if that's all, mamma." hilary laughed with her. "you haven't changed much, louise." her mother said, in another sense, "i think you look a little pulled down," and that made her and her father laugh again. she got to playing with him, and poking him, and kissing him, in the way she had with him when she was a girl; it was not so very long ago. her mother bore with this for awhile, and then she rose to go. "you're not going to stay!" louise protested. "not to-day, my dear. i've got some shopping to do before lunch." "well," said louise, "i didn't suppose you would stay the first time, such swells as you and papa. but i shall insist upon your coming to-morrow when you've recovered a little from the blow this home of virtuous poverty has given you, and i've had a chance to dust and prepare for you. and i'll tell you what, mamma; brice and i will come to dinner with you to-night, and we won't take any refusal. we'll be with you at seven. how will that do, papa?" "that will do," said hilary, with his arm round her waist, and they kissed each other to clinch the bargain. "and don't you two old things go away and put your frosty paws together and say brice and i are not happy. we do quarrel like cats and dogs every now and then, but the rest of the time we're the happiest couple in the universe, and an example to parents." hilary would have manifestly liked to stay and have her go on with her nonsense, but his wife took him away. when maxwell came in she was so full of their visit that she did not ask him what luck he had with his play, but told him at once they were going to dine with her father and mother. "and i want you to brace up, my dear, and not let them imagine anything." "how, anything?" he asked, listlessly. "oh, nothing. about your play not going perfectly. i didn't think it necessary to go into particulars with them, and you needn't. just pass it over lightly if they ask you anything about it. but they won't." maxwell did not look so happy as he might at the prospect of dining with his wife's father and mother, but he did not say anything disagreeable, and after an instant of silent resentment louise did not say anything disagreeable either. in fact, she devoted herself to avoiding any displeasures with him, and she arrived with him at the hilarys' hotel on perfectly good terms, and, as far as he was concerned, in rather good spirits. upon the whole, they had a very good time. hilary made occasion to speak to maxwell of his letters to the _abstract_, and told him they were considered by far the best letters of the kind published anywhere, which meant anywhere in boston. "you do that sort of thing so well, newspaper writing," he continued, with a slyness that was not lost upon louise, though maxwell was ignorant of his drift, "that i wonder you don't sometimes want to take it up again." "it's well enough," said maxwell, who was gratified by his praise. "by the way," said hilary, "i met your friend, mr. ricker, the other day, and he spoke most cordially about you. i fancy he would be very glad to have you back." "in the old way? i would rather be excused." "no, from what he said, i thought he would like your writing in the editorial page." maxwell looked pleased. "ricker's always been very good, but he has very little influence on the _abstract_. he has no money interest in the paper." hilary said, with the greatest artfulness, "i wonder he doesn't buy in. i hear it can be done." "not by ricker, for the best of all possible reasons," said maxwell, with a laugh. louise could hardly wait till she had parted from her father and mother before she began on her husband: "you goose! didn't you see that papa was hinting at buying _you_ a share in the _abstract_?" "he was very modest about it, then; i didn't see anything of the kind." "oh, do you think _you_ are the only modest man? papa is _very_ modest, and he wouldn't make you an offer outright, unless he saw that you would like it. but i know that was what he was coming to, and if you'll let me--" a sentiment of a reluctance rather than a refusal was what made itself perceptible from his arm to hers, as they hurried along the street together, and louise would not press the question till he spoke again. he did not speak till they were in the train on their way home. then he said, "i shouldn't care to have a money interest in a newspaper. it would tie me up to it, and load me down with cares i should hate. it wouldn't be my real life." "yes," said his wife, but when they got into their little apartment she cast an eye, opened to its meanness and narrowness, over the common belongings, and wondered if he would ask himself whether this was her real life. but she did not speak, though she was apt to speak out most things that she thought. xviii. some people began to call, old friends of her mother, whose visit to new york seemed to have betrayed to them the fact of louise's presence for the first time, and some friends of her own, who had married, and come to new york to live, and who said they had just got back to town long enough to learn that she was there. these all reproached her for not having let them know sooner where she was, and they all more or less followed up their reproaches with the invitations which she dreaded because of maxwell's aversion for them. but she submitted them to him, and submitted to his refusal to go with her, and declined them. in her heart she thought he was rather ungracious, but she did not say so, though in two or three cases of people whom she liked she coaxed him a little to go with her. meeting her mother and talking over the life she used to lead in boston, and the life so many people were leading there still, made her a little hungry for society; she would have liked well enough to find herself at a dinner again, and she would have felt a little dancing after the dinner no hardship; but she remembered the promise she had made herself not to tease maxwell about such things. so she merely coaxed him, and he so far relented as to ask her why she could not go without him, and that hurt her, and she said she never would go without him. all the same, when there came an invitation for lunch, from a particularly nice friend of her girlhood, she hesitated and was lost. she had expected, somehow, that it was going to be a very little lunch, but she found it a very large one, in the number of people, and after the stress of accounting for her husband's failure to come with her, she was not sorry to have it so. she inhaled with joy the atmosphere of the flower-scented rooms; her eye dwelt with delight on their luxurious and tasteful appointments, the belongings of her former life, which seemed to emerge in them from the past and claim her again; the women in their _chic_ new york costumes and their miracles of early winter hats hailed her a long-lost sister by every graceful movement and cultivated tone; the correctly tailored and agreeably mannered men had polite intelligence of a world that maxwell never would and never could be part of; the talk of the little amusing, unvital things that began at once was more precious to her than the problems which the austere imagination of her husband dealt with; it suddenly fatigued her to think how hard she had tried to sympathize with his interest in them. her heart leaped at sight of the long, rose-heaped table, with its glitter of glass and silver, and the solemn perfection of the serving-men; a spectacle not important in itself was dear to her from association with gayeties, which now, for a wicked moment, seemed to her better than love. there were all sorts of people: artists and actors, as well as people of fashion. her friend had given her some society notable to go out with, but she had appointed for the chair next her, on the other hand, a young man in a pretty pointed beard, whom she introduced across from the head of the table as soon as she could civilly take the notable to herself. louise did not catch his name, and it seemed presently that he had not heard hers, but their acquaintance prospered without this knowledge. he made some little jokes, which she promptly responded to, and they talked awhile as if they were both new-yorkers, till she said, at some remark of his, "but i am not a new-yorker," and then he said, "well, neither am i," and offered to tell her what he was if she would tell him what she was. "oh, i'm from boston, of course," she answered, but then, instead of saying where he was from, he broke out: "now i will fulfil my vow!" "your vow? what is your vow?" "to ask the first boston person i met if that boston person knew anything about another boston person, who wrote a most remarkable play i saw in the fall out at home." "a play?" said louise, with a total loss of interest in the gentleman's city or country. "yes, by a boston man named maxwell--" louise stared at him, and if their acquaintance had been a little older, she might have asked him to come off. as it was she could not speak, and she let him go on. "i don't know when i've ever had a stronger impression in the theatre than i had from that play. perfectly modern, and perfectly american." he briefly sketched it. "it was like a terrible experience on the tragic side, and on the other side it was a rapture. i never saw love-making on the stage before that made me wish to be a lover--" a fire-red flew over louise's face, and she said, almost snubbingly, as if he had made some unwarrantable advance: "i think i had better not let you go on. it was my husband who wrote that play. i am mrs. maxwell." "mrs. maxwell! you are mrs. maxwell?" he gasped, and she could not doubt the honesty of his amaze. his confusion was so charming that she instantly relented. "of course i should like to have you go on all day as you've begun, but there's no telling what exceptions you might be going to make later. where did you see my husband's play?" "in midland--" "what! you are not--you can't be--mr. ray?" "i am--i can," he returned, gleefully, and now louise impulsively gave him her hand under the table-cloth. the man[oe]uvre caught the eye of the hostess. "a bet?" she asked. "better," cried louise, not knowing her pun, "a thousand times," and she turned without further explanation to the gentleman: "when i tell mr. maxwell of this he will suffer as he ought, and that's saying a great deal, for not coming with me to-day. to think of it's being _you_!" "ah, but to think of it's being _he_! you acquit me of the poor taste of putting up a job?" "oh, of anything you want to be acquitted of! what crime would you prefer? there are whole deluges of mercy for you. but now go on, and tell me everything you thought about the play." "i'd rather you'd tell me what you know about the playwright." "everything, of course, and nothing." she added the last words from a sudden, poignant conviction. "isn't that the way with the wives of you men of genius?" "am i a man of genius?" "you're literary." "oh, literary, yes. but i'm not married." "you're determined to get out of it, somehow. tell me about midland. it has filled such a space in our imagination! you can't think what a comfort and stay you have been to us! but why in midland? is it a large place?" "would it take such a very big one to hold me? it's the place i brought myself up in, and it's very good to me, and so i live there. i don't think it has any vast intellectual or æsthetic interests, but there are very nice people there, very cultivated, some of them, and very well read. after all, you don't need a great many people; three or four will do." "and have you always lived there?" "i lived a year or so in new york, and i manage to get on here some time every winter. the rest of the year midland is quite enough for me. it's gay at times; there's a good deal going on; and i can write there as well as anywhere, and better than in new york. then, you know, in a small way i'm a prophet in my own country, perhaps because i was away from it for awhile. it's very pretty. but it's very base of you to make me talk about myself when i'm so anxious to hear about mr. maxwell." "and do you spend all your time writing ibsen criticisms of ibsen plays?" louise pursued against his protest. "i do some other kind of writing." "as--" "oh, no! i'm not here to interview myself." "oh, but you ought. i know you've written something--some novel. your name was so familiar from the first." mr. ray laughed and shook his head in mockery of her cheap device. "you mustn't be vexed because i'm so vague about it. i'm very ignorant." "you said you were from boston." "but there are bostons and bostons. the boston that i belonged to never hears of american books till they are forgotten!" "ah, how famous i must be there!" "i see you are determined to be bad. but i remember now; it was a play. haven't you written a play?" he held up three fingers. "i knew it! what was it?" "my plays," said the young fellow, with a mock of superiority, "have never been played. i've been told that they are above the heads of an audience. it's a great consolation. but now, really, about mr. maxwell's. when is it to be given here? i hoped very much that i might happen on the very time." louise hesitated a moment, and then she said: "you know he has taken it back from godolphin." it was not so hard to say this as it was at first, but it still required resolution. "oh, i'm so glad!" said mr. ray. "i never thought he appreciated it. he was so anxious to make his part all in all that he would have been willing to damage the rest of it irretrievably. i could see, from the way he talked of it, that he was mortally jealous of salome; and the girl who did that did it very sweetly and prettily. who has got the play now?" "well," said louise, with rather a painful smile, "nobody has it at present. we're trying to stir up strife for it among managers." "what play is that?" asked her friend, the hostess, and all that end of the table became attentive, as any fashionable company will at the mention of a play; books may be more or less out of the range of society, but plays never at all. "my husband's," said louise, meekly. "why, does _your_ husband write _plays_?" cried the lady. "what did you think he did?" returned louise, resentfully; she did not in the least know what her friend's husband did, and he was no more there to speak for himself than her own. "he's written a very _great_ play," mr. ray spoke up with generous courage; "the very greatest american play i have seen. i don't say ever written, for i've written some myself that i haven't seen yet," he added, and every one laughed at his bit of self-sacrifice. "but mr. maxwell's play is just such a play as i would have written if i could--large, and serious, and charming." he went on about it finely, and louise's heart swelled with pride. she wished maxwell could have been there, but if he had been, of course mr. ray would not have spoken so freely. the hostess asked him where he had seen it, and he said in midland. then she said, "we must all go," and she had the effect of rising to do so, but it was only to leave the men to their tobacco. louise laid hold of her in the drawing-room: "who is he? what is he?" "a little dear, isn't he?" "yes, of course. but what has he done?" "why, he wrote a novel--i forget the name, but i have it somewhere. it made a great sensation. but surely _you_ must know what it was?" "no, no," louise lamented. "i am ashamed to say i don't." when the men joined the ladies, she lingered long enough to thank mr. ray, and try to make him tell her the name of his novel. she at least made him promise to let them know the next time he was in new york, and she believed all he said of his regret that he was going home that night. he sent many sweet messages to maxwell, whom he wanted to talk with about his play, and tell him all he had thought about it. he felt sure that some manager would take it and bring it out in new york, and again he exulted that it was out of the actor's hands. a manager might not have an artistic interest in it; an actor could only have a personal interest in it. xix. louise came home in high spirits. the world seemed to have begun to move again. it was full of all sorts of gay hopes, or at least she was, and she was impatient to impart them to maxwell. now she decided that her great office in his life must be to cheer him up, to supply that spring of joyousness which was so lacking in him, and which he never could do any sort of work without. she meant to make him go into society with her. it would do him good, and he would shine. he could talk as well as mr. ray, and if he would let himself go, he could be as charming. she rushed in to speak with him, and was vexed to find a strange man sitting in the parlor alone. the stranger rose at her onset, and then, when she confusedly retreated, he sank into his chair again. she had seen him black against the window, and had not made out any feature or expression of his face. the maid explained that it was a gentleman who had called to see mr. maxwell earlier in the day, and the last time had asked if he might sit down and wait for him. he had been waiting only a few minutes. "but who is he?" demanded louise, with a provisional indignation in case it should be a liberty on some unauthorized person's part. "didn't he give you a card?" he had given the girl a card, and she now gave it to mrs. maxwell. it bore the name mr. lawrence sterne, which louise read with much the same emotion as if it had been mr. william shakespeare. she suspected what her husband would have called a fake of some sort, and she felt a little afraid. she did not like the notion of the man's sitting there in her parlor while she had nobody with her but the girl. he might be all right, and he might even be a gentleman, but the dark bulk which had risen up against the window and stood holding a hat in its hand was not somehow a gentlemanly bulk, the hat was not definitively a gentleman's hat, and the baldness which had shone against the light was not exactly what you would have called a gentleman's baldness. clearly, however, the only thing to do was to treat the event as one of entire fitness till it proved itself otherwise, and louise returned to the parlor with an air of lady-*like inquiry, expressed in her look and movement; if this effect was not wholly unmixed with patronage, it still was kind. "i am sorry," she said, "that my husband is out, and i am sorry to say that i don't know just when he will be at home." she stood and the man had risen again, with his portly frame and his invisible face between her and the light again. "if i could be of any use in giving him a message--" she stopped; it was really sending the man out of the house, and she could not do that; it was not decent. she added, "or if you don't mind waiting a few minutes longer--" she sat down, but the man did not. he said: "i can't wait any longer just now; but if mr. maxwell would like to see me, i am at the coleman house." she looked at him as if she did not understand, and he went on: "if he doesn't recall my name he'll remember answering my advertisement, some weeks ago in the _theatrical register_, for a play." "oh yes!" said louise. this was the actor whom she had written to on behalf of maxwell. with electrical suddenness and distinctness she now recalled the name, l. sterne, along with all the rest, though the card of mr. lawrence sterne had not stirred her sleeping consciousness. she had always meant to tell maxwell what she had done, but she was always waiting for something to come of it, and when nothing came of it, she did not tell; she had been so disgusted at the mere notion of answering the man's advertisement. now, here was the man himself, and he had to be answered, and that would probably be worse than answering his advertisement. "i remember," she said, provisionally, but with the resolution to speak exactly the truth; "i wrote to you _for_ mr. maxwell," which did not satisfy her as the truth ought to have done. "well, then, i wish you would please tell him that i didn't reply to his letter because it kept following me from place to place, and i only got it at the _register_ office this morning." "i will tell mr. maxwell," said louise. "i should be glad to see his play, if he still has it to dispose of. from what mr. grayson has told me of it, i think it might--i think i should like to see it. it might suit the--the party i am acting for," he added, letting himself go. "then you are not the--the--star?" "i am the manager for the star." "oh," said louise, with relief. the fact seemed to put another complexion on the affair. a distaste which she had formed for mr. sterne personally began to cede to other feelings. if he was manager for the star, he must be like other managers, such as maxwell was willing to deal with, and if he knew mr. grayson he must be all right. "i will tell mr. maxwell," she said, with no provisionality this time. mr. sterne prepared to go, so far as buttoning his overcoat and making some paces towards the door gave token of his intention. louise followed him with a politeness which was almost gratitude to him for reinstating her in her own esteem. he seemed to have atmospheric intelligence of her better will towards him, for he said, as if it were something she might feel an interest in: "if i can get a play that will suit, i shall take the road with a combination immediately after new year's. i don't know whether you have ever seen the lady i want the play for." "the lady?" gasped louise. "she isn't very well-known in the east yet, but she will be. she wants a play of her own. as i understand mr. grayson, there is a part in mr. maxwell's play that would fit her to a t, or could be fitted to her; these things always need some little adaptation." mr. sterne's manner became easier and easier. "curious thing about it is that you are next door--or next floor--neighbors, here. mrs. harley." "we--we have met her," said louise in a hollow murmur. "well, you can't have any idea what yolande havisham is from mrs. harley. i shall be at the coleman the whole evening, if mr. maxwell would like to call. well, good-morning," said mr. sterne, and he got himself away before louise could tell him that maxwell would never give his play to a woman; before she could say that it was already as good as accepted by another manager; before she could declare that if no manager ever wanted it, still, as far as mrs. harley was concerned, with her smouldering eyes, it would always be in negotiation; before she could form or express any utter and final refusal and denial of his abominable hopes. it remained for her either to walk quietly down to the north river and drown herself or to wait her husband's return and tell him everything and throw herself on his mercy, implore him, adjure him, not to give that woman his play; and then to go into a decline that would soon rid him of the clog and hinderance she had always been to him. it flashed through her turmoil of emotion that it was already dark, in spite of mr. sterne's good-morning at parting, and that some one might speak to her on the way to the river; and then she thought how maxwell would laugh when she told him the fear of being spoken to had kept her from suicide; and she sat waiting for him to come with such an inward haggardness that she was astonished, at sight of herself in the glass, to find that she wan looking very much as usual. maxwell certainly noticed no difference when he came in and flung himself wearily on the lounge, and made no attempt to break the silence of their meeting; they had kissed, of course, but had not spoken. she was by no means sure what she was going to do; she had hoped there would be some leading on his part that would make it easy for her to do right, whatever the right was, but her heart sank at sight of him. he looked defeated and harassed. but there was no help for it. she must speak, and speak unaided; the only question was whether she had better speak before dinner or after. she decided to speak after dinner, and then all at once she was saying: "brice, i have brought something dreadful on myself." "at the lunch?" he asked, wearily, and she saw that he thought she had been making some silly speech she was ashamed of. "oh, if it had only been at the lunch!" she cried. "no, it was here--here in this very room." "_i_ don't know what's the matter with you, louise," he said, lying back and shutting his eyes. "then i must tell you!" and she came out with the whole story, which she had to repeat in parts before he could understand it. when he did understand that she had answered an advertisement in the _register_, in his name, he opened his eyes and sat up. "well?" he said. "well, don't you see how wrong and wicked that was?" "i've heard of worse things." "oh, don't say so, dearest! it was living a lie, don't you see. and i've been living a lie ever since, and now i'm justly punished for not telling you long ago." she told him of the visit she had just had, and who the man was, and whom he wanted the play for; and now a strange thing happened with her. she did not beseech him not to give his play to that woman; on the contrary she said: "and now, brice, i want you to let her have it. i know she will play salome magnificently, and that will make the fortune of the piece, and it will give you such a name that anything you write after this will get accepted; and you can satisfy your utmost ambition, and you needn't mind me--no--or think of me at all any more than if i were the dust of the earth; and i am! will you?" he got up from the lounge and began to walk the floor, as he always did when he was perplexed; and she let him walk up and down in silence as long as she could bear it. at last she said: "i am in earnest, brice, i am indeed, and if you don't do it, if you let me or my feelings stand in your way, in the slightest degree, i will never forgive you. will you go straight down to the coleman house, as soon as you've had your dinner, and tell that man he can have your play for that woman?" "no," said maxwell, stopping in his walk, and looking at her in a dazed way. her heart seemed to leap into her throat. "why?" she choked. "because godolphin is here." "godo--" she began; and she cast herself on the lounge that maxwell had vacated, and plunged her face in the pillow and sobbed, "oh, cruel, cruel, _cruel_! oh, _cruel_, cruel, cruel, cruel!" xx. maxwell stood looking at his wife with the cold disgust which hysterics are apt to inspire in men after they have seen them more than once. "i suppose that when you are ready you will tell me what is the matter with you." "to let me suffer so, when you knew all the time that godolphin was here, and you needn't give your play to that creature at all," wailed louise. "how did _i_ know you were suffering?" he retorted. "and how do i know that i can do anything with godolphin?" "oh, i _know_ you can!" she sprang up with the greatest energy, and ran into the bedroom to put in order her tumbled hair; she kept talking to him from there. "i want you to go down and see him the instant you have had dinner; and don't let him escape you. tell him he can have the play on any terms. i believe he is the only one who can make it go. he was the first to appreciate the idea, and--frida!" she called into the hall towards the kitchen, "we will have dinner at once, now, please--he always talked so intelligently about it; and now if he's where you can superintend the rehearsals, it will be the greatest success. how in the world did you find out he was here?" she came out of her room, in surprising repair, with this question, and the rest of their talk went on through dinner. it appeared that maxwell had heard of godolphin's presence from grayson, whom he met in the street, and who told him that godolphin had made a complete failure of his venture. his combination had gone to pieces at cleveland, and his company were straggling back to new york as they could. godolphin was deeply in debt to them all, and to everybody else; and yet the manager spoke cordially of him, and with no sort of disrespect, as if his insolvency were only an affair of the moment, which he would put right. louise took the same view of it, and she urged maxwell to consider how godolphin had promptly paid him, and would always do so. "probably i got the pay of some poor devil who needed it worse," said maxwell. she said, "nonsense! the other actors will take care of all that. they are so good to each other," and she blamed maxwell for not going to see godolphin at once. "that was what i did," he answered, "but he wasn't at home. he was to be at home after dinner." "well, that makes it all the more providential," said louise; her piety always awoke in view of favorable chances. "you mustn't lose any time. better not wait for the coffee." "i think i'll wait for the coffee," said maxwell. "it's no use going there before eight." "no," she consented. "where is he stopping?" "at the coleman house." "the coleman house? then if that wretch should see you?" she meant the manager of mrs. harley. "he wouldn't know me, probably," maxwell returned, scornfully. "but if you think there's any danger of his laying hold of me, and getting the play away before godolphin has a chance of refusing it, i'll go masked. i'm tired of thinking about it. what sort of lunch did you have?" "i had the best time in the world. you ought to have come with me, brice. i shall make you, the next one. oh, and guess who was there! mr. ray!" "_our_ mr. ray?" maxwell breathlessly demanded. "there is no other, and he's the sweetest little dear in the world. he isn't so big as you are, even, and he's such a merry spirit; he hasn't the bulk your gloom gives you. i want you to be like him, brice. i don't see why you shouldn't go into society, too." "if i'd gone into society to-day, i should have missed seeing grayson, and shouldn't have known godolphin was in town." "well, that is true, of course. but if you get your play into godolphin's hands, you'll have to show yourself a little, so that nice people will be interested in it. you ought to have heard mr. ray celebrate it. he piped up before the whole table." louise remembered what ray said very well, and she repeated it to a profound joy in maxwell. it gave him an exquisite pleasure, and it flattered him to believe that, as the hostess had said in response, they, the nice people, must see it, though he had his opinion of nice people, apart from their usefulness in seeing his play. to reward his wife for it all, he rose as soon as he had drunk his coffee, and went out to put on his hat and coat. she went with him, and saw that he put them on properly, and did not go off with half his coat-collar turned up. after he got his hat on, she took it off to see whether his cow-lick was worse than usual. "why, good heavens! godolphin's seen me before, and besides, i'm not going to propose marriage to him," he protested. "oh, it's much more serious than that!" she sighed. "anybody would take _you_, dear, but it's your play we want him to take--or take back." when maxwell reached the hotel, he did not find godolphin there. he came back twice; then, as something in his manner seemed to give maxwell authority, the clerk volunteered to say that he thought he might find the actor at the players' club. in this hope he walked across to gramercy park. godolphin had been dining there, and when he got maxwell's name, he came half way down the stairs to meet him. he put his arm round him to return to the library. there happened to be no one else there, and he made maxwell sit down in an arm-chair fronting his own, and give an account of himself since they parted. he asked after mrs. maxwell's health, and as far as maxwell could make out he was sincere in the quest. he did not stop till he had asked, with the most winning and radiant smile, "and the play, what have you done with the play?" he was so buoyant that maxwell could not be heavy about it, and he answered as gayly: "oh, i fancy i have been waiting for you to come on and take it." godolphin did not become serious, but he became if possible more sincere. "do you really think i could do anything with it?" "if you can't nobody can." "why, that is very good of you, very good indeed, maxwell. do you know, i have been thinking about that play. you see, the trouble was with the salome. the girl i had for the part was a thoroughly nice girl, but she hadn't the weight for it. she did the comic touches charmingly, but when it came to the tragedy she wasn't there. i never had any doubt that i could create the part of haxard. it's a noble part. it's the greatest rôle on the modern stage. it went magnificently in chicago--with the best people. you saw what the critics said of it?" "no; you didn't send me the chicago papers." maxwell did not say that all this was wholly different from what godolphin had written him when he renounced the play. yet he felt that godolphin was honest then and was honest now. it was another point of view; that was all. "ah, i thought i sent them. there was some adverse criticism of the play as a whole, but there was only one opinion of haxard. and you haven't done anything with the piece yet?" "no, nothing." "and you think i could do haxard? you still have faith in me?" "as much faith as i ever had," said maxwell; and godolphin found nothing ambiguous in a thing certainly susceptible of two interpretations. "that is very good of you, maxwell; very good." he lifted his fine head and gazed absently a moment at the wall before him. "well, then i will tell you what i will do, mr. maxwell; i will take the play." "you will!" "yes; that is if you think i can do the part." "why, of course!" "and if--if there could be some changes--very slight changes--made in the part of salome. it needs subduing." godolphin said this as if he had never suggested anything of the kind before; as if the notion were newly evolved from his experience. "i will do what i can, mr. godolphin," maxwell promised, while he knitted his brows in perplexity "but i do think that the very strength of salome gives relief to haxard--gives him greater importance." "it _may_ be so, dramatically. but theatrically, it detracts from him. haxard must be the central figure in the eye of the audience from first to last." maxwell mused for a moment of discouragement. they were always coming back to that; very likely godolphin was right; but maxwell did not know just how to subdue the character of salome so as to make her less interesting. "do you think that was what gave you bad houses in chicago--the double interest, or the weakened interest in haxard?" "i think so," said godolphin. "were the houses bad--comparatively?" godolphin took a little note-book out of his breast-pocket. "here are my dates. i opened the first night, the tenth of november, with haxard, but we papered the house thoroughly, and we made a good show to the public and the press. there were four hundred and fifty dollars in it. the next night there were three hundred; the next night, two eighty; wednesday matinée, less than two hundred. that night we put on 'virginius,' and played to eight hundred dollars; thursday night, with the 'lady of lyons,' we had eleven hundred; friday night, we gave the 'lady' to twelve hundred; saturday afternoon with the same piece, we took in eleven hundred and fifty; saturday night, with 'ingomar,' we had fifteen hundred dollars in the house, and a hundred people standing." maxwell listened with a drooping head; he was bitterly mortified. "but it was too late then," said godolphin, with a sigh, as he shut his hook. "do you mean," demanded maxwell, "that my piece had crippled you so that--that--" "i didn't say that, mr. maxwell. i never meant to let you see the figures. but you asked me." "oh, you're quite right," said maxwell. he thought how he had blamed the actor, in his impatience with him, for not playing his piece oftener--and called him fool and thought him knave for not doing it all the time, as godolphin had so lavishly promised to do. he caught at a straw to save himself from sinking with shame. "but the houses, were they so bad everywhere?" godolphin checked himself in a movement to take out his note-book again; maxwell had given him such an imploring glance. "they were pretty poor everywhere. but it's been a bad season with a good many people." "no, no," cried maxwell. "you did very well with the other plays, godolphin. why do you want to touch the thing again? it's been ruinous to you so far. give it up! come! i can't let you have it!" godolphin laughed, and all his beautiful white teeth shone. there was a rich, wholesome red in his smoothly shaven cheeks; he was a real pleasure to the eye. "i believe it would go better in new york. i'm not afraid to try it. you mustn't take away my last chance of retrieving the season. hair of the dog, you know. have you seen grayson lately?" "yes, i saw him this afternoon. it was he that told me you were in town." "ah, yes." "and godolphin, i've got it on my conscience, if you do take the play, to tell you that i offered it to grayson, and he refused it. i think you ought to know that; it's only fair; and for the matter of that, it's been kicking round all the theatres in new york." "dear boy!" said godolphin, caressingly, and with a smile that was like a benediction, "that doesn't make the least difference." "well, i wished you to know," said maxwell, with a great load off his mind. "yes, i understand that. will you drink anything, or smoke anything? or--i forgot! i hate all that, too. but you'll join me in a cup of tea downstairs?" they descended to the smoking-room below, and godolphin ordered the tea, and went on talking with a gay irrelevance till it came. then he said, as he poured out the two cups of it: "the fact is, grayson is going in with me, if i do your piece." this was news to maxwell, and yet he was somehow not surprised at it. "i dare say he told you?" "no, he didn't give me any hint of it. he simply told me that you were in town, and where you were." "ah, that was like grayson. queer fish." "but i'm mighty glad to know it. you can make it go, together, if any power on earth can do it; and if it fails," maxwell added, "i shall have the satisfaction of ruining some one else this time." "well, grayson has made nearly as bad a mess of it as i have, this season," said godolphin. "he's got to take off that thing he has going now, and it's a question of what he shall put on. it will be an experiment with haxard, but i believe it will be a successful experiment. i have every confidence in that play." godolphin looked up, his lips set convincingly, and with the air of a man who had stood unfalteringly by his opinion from the first. "now, if you will excuse me, i will tell you what i think ought to be done to it." "by all means," said maxwell; "i shall be glad to do anything you wish, or that i can." godolphin poured out a cloudy volume of suggestion, with nothing clear in it but the belief that the part of haxard ought to be fattened. he recurred to all the structural impossibilities that he had ever desired, and there was hardly a point in the piece that he did not want changed. at the end he said: "but all these things are of no consequence, comparatively speaking. what we need is a woman who can take the part of salome, and play it with all the feminine charm that you've given it, and yet keep it strictly in the background, or thoroughly subordinated to the interest of haxard." for all that godolphin seemed to have learned from his experience with the play, maxwell might well have thought they were still talking of it at magnolia. it was a great relief to his prepossessions in the form of conclusions to have grayson appear, with the air of looking for some one, and of finding the object of his search in godolphin. he said he was glad to see maxwell, too, and they went on talking of the play. from the talk of the other two maxwell perceived that the purpose of doing his play had already gone far with them; but they still spoke of it as something that would be very good if the interest could be unified in it. suddenly the manager broke out: "look here, godolphin! i have an idea! why not frankly accept the inevitable! i don't believe mr. maxwell can make the play different from what it is, structurally, and i don't believe the character of salome can be subdued or subordinated. then why not play salome as strongly as possible, and trust to her strength to enhance haxard's effect, instead of weakening it?" godolphin smiled towards maxwell: "that was your idea." "yes," said maxwell, and he kept himself from falling on grayson's neck for joy. "it might do," the actor assented with smiling eagerness and tolerant superiority. "but whom could you get for such a salome as that?" "well, there's only one woman for it," said grayson. "yolande havisham?" the name made maxwell's heart stop. he started forward to say that mrs. harley could not have the part, when the manager said: "and we couldn't get her. sterne has engaged her to star in his combination. by the way, he was looking for you to-day, mr. maxwell." "i missed him," answered maxwell, with immense relief. "but i should not have let him have the piece while i had the slightest hope of your taking it." neither the manager nor the actor was perhaps greatly moved by his generous preference, though they both politely professed to be so. they went on to canvass the qualities and reputations of all the other actresses attainable, and always came back to yolande havisham, who was unattainable; sterne would never give her up in the world, even if she were willing to give up the chance he was offering her. but she was the one woman who could do salome. they decided that they must try to get miss pettrell, who had played the part with godolphin, and who had done it with refinement, if not with any great force. when they had talked to this conclusion, grayson proposed getting something to eat, and the others refused, but they went into the dining-room with him, where he showed maxwell the tankards of the members hanging on the walls over their tables--booth's tankard, salvini's, irving's, jefferson's. he was surprised that maxwell was not a member of the players, and said that he must be; it was the only club for him, if he was going to write for the stage. he came out with them and pointed out several artists whose fame maxwell knew, and half a dozen literary men, among them certain playwrights; they were all smoking, and the place was blue with the fumes of their cigars. the actors were coming in from the theatres for supper, and maxwell found himself with his friends in a group with a charming old comedian who was telling brief, vivid little stories, and sketching character, with illustrations from his delightful art. he was not swagger, like some of the younger men who stood about with their bell-crowned hats on, before they went into supper; and two or three other elderly actors who sat round him and took their turn in the anecdote and mimicry looked, with their smooth-shaven faces, like old-fashioned ministers. godolphin, who was like a youthful priest, began to tell stories, too; and he told very good ones admirably, but without appearing to feel their quality, though he laughed loudly at them with the rest. when maxwell refused every one's wish to have him eat or drink something, and said good-night, grayson had already gone in to his supper, and godolphin rose and smiled so fondly upon him that maxwell felt as if the actor had blessed him. but he was less sure than in the beginning of the evening that the play was again in godolphin's hands; and he had to confirm himself from his wife's acceptance of the facts in the belief that it was really so. xxi. louise asked maxwell, as soon as they had established their joint faith, whom godolphin was going to get to play salome, and he said that grayson would like to re-engage miss pettrell, though he had a theory that the piece would be strengthened, and the effect of haxard enhanced, if they could have a more powerful salome. "mr. ray told me at lunch," said louise, impartially but with an air of relief, "that in all the love-making she was delightful; but when it came to the tragedy, she wasn't there." "grayson seemed to think that if she could be properly rehearsed, she could be brought up to it," maxwell interposed. "mr. ray said she was certainly very refined, and her salome was always a lady. and that is the essential thing," louise added, decisively. "i don't at all agree with mr. grayson about having salome played so powerfully. i think mr. godolphin is right." "for heaven's sake don't tell him so!" said maxwell. "we have had trouble enough to get him under." "indeed, i shall tell him so! i think he ought to know how we feel." "_we?_" repeated maxwell. "yes. what we want for salome is sweetness and delicacy and refinement; for she has to do rather a bold thing, and yet keep herself a lady." "well, it may be too late to talk of miss pettrell now," said maxwell. "your favorite godolphin parted enemies with her." "oh, stage enemies! mr. grayson can get her, and he must." "i'll tell him what your orders are," said maxwell. the next day he saw the manager, but nothing had been done, and the affair seemed to be hanging fire again. in the evening, while he was talking it over with his wife in a discouragement which they could not shake off, a messenger came to him with a letter from the argosy theatre, which he tore nervously open. "what is it, dear?" asked his wife, tenderly. "another disappointment?" "not exactly," he returned, with a husky voice, and after a moment of faltering he gave her the letter. it was from grayson, and it was to the effect that he had seen sterne, and that sterne had agreed to a proposition he had made him, to take maxwell's play on the road, if it succeeded, and in view of this had agreed to let yolande havisham take the part of salome. godolphin was going to get all his old company together as far as possible, with the exception of miss pettrell, and there was to be little or no delay, because the actors had mostly got back to new york, and were ready to renew their engagements. that no time might be lost, grayson asked maxwell to come the next morning and read the piece to such of them as he could get together in the argosy greenroom, and give them his sense of it. louise handed him back the letter, and said, with dangerous calm: "you might save still more time by going down to mrs. harley's apartment and reading it to her at once." maxwell was miserably silent, and she pursued: "may i ask whether you knew they were going to try to get her?" "no," said maxwell. "was there anything said about her?" "yes, there was, last night. but both grayson and godolphin regarded it as impossible to get her." "why didn't you tell me that they would like to get her?" "you knew it, already. and i thought, as they both had given up the hope of getting her, i wouldn't mention the subject. it's always been a very disagreeable one." "yes." louise sat quiet, and then she said: "what a long misery your play has been to me!" "you haven't helped make it any great joy to me," said maxwell, bitterly. she began to weep, silently, and he stood looking down at her in utter wretchedness. "well," he said at last, "what shall i do about it?" louise wiped her tears, and cleared up cold, as we say of the weather. she rose, as if to leave the room, and said, haughtily: "you shall do as you think best for yourself. you must let them have the play, and let them choose whom they think best for the part. but you can't expect me to come to see it." "then that unsays all the rest. if you don't come to see it, i sha'n't, and i shall not let them have the piece. that is all. louise," he entreated, after these first desperate words, "_can't_ we grapple with this infernal nightmare, so as to get it into the light, somehow, and see what it really is? how can it matter to you who plays the part? why do you care whether miss pettrell or mrs. harley does it?" "why do you ask such a thing as that?" she returned, in the same hard frost. "you know where the idea of the character came from, and why it was sacred to me. or perhaps you forget!" "no, i don't forget. but try--can't you try?--to specify just why you object to mrs. harley?" "you have your theory. you said i was jealous of her." "i didn't mean it. i never believed that." "then i can't explain. if you don't understand, after all that's been said, what is the use of talking? i'm tired of it!" she went into her room, and he sank into the chair before his desk and sat there, thinking. when she came back, after a while, he did not look round at her, and she spoke to the back of his head. "should you have any objection to my going home for a few days?" "no," he returned. "i know papa would like to have me, and i think you would be less hampered in what you will have to do now if i'm not here." "you're very considerate. but if that's what you are going for, you might as well stay. i'm not going to do anything whatever." "now, you mustn't talk foolishly, brice," she said, with an air of superior virtue mixed with a hint of martyrdom. "i won't have you doing anything rash or boyish. you will go on and let them have your play just the same as if i didn't exist." she somewhat marred the effect of her self-devotion by adding: "and i shall go on just as if _it_ didn't exist." he said nothing, and she continued: "you couldn't expect me to take any interest in it after this, could you? because, though i am ready to make any sort of sacrifice for you, i think any one, i don't care who it was, would say that was a little _too_ much. don't you think so yourself?" "you are always right. i think that." "don't be silly. i am trying to do the best i can, and you have no right to make it hard for me." maxwell wheeled round in his chair: "then i wish you wouldn't make your best so confoundedly disagreeable." "oh!" she twitted. "i see that you have made up your mind to let them have the play, after all." "yes, i have," he answered, savagely. "perhaps you meant to do it all along?" "perhaps i did." "very well, then," said louise. "would you mind coming to the train with me on your way down town to-morrow?" "not at all." xxii. in the morning neither of them recurred to what louise had said of her going home for a few days. she had apparently made no preparation for the journey; but if she was better than her words in this, he was quite as bad as his in going down town after breakfast to let grayson have the play, no matter whom he should get to do salome. he did not reiterate his purpose, but she knew from the sullen leave, or no-leave, which he took of her, that it was fixed. when he was gone she had what seemed to her the very worst quarter of an hour she had ever known; but when he came back in the afternoon, looking haggard but savage, her ordeal had long been over. she asked him quietly if they had come to any definite conclusion about the play, and he answered, with harsh aggression, yes, that mrs. harley had agreed to take the part of salome; godolphin's old company had been mostly got together, and they were to have the first rehearsal the next morning. "should you like me to come some time?" asked louise. "i should like you very much to come," said maxwell, soberly, but with a latent doubt of her meaning, which she perceived. "i have been thinking," she said, "whether you would like me to call on mrs. harley this evening with you?" "what for?" he demanded, suspiciously. "well, i don't know. i thought it might be appropriate." maxwell thought a moment. "i don't think it would be expected. after all, it isn't a personal thing," he said, with a relenting in his defiance. "no," said louise. they got through the evening without further question. they had always had some sort of explicit making-up before, even when they had only had a tacit falling out, but this time louise thought there had better be none of that. they were to rehearse the play every day that week, and maxwell said he must be at the theatre the next morning at eleven. he could not make out to his wife's satisfaction that he was of much use, but he did not try to convince her. he only said that they referred things to him now and then, and that generally he did not seem to know much about them. she saw that his æsthetic honesty kept him from pretending to more than this, and she believed he ought to have greater credit than he claimed. four or five days later she went with him to a rehearsal. by this time they had got so well forward with their work at the theatre that maxwell said it would now be in appreciable shape; but still he warned her not to expect too much. he never could tell her just what she wanted to know about mrs. harley; all he could say was that her salome was not ideal, though it had strong qualities; and he did not try to keep her from thinking it offensive; that would only have made bad worse. it had been snowing overnight, and there was a bright glare of sunshine on the drifts, which rendered the theatre doubly dark when they stepped into it from the street. it was a dramatic event for louise to enter by the stage-door, and to find maxwell recognized by the old man in charge as having authority to do so; and she made as much of the strange interior as the obscurity and her preoccupation would allow. there was that immediate bareness and roughness which seems the first characteristic of the theatre behind the scenes, where the theatre is one of the simplest and frankest of workshops, in which certain effects are prepared to be felt before the footlights. nothing of the glamour of the front is possible; there is a hard air of business in everything; and the work that goes to the making of a play shows itself the severest toil. figures now came and went in the twilight beyond the reach of the gas in the door-keeper's booth, but rapidly as if bent upon definite errands, and with nothing of that loitering gayety which is the imagined temperament of the stage. louise and maxwell were to see grayson first in his private office, and while their names were taken in, the old door-keeper gave them seats on the mourners' bench, a hard wooden settee in the corridor, which he said was the place where actors wanting an engagement waited till the manager sent word that he could see them. the manager did not make the author and his wife wait, but came for them himself, and led the way back to his room. when he gave them seats there, maxwell had the pleasure of seeing that louise made an excellent impression with the magnate, of whom he had never quite lost the awe we feel for the master of our fortunes, whoever he is. he perceived that her inalienable worldly splendor added to his own consequence, and that his wife's air of _grande dame_ was not lost upon a man who could at least enjoy it artistically. grayson was very polite to her, and said hopefuller things about the play than he had yet said to maxwell, though he had always been civil about its merits. he had a number of papers before him, and he asked louise if she had noticed their friendliness. she said, yes, she had seen some of those things, but she had supposed they were authorized, and she did not know how much to value them. grayson laughed and confessed that he did not practice any concealments with the press when it was a question of getting something to the public notice. "of course," he said, "we don't want the piece to come in on rubbers." "what do you mean?" she demanded, with an ignorant joy in the phrase. "that's what we call it when a thing hasn't been sufficiently heralded, or heralded at all. we have got to look after that part of it, you know." "of course, i am not complaining, though i think all that's dreadful." the manager assented partly. then he said: "there's something curious about it. you may put up the whole affair yourself, and yet in what's said you can tell whether there's a real good will that comes from the writers themselves or not." "and you mean that there is this mystical kindness for mr. maxwell's play in the prophecies that all read so much alike to me?" "yes, i do," said the manager, laughing. "they like him because he's new and young, and is making his way single-handed." "well," said louise, "those seem good grounds for preference to me, too;" and she thought how nearly they had been her own grounds for liking maxwell. grayson went with them to the stage and found her the best place to sit and see the rehearsal. he made some one get chairs, and he sat with her chatting while men in high hats and overcoats and women in bonnets and fur-edged butterfly-capes came in one after another. godolphin arrived among the first, with an ulster which came down to where his pantaloons were turned up above his overshoes. he caught sight of louise, and approached her with outstretched hand, and grayson gave up his chair to the actor. godolphin was very cordial, deferentially cordial, with a delicate vein of reminiscent comradery running through his manner. she spoke to him of having at last got his ideal for salome, and he said, with a slight sigh and a sort of melancholy absence: "yes, miss havisham will do it magnificently." then he asked, with a look of latent significance: "have you ever seen her?" louise laughed for as darkling a reason. "only in real life. you know we live just over and under each other." "ah, true. but i meant, on the stage. she's a great artist. you know she's the one i wanted for salome from the start." "then you ought to be very happy in getting her at last." "she will do everything for the play," sighed godolphin. "she'll make up for all my shortcomings." "you won't persuade us that you have any shortcomings, mr. godolphin," said louise. "you are haxard, and haxard is the play. you can't think, mr. godolphin, how deeply grateful we both are to you for your confidence in my husband's work, your sacrifices--" "you overpay me a thousand times for everything, mrs. maxwell," said the actor. "any one might have been proud and happy to do all i've done, and more, for such a play. i've never changed my opinion for a moment that it was _the_ american drama. and now if miss havisham only turns out to be the salome we want!" "if?" returned louise, and she felt a wild joy in the word. "why, i thought there could be no earthly doubt about it." "oh, there isn't. we are all united on that point, i believe, maxwell?" maxwell shrugged. "i confide in you and mr. grayson." godolphin looked at his watch. "it's eleven now, and she isn't here yet. i would rather not have begun without her, but i think we had better not delay any longer." he excused himself to louise, and went and sat down with his hat on at a small table, lit with a single electric bulb, dropping like a luminous spider by a thread from the dark above. other electric bulbs were grouped before reflectors on either side of the stage, and these shone on the actors before godolphin. back in the depths of the stage, some scene-painters and carpenters were at work on large strips of canvas lying unrolled upon the floor or stretched upon light wooden frames. across godolphin's head the dim hollow of the auditorium showed, pierced by long bars of sunlight full of dancing motes, which slanted across its gloom from the gallery windows. women in long aprons were sweeping the floors and pounding the seats, and a smell of dust from their labors mixed with the smell of paint and glue and escaping gas which pervaded the atmosphere of the stage. godolphin made maxwell come and sit with him at the table; he opened his prompt-book and directed the rehearsal to begin. the people were mostly well up in their parts, and the work went smoothly, except for now and then an impatience in godolphin which did not seem to come from what was going forward. he showed himself a thorough master of his trade in its more mechanical details, and there were signal instances of his intelligence in the higher things of it which might well have put mrs. maxwell to shame for her many hasty judgments of the actor. he was altogether more of a man, more of a mind, than she had supposed, even when she supposed the best of him. she perceived that godolphin grasped the whole meaning of her husband's work, and interpreted its intentions with perfect accuracy, not only in his own part of haxard, but in all the other persons, and he corrected the playing of each of the rôles as the rehearsal went on. she saw how he had really formed the other actors upon himself. they repeated his tones, his attitudes, his mannerisms, in their several ways. his touch could be felt all through the performance, and his limitations characterized it. he was very gentle and forbearing with their mistakes, but he was absolute master all the same. if some one erred, godolphin left his place and went and showed how the thing should be said and done. he carefully addressed the men by their surnames, with the mr. always; the women were all dear to him, according to a convention of the theatre. he said, "no, dear," and "yes, dear," and he was as caressingly deferential to each of them as he was formally deferential to the men; he required the same final obedience of them, and it was not always so easy to make them obey. in non-essentials he yielded at times, as when one of the ladies had overdone a point, and he demurred. "but i always got a laugh on that, mr. godolphin," she protested. "oh, well, my dear, hang on to your laugh, then." however he meant to do haxard himself, his voice was for simplicity and reality in others. "is that the way you would do it, is that the way you would say it, if it were _you_?" he stopped one of the men in a bit of rant. even of maxwell he exacted as clear a vision of his own work as he exacted of its interpreters. he asked the author his notion of points in dress and person among the different characters, which he had hitherto only generalized in his mind, and which he was gladly willing, when they were brought home to him, to leave altogether to godolphin's judgment. the rehearsal had gone well on towards the end of the first act, and godolphin was beginning to fidget. from where she sat louise saw him take out his watch and lean towards her husband to say something. an actor who was going through a piece of business perceived that he had not godolphin's attention, and stopped. just then mrs. harley came in. godolphin rose and advanced towards her with the prompt-book shut on his thumb. "you are late, miss havisham." "yes," she answered, haughtily, as if in resentment of his tone. she added in concession, "unavoidably. but salome doesn't come on till the end of the act." "i think it best for the whole company to be present from the beginning," said godolphin. "i quite agree with you," said mrs. harley. "where are we?" she asked, and then she caught sight of louise, and came up to her. "how do you do, mrs. maxwell? i don't know whether i'm glad to see you or not. i believe i'm rather afraid to have you see my salome; i've an idea you are going to be very severe with her." "i am sure no severity will be needed. you'll see me nodding approval all the way through," louise returned. "i have always thought, somehow, that you had the part especially under your protection. i feel that i'm a very bold woman to attempt it." in spite of her will to say "yes, a very bold woman indeed!" louise answered: "then i shall admire your courage, as well as your art." she was aware of godolphin fretting at the colloquy he could not interrupt, and of mrs. harley prolonging it wilfully. "i know you are sincere, and i am going to make you tell me everything you object to in me when it's over. will you?" "of course," louise answered, gayly; and now mrs. harley turned to godolphin again: "_where_ were you?" xxiii. twice during the rehearsal maxwell came to louise and asked her if she were not tired and would not like to go home; he offered to go out and put her on a car. but both times she made him the same answer: she was not tired, and would not go away on any account; the second time she said, with a certain meaning in her look and voice, that she thought she could stand it if he could. at the end she went up and made her compliments to mrs. harley. "you must enjoy realizing your ideal of a character so perfectly," she began. "yes? did you feel that about it?" the actress returned. "it _is_ a satisfaction. but if one has a strong conception of a part, i don't see how one can help rendering it strongly. and this salome, she takes hold of me so powerfully. her passion and her will, that won't stop at anything, seem to pierce through and through me. you can feel that she wouldn't mind killing a man or two to carry her point." "that is certainly what _you_ make one feel about her. and you make her very living, very actual." "you are very good," said mrs. harley. "i am so glad you liked it. i was dreadfully afraid you wouldn't like it." "oh, i couldn't imagine your being afraid of anything," said louise, lightly. her smile was one which the other woman might have known how to interpret rightly, but her husband alone among men could feel its peculiar quality. godolphin beamed with apparent satisfaction in it. "wasn't salome magnificent?" he said; and he magnanimously turned to the actress. "you will make everybody forget haxard. you made _me_ forget him." "_i_ didn't forget him though," said mrs. harley. "i was trying all the time to play up to him--and to mrs. maxwell." the actor laughed his deep, mellow, hollow laugh, which was a fine work of art in itself, and said: "mrs. maxwell, you must let me present the other _dramatis personæ_ to you," and he introduced the whole cast of the play, one after another. each said something of the salome, how grand it was, how impassioned, how powerful. maxwell stood by, listening, with his eyes on his wife's face, trying to read her thought. they were silent most of the way home, and she only talked of indifferent things. when the door of their apartment shut them in with themselves alone, she broke out: "horrible, horrible, horrible! well, the play is ruined, ruined! we might as well die; or _i_ might! i suppose _you_ really liked it!" maxwell turned white with anger. "i didn't try to make her _think_ i did, anyway. but i knew how you really felt, and i don't believe you deceived her very much, either. all the same i was ashamed to see you try." "don't talk to me--don't speak! she knew from every syllable i uttered that i perfectly loathed it, and i know that she tried to make it as hateful to me all the way through as she could. she played it _at_ me, and she knew it _was_ me. it was as if she kept saying all the time, 'how do you like my translation of your boston girl into alabama, or mississippi, or arkansas, or wherever i came from? this is the way you would have acted, if you were _me_!' yes, that is the hideous part of it. her nature has _come off_ on the character, and i shall never see, or hear, or think, or dream salome, after this, without having yolande havisham before me. she's spoiled the sweetest thing in my life. she's made me hate myself; she's made me hate _you_! will you go out somewhere and get your lunch? i don't want anything myself, and just now i can't bear to look at you. oh, you're not to blame, that i know of, if that's what you mean. only go!" "i can go out for lunch, certainly," said maxwell "perhaps you would rather i stayed out for dinner, too?" "don't be cruel, dearest. i am trying to control myself--" "i shouldn't have thought it. you're not succeeding." "no, not so well as you, if you hated this woman's salome as much as i did. if it's always been as bad as it was to-day you've controlled yourself wonderfully well never to give me any hint of it, or prepare me for it in the least." "how could i prepare you? you would have come to it with your own prepossessions, no matter what i said." "was that why you said nothing?" "you would have hated it if she had played it with angelic perfection, because you hated her." "perhaps you think she really did play it with angelic perfection! well, you needn't come back to dinner." louise passed into their room, to lay off her hat and sack. "i will not come back at all, if you prefer," maxwell called after her. "i have no preferences in the matter," she mocked back. xxiv. maxwell and louise had torn at each other's hearts till they were bleeding, and he wished to come back at once and she wished him to come, that they might hurt themselves still more savagely; but when this desire passed, they longed to meet and bind up one another's wounds. this better feeling brought them together before night-fall, when maxwell returned, and louise, at the sound of his latch-key in the door, ran to let him in. "mr. godolphin is here," she said, in a loud, cheery voice, and he divined that he owed something of his eager welcome to her wish to keep him from resuming the quarrel unwittingly. "he has just come to talk over the rehearsal with you, and i wouldn't let him go. i was sure you would be back soon." she put her finger to her lip, with whatever warning intention, and followed her husband into the presence of the actor, and almost into his arms, so rapturous was the meeting between them. "well," cried godolphin, "i couldn't help looking in a moment to talk with you and mrs. maxwell about our salome. i feel that she will make the fortune of the piece--of any piece. doesn't miss havisham's rendition grow upon you? it's magnificent. it's on the grand scale. it's immense. the more i think about it, the more i'm impressed with it. she'll carry the house by storm. i've never seen anything like it; and i'm glad to find that mrs. maxwell feels just as i do about it." maxwell looked at his wife, who returned his glance with a guiltless eye. "i was afraid she might feel the loss of things that certainly _are_ lost in it. i don't say that miss havisham's salome, superb as it is, is _your_ salome--or mrs. maxwell's. i've always fancied that mrs. maxwell had a great deal to do with that character, and--i don't know why--i've always thought of her when i've thought of _it_; but at the same time it's a splendid salome. she makes it southern, almost tropical. it isn't the boston salome. you may say that it is wanting in delicacy and the nice shades; but it's full of passion; there's nothing caviare to the general in it. the average audience will understand just what the girl that miss havisham gives is after, and she gives her so abundantly that there's no more doubt of the why than there is of the how. sometimes i used to think the house couldn't follow miss pettrell in her subtle touches, but the house, to the topmost tier of the gallery, will get miss havisham's intention." godolphin was standing while he said all this, and maxwell now asked: "won't you sit down?" the actor had his overcoat on his arm, and his hat in one hand. he tapped at his boot with the umbrella he held in the other. "no, i don't believe i will, thank you. the fact is, i just dropped in a moment to reassure you if you had misgivings about the salome, and to give you my point of view." maxwell did not say anything; he looked at louise again, and it seemed to her that he meant her to speak. she said, "oh, we understood that we couldn't have all kinds of a salome in one creation of the part; and i'm sure no one can see mrs. harley in it without feeling her intensity." "she's a force," said godolphin. "and if, as we all decided," he continued, to maxwell, "when we talked it over with grayson, that a powerful salome would heighten the effect of haxard, she is going to make the success of the piece." "_you_ are going to make the success of the piece!" cried louise. "ah, i sha'n't care if they forget me altogether," said the actor; "i shall forget myself." he laughed his mellow, hollow laugh, and gave his hand to louise and then to maxwell. "i'm so glad you feel as you do about it, and i don't wish you to lose your faith in our salome for a moment. you've quite confirmed mine." he wrung the hands of each with a fervor of gratitude that left them with a disquiet which their eyes expressed to each other when he was gone. "what does it mean?" asked louise. maxwell shook his head. "it's beyond me." "brice," she appealed, after a moment, "do you think i had been saying anything to set him against her?" "no," he returned, instantly. "why should i suspect you of anything so base?" her throat was full, but she made out to say, "no, you are too generous, too good for such a thing;" and now she went on to eat humble-pie with a self-devotion which few women could practise. "i know that if i don't like having her i have no one but myself to thank for it. if i had never written to that miserable mr. sterne, or answered his advertisement, he would never have heard of your play, and nothing that has happened would have happened." "no, you don't know that at all," said maxwell; and it seemed to her that she must sink to her knees under his magnanimity. "the thing might have happened in a dozen different ways." "no matter. i am to blame for it when it did happen; and now you will never hear another word from me. would you like me to swear it?" "that would be rather unpleasant," said maxwell. they both felt a great physical fatigue, and they neither had the wish to prolong the evening after dinner. maxwell was going to lock the door of the apartment at nine o'clock, and then go to bed, when there came a ring at it. he opened it, and stood confronted with grayson, looking very hot and excited. "can i come in a moment?" the manager asked. "are you alone? can i speak with you?" "there's no one here but mrs. maxwell," said her husband, and he led the way into the parlor. "and if you don't like," louise confessed to have overheard him, "you needn't speak before her even." "no, no," said the manager, "don't go! we may want your wisdom. we certainly want all the wisdom we can get on the question. it's about godolphin." "godolphin?" they both echoed. "yes. he's given up the piece." the manager drew out a letter, which he handed to maxwell, and which louise read with her husband, over his shoulder. it was addressed to grayson, and began very formally. "dear sir: "i wish to resign to you all claim i may have to a joint interest in mr. maxwell's piece, and to withdraw from the company formed for its representation. i feel that my part in it has been made secondary to another, and i have finally decided to relinquish it altogether. i trust that you will be able to supply my place, and i offer you my best wishes for the success of your enterprise. "yours very truly, "l. godolphin." the maxwells did not look at each other; they both looked at the manager, and neither spoke. "you see," said the manager, putting the letter back in its envelope, "it's miss havisham. i saw some signs of what was coming at the rehearsals, but i didn't think it would take such peremptory shape." "why, but he was here only a few hours ago, praising her to the skies," said louise; and she hoped that she was keeping secret the guilty joy she felt; but probably it was not unknown to her husband. "oh, of course," said grayson, with a laugh, "that was godolphin's way. he may have felt all that he said; or he may have been trying to find out what mr. maxwell thought, and whether he could count upon him in a move against her." "we said nothing," cried louise, and she blessed heaven that she could truly say so, "which could possibly be distorted into that." "i didn't suppose you had," said the manager. "but now we have got to act. we have got to do one of two things, and godolphin knows it; we have got to let miss havisham go, or we have got to let him go. for my part i would much rather let him go. she is a finer artist every way, and she is more important to the success of the piece. but it would be more difficult to replace him than it would be to replace her, and he knows it. we could get miss pettrell at once for salome, and we should have to look about for a haxard. still, i am disposed to drop godolphin, if mr. maxwell feels as i do." he looked at maxwell; but louise lowered her eyes, and would not influence her husband by so much as a glance. it seemed to her that he was a long time answering. "i am satisfied with godolphin's haxard much better than i am with miss havisham's salome, strong as it is. on the artistic side alone, i should prefer to keep godolphin and let her go, if it could be done justly. then, i know that godolphin has made sacrifices and borne losses on account of the play, and i think that he has a right to a share in its success, if it has a chance of succeeding. he's jealous of miss havisham, of course; i could see that from the first minute; but he's earned the first place, and i'm not surprised he wants to keep it. i shouldn't like to lose it if i were he. i should say that we ought to make any concession he asks in that way." "very well," said grayson. "he will ask to have our agreement with mrs. harley broken; and we can say that we were compelled to break it. i feel as you do, that he has some right on his side. she's a devilish provoking woman--excuse me, mrs. maxwell!--and i've seen her trying to take the centre from godolphin ever since the rehearsals began; but i don't like to be driven by him; still, there are worse things than being driven. in any case we have to accept the inevitable, and it's only a question of which inevitable we accept. good-night. i will see godolphin at once. good-night, mrs. maxwell. we shall expect you to do what you can in consoling your fair neighbor and reconciling _her_ to the inevitable." louise did not know whether this was ironical or not, and she did not at all like the laugh from maxwell which greeted the suggestion. "_i_ shall have to reconcile sterne, and i don't believe that will be half so easy." the manager's words were gloomy, but there was an imaginable relief in his tone and a final cheerfulness in his manner. he left the maxwells to a certain embarrassment in each other's presence. louise was the first to break the silence that weighed upon them both. "brice, did you decide that way to please me?" "i am not such a fool," said maxwell. "because," she said, "if you did, you did very wrong, and i don't believe any good could come of it." yet she did not seem altogether averse to the risks involved; and in fact she could not justly accuse herself of what had happened, however devoutly she had wished for such a consummation. xxv. it was miss havisham and not godolphin who appeared to the public as having ended the combination their managers had formed. the interviewing on both sides continued until the interest of the quarrel was lost in that of the first presentation of the play, when the impression that miss havisham had been ill-used was effaced by the impression made by miss pettrell in the part of salome. her performance was not only successful in the delicacy and refinement which her friends expected of her, but she brought to the work a vivid yet purely feminine force which took them by surprise and made the public her own. no one in the house could have felt, as the maxwells felt, a certain quality in it which it would be extremely difficult to characterize without overstating it. perhaps louise felt this more even than her husband, for when she appealed to him, he would scarcely confess to a sense of it; but from time to time in the stronger passages she was aware of an echo, to the ear and to the eye, of a more passionate personality than miss pettrell's. had godolphin profited by his knowledge of miss havisham's creation, and had he imparted to miss pettrell, who never saw it, hints of it which she used in her own creation of the part? if he had, just what was the measure and the nature of his sin? louise tormented herself with this question, while a sense of the fact went as often as it came, and left her in a final doubt of it. what was certain was that if godolphin had really committed this crime, of which he might have been quite unconsciously guilty, miss pettrell was wholly innocent of it; and, indeed, the effect she made might very well have been imagined by herself, and only have borne this teasing resemblance by pure accident. godolphin was justly punished if he were culpable, and he suffered an eclipse in any case which could not have been greater from miss havisham. there were recalls for the chief actors at every fall of the curtain, and at the end of the third act, in which godolphin had really been magnificent, there began to be cries of "author! author!" and a messenger appeared in the box where the maxwells sat and begged the author, in godolphin's name, to come behind at once. the next thing that louise knew the actor was leading her husband on the stage and they were both bowing to the house, which shouted at them and had them back once and twice and still shouted, but now with a certain confusion of voices in its demand, which continued till the author came on a fourth time, led by the actor as before, and himself leading the heroine of his piece. then the storm of applause left no doubt that the will of the house had been rightly interpreted. louise sat still, with the tears blurring the sight before her. they were not only proud and happy tears, but they were tears of humble gratitude that it was miss pettrell, and not mrs. harley, whom her husband was leading on to share his triumph. she did not think her own desert was great; but she could not tax herself with any wrong that she had not at least tried to repair; she felt that what she had escaped she could not have suffered, and that heaven was merciful to her weakness, if not just to her merit. perhaps this was why she was so humble and so grateful. there arose in her a vague fear as to what godolphin might do in the case of a salome who was certainly no more subordinated to his haxard than miss havisham's, or what new demands he might not make upon the author; but maxwell came back to her with a message from the actor, which he wished conveyed with his congratulations upon the success of the piece. this was to tell her of his engagement to miss pettrell, which had suddenly taken place that day, and which he thought there could be no moment so fit to impart to her as that of their common triumph. louise herself went behind at the end of the piece, and made herself acceptable to both the artists in her cordial good wishes. neither of them resented the arch intention with which she said to godolphin, "i suppose you won't mind such a beautiful salome as miss pettrell has given us, now that it's to be all in the family." miss pettrell answered for him with as complete an intelligence: "oh, i shall know how to subdue her to his haxard, if she ever threatens the peace of the domestic hearth." that salome has never done so in any serious measure maxwell argues from the fact that, though the godolphins have now been playing his piece together for a whole year since their marriage, they have not yet been divorced. the end. * * * * * an open-eyed conspiracy. $ . the landlord at lion's head. $ . stops of various quills. illustrated by howard pyle. $ . impressions and experiences. $ . a parting and a meeting. llustrated. $ . the day of their wedding. illustrated. $ . my literary passions. $ . a traveler from altruria. $ . the coast of bohemia. illustrated. $ . the world of chance. $ . the quality of mercy. $ . an imperative duty. $ . the shadow of a dream. $ . annie kilburn. $ . april hopes. $ . criticism and fiction. with portrait. $ . a boy's town. ill'd. $ . a hazard of new fortunes. vols., $ . modern italian poets. with portraits. $ . christmas every day, and other stories. illustrated. $ . the mouse-trap, and other farces. illustrated. $ . my year in a log-cabin. illustrated. cents. a little swiss sojourn. illustrated. cents. farces: five o'clock tea.--the mouse-trap.--a likely story.--the unexpected guests.--evening dress.--a letter of introduction.--the albany depot.--the garroters. ill'd. cents each. new york and london: harper & brothers, publishers. *********************************************************************** * transcriber's note: typo "gantlet" was replaced with "gauntlet" but * * all other spelling was retained as it appeared in the original text.* *********************************************************************** [illustration: "he was a noticeably handsome figure as he sat alone in the box" [_see p. _] the light of the star a novel by hamlin garland author of "hesper" "the captain of the gray-horse troop" etc. etc. new york and london harper & brothers publishers:: mcmiv the light of the star published may, . the light of the star i after the appointment with miss merival reached him (through the hand of her manager), young douglass grew feverishly impatient of the long days which lay between. waiting became a species of heroism. each morning he reread his manuscript and each evening found him at the theatre, partly to while away the time, but mainly in order that he might catch some clew to the real woman behind the shining mask. his brain was filled with the light of the star--her radiance dazzled him. by day he walked the streets, seeing her name on every bill-board, catching the glow of her subtle and changeful beauty in every window. she gazed out at him from brows weary with splendid barbaric jewels, her eyes bitter and disdainful, and hopelessly sad. she smiled at him in framework of blue and ermine and pearls--the bedecked, heartless coquette of the pleasure-seeking world. she stood in the shadow of gray walls, a grating over her head, with deep, soulful, girlish eyes lifted in piteous appeal; and in each of these characters an unfathomed depth remained to vex and to allure him. magnified by these reflections on the walls, haloed by the teeming praise and censure of the press, she seemed to dominate the entire city as she had come to absorb the best of his own life. what her private character really was no one seemed to know, in spite of the special articles and interviews with her managers which fed the almost universal adulation of her dark and changeful face, her savage and sovereign beauty. there was insolence in her tread, and mad allurement in the rounded beauty of her powerful white arm--and at his weakest the young playwright admitted that all else concerning her was of no account. at the same time he insisted that he was not involved with the woman--only with the actress. "i am not a lover--i am a playwright, eager to have my heroine adequately portrayed," he contended with himself in the solitude of his room, high in one of the great apartment buildings of the middle city. nevertheless, the tremor in his nerves caused him thought. her voice. yes, that, too, was mysterious. whence came that undertone like the moan of a weary wastrel tortured with dreams of idyllic innocence long lost? why did her utterance, like her glorious face, always suggest some inner, darker meaning? there were times when she seemed old--old as vice and cruelty, hoarse with complaints, with curses, and then again her lips were childishly sweet, and her voice carried only the wistful accents of adolescence or the melody of girlish awe. on the night before his appointment she played _the baroness telka_, a lurid, lustful, remorseless woman--a creature with a vampire's heart and the glamour of helen of troy--a woman whose cheeks were still round and smooth, but whose eyes were alight with the flame of insanity--a frightful, hungry, soulless wretch. and as he sat at the play and watched that glittering, inexplicable woman, and thought of her rôles, douglass asked himself: "how will she meet me to-morrow? what will be the light in her eyes when she turns them upon me? will she meet me alone--haughty, weary with praise, or will she be surrounded by those who bow to her as to a queen?" this latter thing he feared. he had not been without experience with women--even with actresses; but no woman he had ever met had appealed to his imagination beyond the first meeting. would it be so with helen merival? he had loved twice in his life, but not well enough to say so to either of his sweethearts. around myra's name clung the perfume and moonlight of summer evenings in the far-off mid-continent village where he was born, while violet recalled the music, the comfort, and the security of a beautiful eastern home. neither of these sweet and lovely girls had won his heart completely. how was it that this woman of the blazoning bill-boards had already put more of passion into his heart than they of the pure and sheltered life? he did not deceive himself. it was because helen could not be understood at a glance. she appealed to his imagination as some strange bird--alien voyager--fled from distant islands in dim, purple seas. she typed the dreams of adventuring youth seeking the princesses of other and more romantic lands. at times he shuddered with a fear that some hidden decay of helen merival's own soul enabled her to so horrify her audience with these desolating rôles, and when the curtain fell on _the baroness_, he was resolved to put aside the chance of meeting the actress. was it worth while to be made ashamed and bitter? she might stand revealed as a coarse and selfish courtesan--a worn and haggard enchantress whose failing life blazed back to youth only when on the stage. why be disenchanted? but in the end he rose above this boyish doubt. "what does it matter whether she be true or false? she has genius, and genius i need for my play--genius and power," and in the delusion he rested. he climbed to his den in the tower as physically wearied as one exhausted with running a race, and fell asleep with his eyelids fluttering in a feverish dream. the hour of his appointment with her fell upon sunday, and as he walked up the street towards her hotel the bells in a church on a side street were ringing, and their chimes filled his mind with memories of the small town from which he came. how peaceful and sweet the life of woodstock seemed now. the little meeting-house, whose shingled spire still pointed at the stars, would always be sweet with the memory of myra thurber, whose timid clasp upon his arm troubled him then and pained him now. he had so little to give in return for her devotion--therefore he had given nothing. he had said good-bye almost harshly--his ambition hardening his heart to her appeal. around him, in his dream of those far-off days, moved other agile forms--young lovers like myra and himself, their feet creaking on the glittering snow. they stepped slowly, though the bells called and called. the moonlight was not more clear and untouched of baleful fire than myra's sweet eyes looking up at him, and now he was walking the wet pavement of the great metropolis, with the clang and grind of cars all about him, on his way to meet a woman whose life was spent in simulating acts as destructive as myra's had been serene and trustful. at the moment he saw his own life as a thread in some mysterious drama. "to what does it lead?" he asked, as he drew under the overhanging portal of the great hotel where the star made her home. it was to the man of the west a splendid place. its builders had been lavish of highly colored marbles and mosaics, spendthrift of light and gilding; on every side shone the signs and seals of predatory wealth. its walls were like costly confectionery, its ornaments insolent, its waste criminal. every decorative feature was hot, restless, irreverent, and cruel, quite the sort of avenue one might expect to find in his walk towards the glittering woman of the false and ribald drama. "she chose her abode with instinctive bad taste," he said, bitterly; and again his weakness, his folly turned him cold; for with all his physical powers he was shy to the point of fear. he made a sober and singular spot in the blaze of the rotunda. so sombre was his look, so intent his gaze. youths in high hats and shining shirt-fronts stood in groups conversing loudly, and in the resplendent dining-hall bediamonded women and their sleek-haired, heavy-jewelled partners were eating leisurely, attended by swarms of waiters so eager they trod upon one another's feet. the clerk eyed him in impassible silence as he took out his worn card-case, saying: "please send my card to miss merival." "miss merival is not receiving any one this evening," the clerk answered, with a tone which was like the slap of a wet glove in the face. douglass faced him with a look which made him reflect. "you will let her be the judge of that," he said, and his tone was that of one accustomed to be obeyed. the little man bowed. "oh, certainly, mr. douglass, but as she left orders--" when the boy with his card had disappeared into the candy-colored distances, the playwright found himself again studying the face of his incomprehensible sorceress, who looked down upon him even at that moment from a bulletin-board on the hotel wall, oriental, savage, and sullen--sad, too, as though alone in her solitary splendor. "she can't be all of her parts--which one of them will i find as i enter her room?" he asked himself for the hundredth time. "miss merival will see mr. douglass," said the bell-boy. "this way, sir." as he stepped into the elevator the young man's face grew stern and his lips straightened out into a grim line. it was absurd to think he should be so deeply moved by any woman alive, he who prided himself on his self-possession. down a long hall on the tenth floor the boy led him, and tapped at a door, which was opened after a pause by a quiet woman who greeted him with outstretched hand, kindly cordial. "how do you do, mr. douglass? it is very good of you to come," she said, with the simplest inflection. "this must be an elder sister," he thought, and followed her into a large sitting-room, where a gray-haired woman and a young man were sipping after-dinner coffee. "mother, this is mr. douglass, the author of _the modern stage_, the little book of essays we liked so well." the elderly lady greeted him cordially, but with a timid air. "and this is my brother hugh," the young man gave douglass's hand a firm and cordial grip. "sit down, please--not there--over here, where the light will fall on you. i want to see how you look," she added, in smiling candor; and with that smile he recognized in his hostess the great actress. he was fairly dazed, and for the moment entirely wordless. from the very moment the door had opened to him the "glittering woman" had been receding into remote and ever remoter distances, for the helen merival before him was as simple, candid, and cordial as his own sister. her voice had the home inflection; she displayed neither paint nor powder; her hair was plainly brushed--beautiful hair it was, too--and her dress was lovely and in quiet taste. her face seemed plain at first, just as her stature seemed small. she was dark, but not so dark as she appeared on the stage, and her face was thinner, a little careworn, it seemed to him; and her eyes--"those leering, wicked eyes"--were large and deep and soft. her figure was firm, compact, womanly, and modest in every line. no wife could have seemed more of the home than this famous actress who faced him with hands folded in her lap. he was stupefied. suddenly he perceived the injustice and the crass folly of his estimate of her character, and with this perception came a broader and deeper realization of her greatness as an actress. her real self now became more complex than his wildest imagined ideal of her. that this sweet and reflective girl should be the actress was as difficult to understand as that _the baroness_ should be at heart a good woman. for five minutes he hardly heard what she said, so busy was his mind readjusting itself to this abrupt displacement of values. with noiseless suddenness all the lurid light which the advertiser had thrown around the star died away. the faces which mocked and mourned, the clutching hands, the lines of barbaric ornaments, the golden goblets of debauchery, the jewelled daggers, the poison phials--all those accessories, designed to produce the siren of the posters, faded out, and he found himself face to face with a human being like himself, a thoughtful, self-contained, and rather serious american girl of twenty-six or twenty-eight years of age. not merely this, but her attitude towards him was that of a pupil. she lifted eyes to him as to one occupying an intellectual height. she began to tell him how much she enjoyed his little book on the drama, which a friend had recommended to her, but as soon as he had fairly recovered himself he led her away from his own work. "i am supposed to be an architect," he explained. "i write of the stage because i love it--and because i am a failure in my profession. my book is a very slight and unambitious attempt." "but you know the stage and its principles," she insisted; "and your view of the future is an inspiration to those of us who wish to do good work. your letter was very helpful to me, for i am deeply discouraged just now. i am disgusted with the drama in which i work. i am weary of these unwholesome parts. you are quite right, i shall never do my best work so long as i am forced to assume such uncongenial rôles. they are all false, every one of them. they are good acting rôles, as acting goes; but i want plays that i can live as well as act. but my manager tells me that the public will not have me in anything else. do you think they would? is he right?" she ended in appeal. "i think the public will take you at your best in anything you do," he replied, with grave gallantry. "i don't know that managers are omniscient. they are only men like the rest of us." she smiled. "that is high treason; but i'm very much inclined to believe it is true. i am willing to concede that a theatre must be made to pay, but i am not content to think that this splendid art is always to be measured by the number of dollars which fall into the box-office. take westervelt as a type. what ideals has he? none whatever, save to find a play that will run forever and advertise itself." she had dreams, too, it seemed. she glowed with her plans, and as she timidly presented them douglass perceived that the woman was entirely unconscious of the false glamour, the whirling light and tumult, which outsiders connected with her name. at the centre of the illumination she sat looking out upon the glorified bill-boards, the gay shop windows, the crowded auditoriums, a wholesome, kindly, intelligent woman, subject to moods of discouragement like himself, unwilling to be a slave to a money-grubber. something in his face encouraged the story of her struggles. she passed to her personal history while he listened as one enthralled. the actress fled, and the woman drew near. she looked into the man's eyes frankly, unshrinkingly, with humor, with appeal. she leaned towards him, and her face grew exquisitely tender and beautiful. "oh, it was a struggle! mother kept boarders in order that hugh and i might go to school--didn't you, dear old muz?" she laid her hand on her mother's knee, and the mother clasped it. "father's health grew worse and worse, and at last he died, and then i had to leave school to help earn our living. i began to read for entertainments of various sorts. father was a grand army man, and the posts took an interest in my reading. i really earned a thousand dollars the second year. i doubled that the next year, and considered myself a great public success." she smiled. "mother, may i let mr. douglass see how i looked then?" the mother nodded consent, and the great actress, after a few moments' search, returned with a package of circulars, each bearing a piquant, girlish face. "there," she said, as she handed them to douglass, "i felt the full ecstasy of power when that picture was taken. in this i wore a new gown and a new hat, and i was earning fifty dollars at each reading. my success fairly bewildered me; but oh, wasn't it glorious! i took mother out of a tenement and put her in a lovely little home. i sent hugh to college. i refurnished the house. i bought pictures and rugs, for you know i continued to earn over two thousand a year. and what fun we had in spending all that money!" "but how did you reach the stage?" he asked. she laughed. "by way of 'the kerosene circuit,' if you know what that means." "i've heard the phrase," he answered; "it corresponds to the old-time 'barn-storming,' doesn't it?" "it does." hugh interposed. "i wouldn't go into that, sis." "why not? it's great fun--now. i used to think it pretty tragic sometimes. yes, i was nineteen when i went on the new england rural circuit--to give it a better name. oh, i've been through all the steps! as soon as i felt a little secure about mother, i ventured to new york in answer to advertisements in _the reflector_, and went out 'on the road' at 'fifteen per.'" these slang phrases seemed humorous as they came from her smiling lips, but douglass knew some little part of the toil and discomfort they stood for. her eyes danced with fun. "i played _the lady of lyons_ in a 'kitchen set,' and the death-scene in _east lynne_ before a 'wood drop.' and my costumes were something marvellous, weren't they, mother? well, this lasted two seasons--summer seasons; while i continued to read in winter in order to indulge my passion for the stage in summer and early autumn. then i secured a small part in a real company, and at a salary that permitted me to send some money home. i knocked about the country this way two seasons more--that makes me twenty-two. i knew the office of every manager in new york by this time, but had been able to reach an audience with but one or two. they were kind enough, but failed to 'see anything' in me, as the phrase goes; and i was quite disheartened. oh, 'the rialto'!" her face clouded and her voice softened. "it is a brilliant and amusing place to the successful, but to the girl who walks it seeking a theatrical engagement it is a heartless and cruel place. you can see them there to-day--girls eager and earnest and ready to work hard and conscientiously--haunting the agencies and the anterooms of the managers just as i did in those days--only five years ago." "it seems incredible," exclaimed douglass. "i thought you came here from a london success." "so i did, and that is the miraculous chapter of my story. i went to london with farnum--with only a little part--but mclennan saw me and liked my work, and asked me to take the american adventuress in his new play. and then--my fortune was made. the play was only a partial success, but my own position was established. i continued to play the gay and evil-minded french and russian woman of the english stage till i was tired of them. then i tried _joan of arc_ and _charlotte corday_. the public forced me back to _the baroness telka_, and to wealth and great fame; and then i read your little book, which seemed directed straight to me, and i asked hugh to write you--now you have the 'story of me life.' i have had no struggle since--only hard work and great acclaim." she faced her mother with a proud smile. then her face darkened. "but--there is always a but--i want new york to know me in some better way. i'm tired of these women with cigarettes and spangled dinner-gowns." she laid her hand again on her mother's knee, and the gentle old fingers closed around the firm, smooth wrist. "i've told mother that i will cut these rôles out. we are at last in a position to do as we please. i am now waiting for something worth while to come to me. that is my present situation, mr. douglass. i don't know why i've been so frank. now let me hear your play." he flushed a little. "to tell the truth, i find it rather hard to begin. i feel as though i were re-enacting a worn-out scene in some way. every other man in the car writes plays nowadays and torments his friends by reading to them, which, i admit, is an abominable practice. however, as i came here for that express purpose, i will at least outline my scenario." "didn't you bring the play itself?" "yes; but, really, i hesitate. it may bore you to death." "you could not write a play that would bore me--i am sure of that." "very well," he soberly answered, and drew forth his manuscript. as if upon signal, the mother and her son rose to withdraw. "you are entirely justified," said douglass, with some humor. "i quite understand your feelings." "we should like very much to hear it, but--" "no excuses, i beg of you. i wonder at miss merival's hardihood. i am quite sure she will live to repent her temerity." in this spirit of banter the playwright and the star were left alone with the manuscript of the play. as he read on, douglass was carried out of his own impassivity by the changes in the face before him. it became once more elusive, duskily mysterious in its lines. a reflective shadow darkened the glorious eyes, veiled by drooping lids. without knowing it, the actress took on from moment to moment the heart-trials of the woman of the play. in a subconscious way even as he read, douglass analyzed and understood her power. hers was a soul of swift and subtle sympathy. a word, a mere inflection, was sufficient to set in motion the most complicate and obscure conceptions in her brain, permitting her to comprehend with equal clarity the egyptian queen of pleasure and the austere devotee to whom joy is a snare. from time to time she uttered little exclamations of pleasure, and at the end of each act motioned him to proceed, as if eager to get a unified impression. it was after eleven o'clock when he threw down the manuscript, and, white with emotion, awaited her verdict. she was tense with the strain, and her lashes were wet with tears, but her eyes were bright and her mind alert. she had already entered upon a new part, having been swept up into a region of resolution as far away from the pleasant hostess as from the heartless adventuress whose garments she had worn but the night before. with hands clasped between her knees, and shoulders laxly drooping, she brooded on the sorrows of his mimic world. "i will do your play," she said at last. "i will do it because i believe in its method and because i think it worthy of my highest powers." the blood rushed to the playwright's throat and a smarting heat dimmed his eyes. he spoke with difficulty. "i thank you," he said, hoarsely. "it is more than i expected; and now that you have promised to do it, i feel you ought not to take the risk." he could say no more, overcome by the cordial emphasis of her decision. "there is a risk, i will be frank with you; but your play is worth it. i have not been so powerfully moved in years. you have thrilled me. really i cannot tell you how deeply your theme has sunk into my heart. you have the northern conscience--so have i; that is why i rebel at being merely the plaything of a careless public. yes, i will do your play. it is a work of genius. i hope you wrote it in a garret. it's the kind of thing to come from a diet of black bread and water." he smiled. "i live in a sort of garret, and my meals are frequently beans and brown bread. i hope that will do." "i am glad the bread is at least brown.... but you are tired. leave the manuscript with me." he rose and she moved towards him with a gesture of confidence which made words impossible to him. "when we meet again i want you to tell me something of yourself.... good-night. you will hear from me soon." she was regal as she said this--regal in her own proper person, and he went away rapt with wonder and admiration of the real helen merival as she now stood revealed to him. "she is greater than my dreams of her," he said, in a sort of rapture as he walked the street. "she is greater than she herself can know; for her genius is of the subtle, unspeakable deeps--below her own consciousness, beyond her own analysis. how much greater her art seems, now that i have seen her. it is marvellous! she will do my play, and she will succeed--her power as an actress would carry it to a success if it were a bad play, which it is not. my day has dawned at last." * * * * * helen went to bed that night with a consciousness that something new and powerful had come into her life. not merely the play and her determination to do it moved her--the man himself profoundly impressed her. his seriousness, his decision and directness of utterance, and the idealism which shone from his rugged, boyish face remained with her to the verge of sleep. he was very handsome, and his voice singularly beautiful, but his power to charm lay over and beyond these. his sincere eyes, his freedom from flippant slang, these impressed her with a sense of his reliability, his moral worth. "he is stern and harsh, but he is fine," she said to her mother next morning, "and his play is very strong. i am going to do it. you will like the part of _lillian_. it has the scotch sense of moral responsibility in it." ii douglass rose next morning with a bound, as if life had somehow become surcharged with fresh significance, fresh opportunity. his professional career seemed dull and prosaic--his critical work of small avail. his whole mind centred on his play. his was a moody, sensitive nature. stern as he looked, and strong as he really was, he could be depressed by a trifle or exalted by a word. and reviewing his meeting with helen in the light of the morning, he had more than a suspicion that he had allowed himself to talk too freely in the presence of the brother and mother, and that he had been over-enthusiastic, not to say egotistic; but he was saved from dejection by the memory of the star's great, brown-black eyes. there was no pretence in them. she had been rapt--carried out of conventional words and graces by something which rose from the lines he had written, the characters he had depicted. the deeper his scrutiny went the more important she became to him. she was not simple--she was very complex, and an artist of wonderful range, and certainty of appeal. he liked the plain and simple (almost angular) gestures and attitudes she used when talking to him. they were so broadly indicative of the real helen merival, and so far from the affectations he had expected to see. of course, she was the actress--the mobility of her face, her command of herself, was far beyond that of any untrained woman, no matter how versatile; but she was nobly the actress, broadened and deepened by her art. he was very eager to see her again, and as the day wore on this desire grew to be an ache at his heart most disturbing. he became very restless at last, and did little but walk around the park, returning occasionally as the hour for the postman came. "i don't know why i should expect a letter from her. i know well the dilatory methods of theatrical people--and to-day is rehearsal, too. i am unreasonable. if i hear from her in a week i may count myself lucky." a message from the dramatic editor of _the blazon_, asking him to do a special study of an english actor opening that night at the broadway, annoyed him. "i can't do it," he answered. "i have another engagement." and recklessly put aside the opportunity to earn a week's board, so exalted was he by reason of the word of the woman. at dinner he lacked appetite entirely, and as he had taken but an egg and a cup of coffee for breakfast, and had missed luncheon altogether, he began to question himself as to the meaning of his ailment, with sad attempt at humor. "it isn't exactly as serious as dying. even if she reconsiders and returns my play, i can still make a living." he would not admit that any other motive was involved. he had barely returned to his room before a knock at the door announced a boy with a note. as he took it in his hand his nerves tingled as though he had touched the wondrous woman's hand. the note was brief, yet fateful: "i enclose a ticket for the manager's box. i hope you can come. i want to talk about your play. i will send my brother to bring you in back to see me. i have been rehearsing all the afternoon, but i re-read the play this morning while in bed. i like it better and better, but you can do more with it--i feel that you have suppressed the poetry here and there. my quarrel with you realists is that you are afraid to put into your representations of life the emotions that make life a dynamic thing. but it is stirring and suggestive as it is. come in and talk with me, for i am full of it and see great possibilities in the final act." his hands were tremulous and his eyes glowing as he put the note down and faced himself in the glass. the pleasure of meeting her again under such conditions made him forget, for the moment, the rôle she was to play--a part he particularly detested. truly he was the most fortunate and distinguished of men--to be thus taken by the hand and lifted from nameless obscurity to the most desired position beside a great star. he dressed with unusual care, and was a noticeably handsome figure as he sat alone in the box; and elated, tense, self-conscious. when she came on and walked close down to the foot-lights nearest him, flashing a glance of recognition into his eyes, his breath quickened and his face flushed. a swift interchange of light and fire took place at the moment, her eyelids fell. she recoiled as if in dismay, then turned and apparently forgot him and every one else in the fervor of her art. a transforming readjustment of all the lines of her face took place. she became sinister, mocking, and pitiless. an exultant cruelty croaked in her voice. minute, repulsive remodellings of her neck and cheeks changed her to a harpy, and seeing these evidences of her great genius douglass grew bitterly resentful, and when she laughed, with the action of a vulture thrusting her head forward from the shoulders, he sickened and turned away. it was marvellous work, but how desecrating to her glorious womanhood. coming so close on that moment of mystic tenderness it was horrible. "my god! she must not play such parts. they will leave their mark upon her." when the curtain fell he did not applaud, but drew back into the shadow, sullen, brooding, sorrowful. in the tableau which followed the recall, her eyes again sought for him (though she still moved in character), and the curtain fell upon the scene while yet she was seeking him. here now began a transformation in the man. he had come to the theatre tremulous with eagerness to look upon her face, to touch her hand, but when her brother entered the box, saying, "mr. douglass, this is the best time to see my sister," he rose slowly with a curious reluctance. through devious passages beneath the theatre, hugh led the way, while with greater poignancy than ever before the young playwright sensed the vulgarity, the immodesty, and the dirt of the world behind and below the scenes. it was all familiar enough to him, for he had several friends among the actors, but the thought of one so sovereign as helen in the midst of a region so squalid stung him. he was jealous of the actors, the scene-shifters, who were permitted to see her come and go. he was reserved and rather pale, but perfectly self-contained, as he entered the little reception-hall leading to her dressing-room. he faced her with a sense of dread--apprehensive of some disenchantment. she met him cordially, without the slightest reference to her make-up, which was less offensive than he had feared; but he winced, nevertheless, at the vulgarity of her part so skilfully suggested by paint and powder. she gave him her hand with a frank gesture. "you didn't applaud my scenes to-night," she said, with a smile as enigmatic as the one she used in _the baroness_. his voice was curt with emotion as he replied, "no, i did not; i couldn't. they saddened me." "what do you mean?" she asked, with a startled, anxious paling beneath her rouge. his voice was low, but fiercely reproachful in answer. "i mean you should treat your beautiful self and your splendid art with greater consideration." "you mean i should not be playing such women? i know it--i hate them. but no one ever accused me of taking my art lightly. i work harder on these uncongenial rôles than upon any other. they require infinitely more effort, because i loathe them so." "i mean more than that. i am afraid to have you simulate such passions. they will leave their mark on you. it is defilement. your womanhood is too fine, too beautiful to be so degraded." she put her hand to her bosom and looked about her restlessly. his intensity scared her. "i know what you mean, but let us not talk of that now; let us discuss your play. i want to suggest something for your third act, but i must dress now. you will wait, won't you? we will have a few minutes before i go on. please sit here and wait for me." he acquiesced silently, as was his fashion. there was little of the courtier about him, but he became very ill at ease as he realized how significant his waiting must seem to those who saw him there. deeply in the snare as he was, this sitting beside an actress's dressing-room door became intolerable to his arrogant soul, and he was about to flee when hugh came back and engaged him in conversation. so gratified was douglass for this kindness, he made himself agreeable till such time as helen, in brilliant evening-dress, came out; and when hugh left them together he was less assertive and brusque in manner. she was so luminous, so queenly, she dissipated his cloud of doubts and scruples, and the tremor of the boyish lover came back into his limbs as he turned to meet her. his voice all but failed him as he answered to her question. for some ten minutes from behind her mask she talked of the play with enthusiasm--her sweet eyes untouched of the part she was about to resume. at last she said: "there is my cue. good-bye! can you breakfast with us to-morrow, at eleven-thirty? it's really a luncheon. i know you are an early riser; but we will have something substantial. will you come?" her smooth, strong fingers closed cordially on his hand as she spoke, and he answered, quickly, "with the greatest pleasure in the world." "we can talk at our leisure then. good-bye!" and as she opened the canvas door in the "box-scene" he heard her say, with high, cool, insulting voice, "ah, my dear countess, you are early." she was _the baroness_ again. after the fall of the curtain at the end, douglass slipped out upon the pavement, his eyes blinded by the radiant picture she made in her splendid bridal robes. it was desolating to see her represent such a rôle, such agony, such despair; and yet his feet were reluctant to carry him away. he was like a famishing man, who has been politely turned from the glittering, savory dining-room into the street--only his hunger, immaterial as light, was a thousand times keener than that of the one who lacks only bread and meat. he demanded her face, her voice, as one calls for sunlight, for air. he knew that this day, this night, marked a new era in his life. old things were passed away--new things, sweet, incredible things, were now happening. nothing like this unrest and deep-seated desire had ever come into his life, and the realization troubled him as a dangerous weakness. it enslaved him, and he resented it. he secured a new view on his play, also, with its accusing defiance of dramatic law and custom. in this moment of clear vision he was permitted a prevision of helen struggling with the rebellious critics. now that he had twice taken her hand he was no longer so indifferent to the warfare of the critics, though he knew they could not harm one so powerful as she. in the end of his tumult he wrote her a letter, wherein he began by begging her pardon for seeming to interfere in the slightest degree with her work in the world. his letter continued: "i have back of me the conscience of my scotch forebears, and though my training in college and in my office has covered my conscience with a layer of office dust it is still there. of course (and obviously) you are not touched by the words and deeds of the women you represent, but i somehow feel that it is a desecration of your face and voice to put them to such uses. that is the reason i dreaded to go back and see you to-night. if you were seeking praise of your own proper self, the sincerity of this compliment is unquestionable. i ought to say, 'i hope my words to-night did not disturb you,' but i will not, for i hope to see you speedily drop all such hideous characters as _the baroness telka_. i felt as an artist might upon seeing a glorious statue befouled with mire. i say this not because i wish you to do _lillian_. in the light of last night's performance my own play is a gray autumn day with a touch of frost in the air. it is inconceivable that you should be vitally interested in it. i fear no play that i care to write will please a sufficient number of people to make its production worth your while. i release you from your promise. believe me, i am shaken in my confidence to-night. your audience seemed so heartless, so debased of taste. they applauded most loudly the things most revolting to me. since i have come to know you i cannot afford to have you make a sacrifice of yourself to produce my play, much as i desire to see you in new characters." as he dropped this letter into the box a storm-wave of his former bitterness and self-accusation swept over him. "that ends another attempt to get my play staged. her manager will unquestionably refuse to consider it." iii helen read douglass's letter next morning while still in bed, and its forthright assault made her shiver. she did not attempt to deceive herself. she acknowledged the singular power of this young man to shake her, to change her course of action. from the first she acknowledged something almost terrifying in the appeal of his eyes, a power which he seemed unconscious of. his words of condemnation, of solicitude, troubled her as the praise of no other man in all her life had done. he had spoken to her soul, making her triumph over the vast audience loathsome--almost criminal. he was handsome--a manly man--but so were dozens of others of her wide acquaintance. his talent was undeniable, but he was still obscure, undeveloped, a failure as an architect, unambitious as a critic, though that was his best point. his articles in _the blazon_ possessed unusual insight and candor. beyond this she knew as little of him as of any other of the young newspaper men who sought her acquaintance, and yet he had somehow changed her world for her in these two meetings. she let the letter fall on her breast, and lay with her eyes fastened upon a big rose in a pot on the window-sill--the gift of another admirer. "i do know more of him. i know that he is strong, sincere. he does not flatter me--not even to win me to his play. he does not hasten to send me flowers, and i like him for that. if i were to take his point of view, all my rôles and half my triumphs would drop from me. but _is_ there not a subtle letting-down, a disintegration? may he not be right, after all?" she went over once more the talk of the few moments they had spent together, finding each time in all his words less to criticise and more to admire. "he does not conceal his hate," she said; and she might have added, "or his love," for she was aware of her dominion, and divined, though she did not whisper it even to herself, that his change of attitude with regard to her rôles came from his change of feeling towards her. "he has a great career. i will not allow him to spoil his own future," she decided, at length, in her own large-minded way. and there were sweet, girlish lines about her mouth when her mother came in to inquire how she felt. "very much like work, mamma, and i'm going to catch up on my correspondence. mr. douglass is coming to take breakfast with us, to talk about his play. i wish you would see that there is something that a big man can eat." * * * * * the note she sent in answer to his was like herself--firm, assured, but gentle: "mr. douglass,--'what came you out for to see--a reed shaken with the wind?' i know my own mind, and i am not afraid of my future. i should be sorry to fail, of course, especially on your account, but a _succès d'estime_ is certain in your case, and my own personal following is large enough--joined with the actual lovers of good drama--to make the play pay for itself. please come to my combination breakfast and luncheon, as you promised, and we can arrange dates and other details of the production, for my mind is made up. i am going to do your play, come what will. i thank you for having started all my dormant resolutions into life again. i shall expect you at twelve-thirty." having despatched this note by special messenger, she serenely set to work on less important matters, and met him in modish street dress--trim and neat and very far from the meretricious glitter of _the baroness_. he was glad of this; he would have disliked her in négligée, no matter how "artistic." her greeting was frank and unstudied. "i'm glad you've come. there are oceans of things to talk over." "there was nothing else for me to do but come," he replied, with a meaning light in his eyes. "your letter was a command." "i'm sorry it takes a command to bring you to breakfast with us. true, this is not the breakfast to be given in your honor--that will come later." "it would be safer to have it before the play is produced," he replied, grimly. helen turned to her brother. "hugh, we have in mr. douglass a man not sanguine of the success of his play. what does that argue?" "a big hit!" he promptly replied. the servants came and went deftly, and douglass quite lost sight of the fact that the breakfast-room was high in a tower-like hotel, for helen's long engagement in the city had enabled her to make herself exceedingly comfortable even amid the hectic color and insistent gilt of the hotel embric. the apartment not only received the sun, a royal privilege in new york, but it was gay with flowers, both potted and in vases, and the walls were decorated with drawings of her own choosing. only the furniture remained uncompromisingly of the hotel tone. "i did intend to refurnish, but mother, who retains a little of her old scotch training, talked me out of it," helen explained, in answer to a query. "is there anything more hopelessly 'handsome' and shining than these chairs? there's so little to find fault with, and so little to really admire." "they're like a ready-made suit--unobjectionable, but not fit." "they have no soul. how could they have? they were made by machines for undistinguished millions." she broke off this discussion. "i am eager for a run through the park. won't you go? hugh is my engineer. reckless as he looks, i find him quite reliable as a tinker, and you know the auto is still in the tinkery stage." "i have a feeling that it is still in the dangerous stage," he said. "but i will go." he said this in a tone of desperation which amused them all very much. it was impossible for him to remain glum in the midst of the good cheer of that luxurious little breakfast with the promise of a ride in the park in prospect. a few moments later a young girl, miss fanny cummings, came in with a young man who looked like an actor, but was, in fact, hugh's college-mate and "advance man" for helen, and together they went down to the auto-car. there was a well-defined sense of luxury in being in helen merival's party. the attendants in the hotel were so genuinely eager to serve her, and the carefully considered comfort of everything she possessed was very attractive to a man like george douglass, son of a village doctor, who had toiled from childhood to earn every dollar he spent. to ride in such swift and shining state with any one would have had extraordinary interest, and to sit beside helen in the comparative privacy of the rear seat put a boyish glow of romance into his heart. her buoyant and sunny spirit reacted on his moody and supersensitive nature till his face shone with pleasure. he forgot his bitter letter of the night before, and for the moment work and worry were driven from his world. he entered upon a dreamland--the city of menace disappeared. the avenue was gay with promenaders and thick with carriages. other autos met them with cordial clamor of gongs, and now and then some driver more lawless than hugh dashed past them in reckless race towards the park. the playwright had never seen so many of new york's glittering carriages, and the growing arrogance of its wealth took on a new aspect from his newly acquired viewpoint. here were rapidly centring the great leaders of art, of music, of finance. here the social climbers were clustering, eager to be great in a city of greatness. here the chief ones in literature and the drama must come as to a market-place, and with this thought came a mighty uplift. "surely success is now mine," he thought, exultantly, "for here i sit the favored dramatist of this wondrous woman." there was little connected conversation--only short volleys of jests as they whizzed along the splendid drives of the park--but douglass needed little more than helen's shining face to put him at peace with all the world. each moment increased their intimacy. he told her of his stern old father, a country doctor in the west, of the way in which his brother and sisters were scattered from north to south, and how he came to set his face eastward while all the others went west. "how handsome he is," thought helen. "how beautiful you are," his glances said in answer, and both grew young beneath the touch of love. when they were once more in the hotel helen cried out: "there! isn't your brain washed clear of all doubts? come, let's to work at the play." he looked down at her with eyes whose glow made her eyelids fall in maidenly defence. "i am capable of anything you ask," he said, with quiet power. after a long and spirited discussion of the last act she said: "well, now, we'll put it in rehearsal as soon as you feel that it is ready. i believe in doing a part while the spell of its newness is on me. i shall put this on in place of the revival of _rachel endicott_." she rose on the wave of her enthusiasm. "i feel the part taking hold of me. i will make _lillian's duty_ the greatest success of my life, and the lion's share of both honor and money shall be yours." he left the hotel quite as exalted as he had been previously depressed. the pleasure of sitting by her side for four blessed hours enriched him to the point of being sorry for all the rest of the world. the prince of wales had been denied an introduction to her, he had read; therefore the prince was poor. iv the reading of the play took place on the monday morning following, and was an exceedingly formal and dignified function. the principal players came prepared to be politely interested, while some of the lesser minds were actually curious to taste the quality of the play as a piece of writing. as there was no greenroom in the westervelt, the reading took place on the open stage, which was bleak and draughty. the company sat in a funereal semicircle, with the author, the star, and the manager in a short line facing them. all the men retained their overcoats, for the morning was miserably raw, and at helen's positive command kept their heads covered; and the supernumerary women sat shivering in their jackets. helen was regal in a splendid cloak of sable, otherwise there was little of the successful actress in her dress. at her suggestion a box-scene was set around them to keep off at least a part of the draught, and under these depressing conditions the reading proceeded. douglass was visibly disheartened by the surroundings, but set manfully to work, and soon controlled the attention of all the players except two, who made it a boast that they had never read a play or listened to one. "i am interested only in me lines, me boy," said one of them. "and your acting shows it," replied douglass, with quiet sarcasm, and proceeded to the second act. "you read that with greater power here than to me," said helen. "i wish we could give it the same unity and sweep of expression as we act it." she addressed the company in her calm, clear voice: "i hope you will all observe carefully mr. douglass's reading. he is giving us most valuable advice in every inflection." her attitude towards her company was admirable in its simplicity and reserve. it was plain that she respected their personalities and expected the same high courtesy from them. some of the men were of the kind who say "my deah" to every woman, and "my deah boy" to the most casual acquaintance--vain, egotistical, wordy, and pompous; but one glance from helen was sufficient to check an over-familiar hand in mid-air. the boldest of them did not clap her on the shoulder but once. the reading passed to a rather enthusiastic finish, and douglass then said: "i have read the play to you carefully, because i believe--_i know_--that an intelligent rendition of your individual parts is impossible without a clear knowledge of the whole drama. my theories of a play and its representation are these: as an author, i see every detail of a scene as if it were a section of life. i know where all my people are at each moment of time, and their positions must be determined by the logic of the picture without any reference to those who wish to hold the centre of the stage. in a certain sense you are only different-colored pigments in my hands, to be laid on to form a unified painting. you must first of all learn to subordinate yourselves to the designs of the author. i know this sounds harsh--seems to reduce you to a very low level of intelligence; but, as a matter of fact, the most highly gifted of our actors to-day are those who are able to do this very thing--to carry in their minds a conception of the unity of a scene, never thrusting their personalities through it or out of it. i mention these points because i intend to assist in the rehearsals, and i don't want to be misunderstood." helen interposed a word: "i need not say that i consider this a very powerful play--with that opinion you all agree, i am sure--but i want to say further that mr. douglass has the right to demand of each of us subordination to the inner design of his work. i am personally very glad always to avail myself of the author's criticism and suggestion. i hope you will all feel the same willingness to carry out mr. douglass's scenes as he has written them. mr. saunders, will you please give out the parts and call a rehearsal for to-morrow at ten o'clock sharp?" at this point all rose. saunders, a plain little man, highly pleased with his authority, began to bustle about, bellowing boisterously: "here you are now--everybody come letter-perfect to-morrow. sharp at ten. no lagging." the players, accustomed to his sounding assumption of command, paid no attention other than to clutch their rolls of type-written manuscript. each withdrew into the street with an air of haste. as helen received her portion saunders said: "here, miss merival, is a fat part--must be yours. jee-rusalem the golden! i'd hate to tackle that rôle." douglass was ready to collar the ass for his impudent tone, but helen seemed to consider it no more than the harmless howl of a chair sliding across the floor. she was inured to the old-time "assistant stage-manager." turning to douglass, she said, "do you realize, mr. author, that we are now actually begun upon your play?" "no, i do not. i confess it all seems a make-believe--a joke." "you'll not think it a joke at the end of the week. it's terribly hard work to put on a big piece like this. if i seem apathetic in my part i beg you not to worry. i must save myself all i can. i never begin to act at rehearsal till i have thought the business all out in my mind. but come, you are to lunch with us in honor of the first rehearsal, and it is late." "it seems a deplorable thing that you must come every morning to this gloomy and repellent place--" "ah! this is a part of our life the public knows nothing of. they all come to it--the divine sarah, duse--none are exempt. the glamour of the foot-lights at night does not warm the theatre at eleven of the morning." "i see it does not," he answered, lightly; but in reality he felt that something sweet and something regal was passing out of his conception of her. to see her even seated with these commonplace men and women detracted even from her glory, subjected her to the same laws. it was a relief to get out into the gay street--to her carriage, and to the hotel where the attendants hovered about her as bees about their queen. she was in high spirits all through the luncheon, and douglass was carried out of his dark gravity by her splendid vitality, her humor, and her hopefulness. "all you need is a hearing," she said. "and you shall have that. oh, but there is a wilderness of work before us! can you design the scenes? i like to do that. it's like playing with doll-houses. i'll show you how. we'll leave the financial side of it to you, hugh," she said, to her brother. "come, mr. playwright," and they set to work with paste and card-board like a couple of children, and soon had models of all the sets. they seemed childish things indeed, but helen was mistress of even the mechanical side of the stage, and these paste-pot sketches were of the greatest value to the scene-painter and the carpenter. v these three weeks of rehearsal formed the happiest time douglass had ever known, for all things conspired to make each day brim with mingled work and worship. first of all, and above all, he was permitted to meet helen each day, and for hours each day, without fear of gossip and without seeking for an excuse. each morning, a little before ten, he left his room and went directly to the theatre to meet the company and the manager. the star, prompt as a clock, arrived soon after, and douglass, beforehand, as a lover, was always there to help her from her carriage and to lead the way through the dark passage to the stage, where the pompous little saunders was forever marshalling his uneasy vassals in joyous exercise of sovereignty. helen was happy as a child during these days, and glowing with new ideas of "business" and stage-setting. "we will spare no work and no expense," she said, buoyantly, to mr. westervelt, her manager. "we have a drama worthy of us. i want every one of mr. douglass's ideas carried out." the manager did not know, as douglass did, that some of the ideas were her own, and so took a melancholy view of every innovation. "you can't do that," he gloomily repeated. "the public won't stand for new things. they want the old scenes rehashed. the public don't want to think; it wants to laugh. this story is all right for a book, but won't do for a play. i don't see why you quit a good thing for a risk like this. it is foolish and will lose money," he added, as a climax. "croak, you old raven--you'll be embarrassed when we fill your money-box," she replied, gayly. "you should have an ideal, mr. westervelt." "an ideal. what should i do with that?" like most men, douglass knew nothing about gowns in their constituent parts, but he had a specially keen eye for the fitting and beautiful in a woman's toilet, and helen was a constant delight to him because of the distinction of her dresses. they were refined, yet not weakly so--simple, yet always alluring. under the influence of her optimism (and also because he did not wish to have her apologize for him) he drew on his slender bank-account for funds to provide himself with a carefully tailored suit of clothes and a new hat. "how well you are looking!" she said, in soft aside, as he met her one morning soon after. "your hat is very becoming." "i am made all over new _inside_--so i hastened to typify the change exteriorly. i am rejoiced if you like me in my 'glad rags,'" he replied. "you are really splendid," she answered, with admiring fervor. "let us hurry through to-day; i am tired and want a spin in the park." "that is for you to say," he answered. "you are never tired," she sighed. "i wish i had your endurance." "it is the endurance of desperation. i am staking all i have on this venture." then, in low-toned intensity, he added: "it hurts me to have you forced to go over and over these lines because of the stupidity of a bunch of cheap little people. why don't you let me read your part?" "that would not be fair," she answered, quickly--"neither to them nor to you. no, i am an actress, and this is a part of my life. we are none of us exempt from the universal curse." "royleston is our curse. please let me kick him out the stage-door--he is an insufferable ass, and a bad actor besides." "he is an ass, but he can act. no, it's too late to change him now. wait; be patient. he'll pull up and surprise you at the final rehearsal." at four o'clock they were spinning up fifth avenue, which resounded with the hoof-strokes of stately horses, and glittered with the light of varnished leather. the rehearsal was put far behind them. the day was glorious november, and the air sparkling without being chill. a sudden exaltation seized helen. "it certainly is a beautiful world--don't you think so?" she asked. "i do now; i didn't two weeks ago," he replied, soberly. "what has brought the change?" "you have." he looked at her steadily. she chose to be evasive. "i had a friend some years ago who was in the deeps of despair because no one would publish her book. once she had secured the promise of a real publisher that he would take it she was radiant. she thought the firm had been wondrously kind. they made thirty thousand dollars from the sale of her book. i am selfish--don't you think i'm not--i'm going to make fame and lots of money on your play." "i hope you may, for am i not to share in all your gold and glory? i have greater need of both than you. you already have all that mortal could desire. i don't believe i've told you what i called you before i met you--have i?" "no; what was it?" her eyes widened with interest. "'the glittering woman.'" she looked puzzled. "why that?" "because of the glamour, the mystery, which surrounded your name." "even now i don't see." he looked amused and cried out: "on my life, i believe you don't! being at the source of the light, you can't see it, of course. it's like wearing a crown of electric lamps--others see you as a dazzling thing; you are in the dark. it is my trade to use words to express my meaning, but i confess my hesitation in trying to make you see yourself as i saw you. you were like a baleful, purple star, something monstrous yet beautiful. your fame filled the world and fell into my garret chamber like a lurid sunrise. with your coming, mysterious posters bloomed and crimson letters blazed on street-walls. praiseful paragraphs appeared in the newspapers, gowns and hats (named after you) and belt-buckles and shoes and cigarettes arranged themselves in the windows, each bearing your name." "what a load of tinsel for a poor little woman to carry around! how it must have shocked you to find me so commonplace! none of us escape the common fates. it is always a surprise to me to discover how simple the men of great literary fame are. a friend of mine once spent a whole evening with a great novelist without discovering who he was. she said to him when she found him out, 'i couldn't believe that any one i could meet could be great.' really, i hope you will forgive me for not being as superhuman as my posters. it was the mystery of the unknown. if you knew all about me i would be entirely commonplace." she was more concerned about his opinion of her than she expressed in words. her eagerness appeared in her voice. "i found you infinitely more womanly than i had supposed, and simpler. even yet i don't see how you can carry this oppressive weight of advertising glory and still be--what you are." "you seem to hesitate to tell me what i am." "i do," he gravely answered, and for a moment she sat in silence. "there's one objection to your assisting at rehearsals," she said, irrelevantly. "you will lose all the intoxication of seeing your play freshly bodied forth. it will be a poor, old, ragged story for you at the end of the three weeks." "i've thought of that; but there are other compensations." "you mean the pleasure of having the work go right--" "yes, partly that--partly the suggestion that comes from a daily study of it." but the greatest compensation of all--the joy in her daily companionship--he did not have the courage to mention, and though she divined other and deeper emotions she, too, was silent. vi in the wearisome grind of rehearsal, douglass was deeply touched and gratified by helen's efforts to aid him. she was always willing to try again, and remained self-contained even when the author flung down the book and paced the stage in a breathless rage. "ah, the stupidity of these people!" he exclaimed, after one of these interruptions. "they are impossible. they haven't the brains of a rabbit. take royleston; you'd think he ought to know enough to read a simple line like that, but he doesn't. he can't even imitate my way of reading it. they're all so absorbed in their plans to make a hit--" "like their star," she answered, with a gleam in her eyes, "and the author." "but our aims are larger." "but not more vital; their board and washing hang on their success." he refused to smile. "they are geese. i hate to have you giving time and labor to such numskulls. you should give your time to your own part." "i'm a quick study. please don't worry about me. come, let's go on; we'll forget all about it to-morrow," and with a light hand on his arm she led him back to the front of the stage, and the rehearsal proceeded. it was the hardest work he ever did, and he showed it. some of the cast had to be changed. two dropped out--allured by a better wage--and all the work on their characterizations had to be done over. others were always late or sick, and royleston was generally thick-headed from carousal at his club. then there were innumerable details of printing and scenery to be decided upon, and certain overzealous minor actors came to him to ask about their wigs and their facial make-up. in desperation over the small-fry he took the stage himself, helping them in their groupings and exits, which kept him on his feet and keyed to high nervous tension for hours at a time, so that each day his limbs ached and his head swam at the close of the last act. he marvelled at helen's endurance and at her self-restraint. she was always ready to interpose gently when hot shot began to fly, and could generally bring about a laugh and a temporary truce by some pacific word. hugh and westervelt both came to her to say: "tell douglass to let up. he expects too much of these people. he's got 'em rattled. tell him to go and slide down-hill somewhere." "i can't do that," she answered. "it's his play--his first play--and--he's right. he has an ideal, and it will do us all good to live up to it." to this hugh replied, with bitterness, "you're too good to him. i wish you weren't quite so--" he hesitated. "they're beginning to talk about it." "about what?" she asked, quickly. "about his infatuation." her eyes grew steady and penetrating, but a slow, faint flush showed her self-consciousness. "who are talking?" "westervelt--the whole company." he knew his sister and wished he had not spoken, but he added: "the fellows on the street have noticed it. how could they help it when you walk with him and eat with him and ride with him?" "well?" she asked, with defiant inflection. "what is to follow? am i to govern my life to suit westervelt or the street? i admire and respect mr. douglass very much. he has more than one side to him. i am sick of the slang of the rialto and the greenroom. i'm tired of cheap witticisms and of gossip. with mr. douglass i can discuss calmly and rationally many questions which trouble me. he helps me. to talk with him enables me to take a deep breath and try again. he enables me to forget the stage for a few hours." hugh remained firm. "but there's your own question--what's to be the end of it? you can't do this without getting talked about." she smiled, and the glow of her humor disarmed him. "sufficient unto the end is the evil thereof. i don't think you need to worry--" hugh was indeed greatly troubled. he began to dislike and suspect douglass. they had been antipathetic from the start, and no advance on the author's part could bring the manager nearer. it was indeed true that the young playwright was becoming a marked figure on the street, and the paragrapher of _the saucy swells_ spoke of him not too obscurely as the lucky winner of "our modern helen," which was considered a smart allusion. this paragraph was copied by the leading paper of his native city, and his father wrote to know if it were really true that he was about to marry a play-actress. this gave a distinct shock to douglass, for it made definite and very moving the vague dreams which had possessed him in his hours of reflection. his hands clinched, and while his heart beat fast and his breath shortened he said: "yes, i will win her if i can"; but he was not elated. the success of his play was still in the future, and till he had won his wreath he had no right to address her in any terms but those of friendship. in spite of the flood of advance notices and personal paragraphs, in spite of envious gossip, he lived on quietly in his attic-room at the roanoke. he had few friends and no intimates in the city, and cared little for the social opportunities which came to him. confident of success, he gave up his connection with _the blazon_, whose editor valued his special articles on the drama so much as to pay him handsomely for them. the editor of this paper, mr. anderson, his most intimate acquaintance, was of the middle west, and from the first strongly admired the robust thought of the young architect whose "notions" concerning the american drama made him trouble among his fellow-craftsmen. "you're not an architect, you're a critic," he said to him early in their accidental acquaintance. "now, i want to experiment on you. i want you to see irving to-night and write your impressions of it. i have a notion you'll startle my readers." he did. his point of view, so modern, so uncompromising, so unshaded by tradition, delighted anderson, and thereafter he was able to employ the young playwright regularly. these articles came to have a special value to the thoughtful "artists" of the stage, and were at last made into a little book, which sold several hundred copies, besides bringing him to the notice of a few congenial cranks and come-outers who met in an old tavern far down in the old city. these articles--this assumption of the superior air of the critic--led naturally to the determination to write a play to prove his theories, and now that the play was written and the trial about to be made his anxiety to win the public was very keen. he had a threefold reason for toiling like mad--to prove his theories, to gain bread, and to win helen; and his concentration was really destructive. he could think of nothing else. all his correspondence ceased. he read no more; he went no more to his club. his only diversions were the rides and the lunches which he took with helen. with her in the park he was a man transformed. his heaviness left him. his tongue loosened, and together they rose above the toilsome level of the rehearsal and abandoned themselves to the pure joy of being young. together they visited the exhibitions of painting and sculpture, and to helen these afternoons were a heavenly release from her own world. it made no difference to her who objected to her friendship with douglass. after years of incredible solitude and seclusion and hard work in the midst of multitudes of admirers and in the swift-beating heart of cities, with every inducement to take pleasure, she had remained the self-denying student of acting. her summers had been spent in england or france, where she saw no one socially and met only those who were interested in her continued business success. now she abandoned this policy of reserve and permitted herself the joys of a young girl in company with a handsome and honorable man, denying herself even to the few. she played badly during these three weeks, and westervelt was both sad and furious. her joyous companionship with douglass, her work on his sane and wholesome drama, their discussions of what the stage should be and do unfitted her for the factitious parts she was playing. "i am going to drop all of these characters into the nearest abyss," she repeated each time with greater intensity. "i shall never play them again after your drama is ready. my contract with westervelt has really expired so far as his exclusive control over me is concerned, and i will not be coerced into a return to such work." her eyes were opened also to the effect of her characters on the audiences that assembled night after night to hear her, and she began to be troubled by the thousands of young girls who flocked to her matinées. "is it possible that what i call 'my art' is debasing to their bright young souls?" she asked herself. "is mr. douglass right? am i responsible?" it was the depression of these moods which gave her corresponding elation as she met her lover's clear, calm eyes of a morning, and walked into the atmosphere of his drama, whose every line told for joy and right living as well as for serious art. those were glorious days for her--the delicious surprise of her surrender came back each morning. she had loved once, with the sweet single-heartedness of a girl, shaken with sweet and yielding joy of a boyish face and a slim and graceful figure. what he had said she could not remember; what he was, no longer counted; but what that love had been to her mattered a great deal, for when he passed out of her life the glow of his worship remained in her heart, enabling her to keep a jealous mastery of her art and to remain untouched by the admiration of those who sought her favor in every city she visited. douglass was amazed to find how restricted her social circle was. eagerly sought by many of the great drawing-rooms of the city, she seldom went to even the house of a friend. "her art is a jealous master," her intimates were accustomed to say, implying that she had remained single in order that she might climb higher on the shining ladder of fame, and in a sense this was true; but she was not sordid in her ambitions--she was a child of nature. she loved rocks, hills, trees, and clouds. and it was this elemental simplicity of taste which made douglass the conquering hero that he was. she felt in him concrete, rugged strength and honesty of purpose, as wide as the sky from the polished courtesy and the conventional evasions of her urban admirers. "no, i am not a bit in society," she confessed, in answer to some remark from him. "i couldn't give up my time and strength to it if i wished, and i don't wish. i'd rather have a few friends in for a quiet little evening after the play than go to the swellest reception." during all this glorious time no shadow of approaching failure crossed their horizon. the weather might be cold and gray; their inner sky remained unspotted of any vapor. if it rained, they lunched at the hotel; if the day was clear they ran out into the country or through the park in delightful comradeship, gay, yet thoughtful, full of brisk talk, even argument, but not on the drama. she had said, "once for all, i do not intend to talk shop when i am out for pleasure," and he respected her wishes. he had read widely though haphazardly, and his memory was tenacious, and all he had, his whole mind, his best thought, was at her command during those hours of recreation. he began to see the city from the angle of the successful man. it no longer menaced him; he even began to dream of dominating it by sheer force of genius. when at her side he was invincible. her buoyant nature transformed him. her faith, her joy in life was a steady flame; nothing seemed to disturb her or make her afraid. and she attributed this strength, this joyous calm, to his innate sense of power--and admired him for it. that he drew from her, relied upon her, never entered her conception of their relations to each other. nevertheless, as the play was nearing its initial production the critics loomed larger. together they ran over the list. "there is the man who resembles shakespeare?" she asked. "he will be kindly." "and the fat man with shifty gray eyes?" "he will slate us, unless--" "and the big man with the grizzled beard?" "we'll furnish him a joke or two." "and the man who comes in on crutches?" "he'll slaughter us; he hates the modern." "then the man who looks like lincoln?" "he is on our side. but how about the man with the waxed mustache?" "he'll praise me." "and slit the playwright's ears. well, i will not complain. what will the 'free lance' do--the one who accepts bribes and cares for his crippled daughter like an angel--what will he do?" "well, that depends. do you know him?" "i do not, and don't care to. that exhausts the list of the notables; the rest are bright young fellows who are ready to welcome a good thing. some of them i know slightly, but i do not intend to do one thing, aside from my work, to win their support." "that is right, of course. westervelt may take a different course." and in this confident way they approached the day of trial. westervelt, watching with uneasy eyes the growing intimacy of his star and her playwright, began to hint his displeasure to hugh, and at last openly to protest. "what does she mean?" he asked, explosively. "does she dream of marrying the man? that would be madness! death! tell her so, my boy." hugh concealed his own anxiety. "oh, don't worry, they're only good comrades." westervelt grunted with infinite contempt. "comrades! if he is not making love to her i'm a greek." hugh was much more uneasy than the manager, but he had more sense than to rush in upon his famous sister with a demand. he made his complaint to the gentle mother. "i wish she would drop this social business with douglass. he's a good fellow, but she oughtn't to encourage him in this way. what's the sense of having him on the string every blessed afternoon? do you imagine she's in earnest? what does she mean? it would be fatal to have her marry anybody now--it would ruin her with the public. besides, douglass is only a poor grub of a journalist, and a failure in his own line of business. can't we do something?" the mother stood in awe of her shining daughter and shook her head. "she is old enough to know her own mind, hugh. i darena speak to her. besides, i like mr. douglass." "yes, he won you by claiming scotch blood. i don't like it. she is completely absorbed in him. all i can hope is it won't last." "if she loves him i canna interfere, and if she doesna there is no need to interfere," replied mrs. macdavitt, with sententious wisdom. vii at the last moment, when face to face with the public, young douglass lost courage. the stake for which he played was so great! like a man who has put his last dollar upon the hazard, he was ready to snatch his gold from the boards. the whole thing seemed weakly tenuous at dress-rehearsal, and royleston, half-drunk as usual, persistently bungled his lines. the children in the second act squeaked like nervous poll-parrots, and even helen's sunny brow was darkened by a frown as her leading man stumbled along to a dead halt again and again. "mr. royleston," she said, with dismay and anger in her voice, "i beg of you to remember that this is a most serious matter." her tone steadied the man, for he was a really brilliant and famous actor beginning to break. he grew courtly. "miss merival, i assure you i shall be all right to-night." at this douglass, tense and hot, shouted an angry word, and rushed into the semi-darkness of the side aisle. there helen found him when she came off, his face black with anger and disgust. "it's all off," he said. "that conceited fool will ruin us." "don't take things too seriously," she pleaded. "royleston isn't half so hopeless as he seems; he will come on to-night alert as a sparrow and astonish you. we have worked very hard, and the whole company needs rest now rather than more drill. to show your own worry would make them worse than they are." in the end he went back to his seat ashamed of his outburst of temper, and the rehearsal came to an end almost triumphantly, due entirely to the spirit and example of the star, who permitted herself to act for the first time. it was a marvellous experience to see her transformed, by the mere putting aside of her cloak, from the sweet-faced, thoughtful girl to the stern, accusing, dark, and tense woman of the play. her voice took on the quivering intonation of the seeress, and her spread hand seemed to clutch at the hearts of her perfidious friends. at such moments douglass sat entranced, afraid to breathe for fear of breaking the spell, and when she dropped her rôle and resumed her cloak he shivered with pain. it hurt him, also, to have her say to royleston: "now, to-morrow night i shall be here at the mirror when you enter; i will turn and walk towards you till i reach this little stand. i will move around this to the right," etc. it seemed to belittle her art, to render it mechanical, and yet he admitted the necessity; for those who were to play with her were entitled to know, within certain limits, where to find her in the scene. he began to regret having had anything to do with the rehearsal. it would have been so much more splendid to see the finished product of her art with no vexing memory of the prosaic processes of its upbuilding. she seemed to divine his feelings, and explained: "up to a certain point every art is mechanical; the outlines of my acting are fixed, but within those limits i am guided by impulse. even if i dared to rely on the inspiration of the moment my support cannot; they must know what i am going to do. i sincerely wish now that you had left us to our struggle; and yet we've had a good time, haven't we?" "the best of my whole life," he answered, fervently. "now, let's rest. let's go to the opera to-night, for to-morrow i cannot see you--no, nor monday, either. i shall remain in seclusion all day in a darkened room. i must think my part all out alone. there in the dark i shall sleep as much as possible. helen's 'unconscious cerebration' must now get in its work," she ended, laughingly. they all dined together at her table, and sat together in the box, while the vast harmonies of _siegfried_ rose like sun-shot mist from beneath them. helen was rapt, swept out of herself; and douglass, with delicate consideration, left her alone with her musings, whose depth and intensity appeared in the lines of her sensitive face. he had begun to understand the sources of her power--that is to say, her fluid and instant imagination which permitted her to share in the joy of every art. under the spell of a great master she was able to divine the passion which directed him. she understood the sense of power, the supreme ease and dignity of ternina, of de reszke, just as she was able to partake in the pride of the great athlete who wrestled upon the mat. she touched life through her marvellous intuition at a hundred points. he was not discouraged, therefore, when, as they were going out, she said, with a quick clasp of her hand on his arm, "this matchless music makes our venture seem very small." he understood her mood, and to a lesser degree shared it. "i don't want to talk," she said at the door of her carriage. "good-bye till monday night. courage!" viii deprivation of helen's companionship even for a day produced in douglass such longing that his hours were misery, and, though sunday was long and lonely, monday stretched to an intolerable length. he became greatly disturbed, and could neither work nor sit still, so active was his imagination. he tried to sleep, but could not, even though his nerves were twitching for want of it; and at last, in desperate resolution, he set himself the task of walking to grant's tomb and back, in the hope that physical weariness would benumb his restless brain. this good result followed. he was in deep slumber when the bell-boy rapped at his door and called, "half-past six, sir." he sprang up, moved by the thought, "in two hours helen will be entering upon that first great scene," and for the first time gave serious consideration to the question of an audience. "i hope westervelt has neglected nothing. it would be shameful if helen played to a single empty seat. i will give tickets away on the sidewalk rather than have it so. but, good heavens, such a condition is impossible!" after dressing with great care, he hastened directly to the theatre. it was early, and as he stepped into the entrance he found only the attendants, smiling, expectant, in their places. a doubt of success filled him with sudden weakness, and he slipped out on the street again, not caring to be recognized by any one at that hour. "they will laugh at my boyish excitement," he said, shamefacedly. broadway, the chief thoroughfare of the pleasure-seekers of all america, was just beginning to thicken with life. the cafés were sending forth gayly dressed groups of diners jovially crowding into their waiting carriages. automobiles and cabs were rushing northward to meet the theatre-goers of the up-town streets, while the humbler patrons of the "family circles" and "galleries" of the play-houses lower down were moving southward on foot, sharing for a few moments in the brilliancy and wealth of the upper avenue. the surface cars, clamorous, irritable, and timid, jammed at the crossings like sheep at a river-ford, while overhead the electric trains thundered to and fro, crowded with other citizens also theatre-bound. it seemed that the whole metropolis, alert to the drama, had flung its health and wealth into one narrow stream, and yet, "in all these thousands of careless citizens, who thinks of _lillian's duty_?" thought the unnerved playwright. "what do these laughing, insatiate amusement-seekers care about any one's duty? they are out to enjoy life. they are the well-to-do, the well-fed, the careless livers. many of them are keen, relentless business-men wearied by the day's toil. they are now seeking relaxation, and not at all concerned with acquiring wisdom or grace. they are, indeed, the very kind of men to whom my play sets the cold steel, and their wives, of higher purpose, of gentler wills, are, nevertheless, quite as incapable of steady and serious thought. not one of them has any interest in the problem i have set myself to delineate." he was saved from utter rout by remembrance of helen. he recalled the wondrous woman as she had seemed to him of old, striving to regain his former sense of her power, her irresistible fascination. he assured himself that her indirect influence over the city had been proven to be enormous, almost fantastic, though her worshippers knew the real woman not at all, allured only by the aureoled actress. yes, she would triumph, even if the play failed, for they would see her at last in a congenial rôle wherein her nobility, her intellectual power would be given full and free expression. her appeal to her worshippers would be doubled. when he returned to the theatre a throng of people filled the entrance-way, and he was emboldened to pass in--even bowed to the attendants and to hugh, who stood in the lobby, in shining raiment, a _boutonnière_ in his coat, his face radiating confidence and pride. "we've got 'em coming," he announced, with glee. "we are all sold out--not a seat left, and only the necessary 'paper' out. they're curious to see her in a new rôle. you are made!" "i hope so," replied the playwright, weakly. "tuesday night tells the story." hugh laughed. "why, man, i believe you're scared. we're all right. i can sniff victory in the air." this confidence, so far from inspiriting douglass, still further depressed him, and he passed in and on up into the second gallery, where he had privately purchased a reserved seat with intent to sense for himself the feeling of the upper part of the house during the first act. keeping his muffler pinned close so that his evening dress escaped notice, he found his way down to the railing quite secure from recognition by any one at the peep-hole of the curtain or in the boxes, and there took his seat to watch the late-comers ripple down the aisles. he was experienced enough to know that "first-nighters" do not always count and that they are sometimes false prophets, and yet he could not suppress a growing exaltation as the beautiful auditorium filled with men and women such as he had himself often called "representative," and, best of all, many of the city's artists and literarians were present. he knew also that the dramatic critics were assembling, jaded and worn with ceaseless attendance on worthless dramas, a condition which should have fitted them for the keener enjoyment of any fresh, original work, but he did not deceive himself. he knew from their snarling onslaughts on plays he had praised that they were not to be pleased with anything--at least not all of them at the same time. that they were friendly to helen he knew, that they would praise her he was assured, but that they would "slate" his play he was beginning to find inevitable. as the curtain rose on the first scene he felt the full force of helen's words, "you won't enjoy the performance at all." he began now to pay for the joy he had taken in her companionship. he knew the weakness of every actor, and suffered with them and for them. royleston from the first tortured him by mumbling his lines, palpably "faking" at times. "the idiot, he'll fail to give his cues!" muttered douglass. "he'll ruin the play." the children scared him also, they were so important to helen at the close of the act. at last the star came on--so quietly that the audience did not at the moment recognize her, but when those nearest the stage started a greeting to her it was taken up all over the shining house--a magnificent "hand." never before had helen merival appeared before an audience in character so near her own good self, and the lovely simplicity of her manner came as a revelation to those of her admirers who had longed to know more of her private character. for several minutes they applauded while she smilingly bowed, but at last the clapping died away, and each auditor shrugged himself into an easy posture in his chair, waiting for the great star to take up her rôle. this she did with a security and repose of manner which thrilled douglass in spite of his intimate knowledge of her work at rehearsals. the subtlety of her reading, the quiet, controlled precision and grace of her action restored his confidence in her power. "she has them in her hand. she cannot fail." the act closed triumphantly, though some among the audience began to wince. helen came before the curtain several times, and each time with eyes that searched for some one, and douglass knew with definiteness that she sought her playwright in order that she might share her triumph with him. but a perverse mood had seized him. "this is all very well, but wait till the men realize the message of the play," he muttered, and lifted the programme to hide his face. a buzz of excited comment rose from below, and though he could not hear a word beyond the water-boy's call he was able to imagine the comment. "why, how lovely! i didn't suppose helen merival could do a sweet, domestic thing like that." "isn't her gown exquisite? i've heard she is a dainty dresser in real life, quite removed from the kind of thing she wears on the stage. i wish she were not so seclusive. i'd like to know her." "but do you suppose this is her real self?" "it must be. she doesn't seem to be acting at all. i must say i prefer her in her usual parts." "she's wonderful as _the baroness_." "i never let my daughters see her in those dreadful characters--they are too bold; but they are both here to-night. i understood it was to be quite a departure." douglass, knowing well that hugh and the manager were searching for him, sat with face bent low until the lights were again lowered. "now comes the first assault. now we will see them wince." the second act was distinctly less pleasing to those who sat below him in the orchestra and dress circle. applause was still hearty, but it lacked the fervor of the first act. he could see men turn and whisper to one another now and then. they laughed, of course, and remarked each to the other, "brown, you're getting a 'slat' to-night." "they are cheering the actress, not the play," observed the author. the gallery, less sensitive or more genuinely patriotic, thundered on, applauding the lines as well as the growing power of helen's impersonation. royleston was at last beginning to play, the fumes of his heavy dinner having cleared away. he began to grip his lines, and that gave the star her first opportunity to forget his weakness and throw herself into her part. all in all, only a very discriminating ear could have detected a falling-off of favor in this act. the curtain was lifted four times, and a few feeble cries for the author were heard, chiefly from the first balcony. here was the point whereat his hoped-for triumph was to have begun, but it did not. he was touched by an invisible hand which kept him to his seat, though he knew that helen was waiting for him to receive, hand-in-hand with her, the honors of the act. some foreknowledge of defeat clarified the young author's vision, and a bitter melancholy crept over him as the third act unrolled. "they will go out," he said to himself, "and they will not come back for the last act. the play is doomed to disaster." and a flame of hatred rose in his heart against the audience. "they are brutes!" he muttered. the scenes were deeply exciting, the clash of interest upon interest was swift, novel in sequence, and most dramatic in outcome, but the applause was sharp and spasmodic, not long continued and hearty as before. some of the men who had clapped loudest at the opening now sat gnawing their mustaches in sullen resentment. douglass divined their thought: "this is a confidence game. we came to be amused, and this fellow instructs in sociology. we didn't cough up two dollars to listen to a sermon; we came to be rested. there's trouble enough in the street without displaying it in a place of amusement. the fellow ought to be cut out." others ceased to cheer because both acting and play had mounted beyond their understanding. its grim humor, its pitiless character-drawing, wearied them. audience and play, speaking generally, were at cross-purposes. a minority, it was true, caught every point, shouting with great joy, and a few, who disapproved of the play, but were most devoted admirers of helen's art, joined half-heartedly in their applause. but the act closed dismally, notwithstanding its tremendous climax. a chill east wind had swept over the auditorium and a few sensitive souls shivered. "what right has helen merival to do a thing like this? what possesses her? it must be true that she is infatuated with this young man and produces his dreadful plays to please him." "they say she is carried away with him. he's very handsome, they tell me. i wish they'd call him out." a buzz of complaining talk on the part of those aggrieved filled in the interlude. the few who believed in the drama were valiant in its defence, but their arguments did not add to the good-will of those who loved the actress but detested the play. "this won't do," said the most authoritative critic, as a detachment lined up at the bar of the neighboring saloon. "merival must lop off this young dramatist or he'll 'queer' her with her best friends. she mustn't attempt to force this kind of thing down our throats." "he won't last a week," said another. their finality of tone resembled that of emperors and sultans in counsel. douglass, sitting humped and motionless among his gallery auditors, was clearly aware that helen was weary and agitated, yet he remained in his seat, his brain surging with rebellious passion. his perverse pride was now joined by shame, who seized him by the other arm and held him prisoner. he felt like fleeing down the fire-escape. the thought of running the gauntlet of the smirking attendants, the possibility of meeting some of the exultant dramatic critics, most of whom were there to cut him to pieces, revolted him. their joyous grins were harder to face than cannon, therefore he cowered in his place during the long wait, his mind awhirl, his teeth set hard. there were plenty of empty seats in the orchestra when the curtain lifted on the last act. several of the critics failed to return. the playwright dared not look at his watch, for the scenes were dragging interminably. his muscles ached with the sort of fatigue one feels when riding in a slow train, and he detected himself pushing with his feet as if to hurry the action. the galleries did not display an empty bench, but he took small comfort in this, for he was not a believer in the old-time theory of pleasing the gallery. "in this city the two-dollar seats must be filled," he said. "helen is ruined if she loses them." he began to pity her and to blame himself. "what right had i to force my ferocious theories upon her?" he asked himself, and at the moment it seemed that he had completely destroyed her prestige. she was plainly dispirited, and her auditors looked at one another in astonishment. "can this sad woman in gray, struggling with a cold audience and a group of dismayed actors, be the brilliant and beautiful helen merival?" that a part of this effect--most of it, in fact--lay in the rôle of _lillian_ they had not penetration enough to distinguish; they began to doubt whether she had ever been the very great success and the powerful woman they had supposed her to be. the play did not really close, the audience began to dribble out before the last half of the act began, and the curtain went down on the final scene while scores of women were putting on their wraps. a loyal few called helen before the curtain, and her brave attempt to smile made every friendly heart bleed. douglass, stiff and sore, as one who has been cudgelled, rose with the crowd and made his way to one of the outside exits, eager to escape recognition, to become one of the indistinguishable figures of the street. a couple of tousled-headed students going down the stairway before him tossed him his first and only crumb of comfort. "it won't go, of course," said one, in a tone of conviction, "but it's a great play all the same." "right, old man," replied the other, with the decision of a master. "it's too good for this town. what new york wants is a continuous variety show." douglass knew keenly, deeply, that helen needed him--was looking for him--but the thought of those who would be near at their meeting made his entrance of the stage door impossible. he walked aimlessly, drifting with the current up the street, throbbing, tense, and hot with anger, shame, and despair. at the moment all seemed lost--his play, his own position, and helen. helen would surely drop him. the incredible had happened--he had not merely defeated himself, he had brought battle and pain and a stinging reproof to a splendid, triumphant woman. the enormous egotism involved in this he did not at the moment apprehend. he was like a wounded animal, content merely to escape. he longed to reach her, to beg her pardon, to absolve her from any promise, and yet he could not face westervelt. he revolted at the thought of meeting royleston and miss carmichael and hugh. "no; it is impossible. i will wait for her at the hotel." at this word he was filled with a new terror. "the clerks and the bell-boys will have learned of my failure. i cannot face them to-night." and he turned and fled as if confronted by serpents. "and yet i must send a message. i must thank helen and set her free. she must not go through another such night for my sake." he ended by dropping into another hotel to write her a passionate note, which he sent by a messenger: "forgive me for the part i have played in bringing this disaster upon you. i had no idea that anything i could say or do would so deeply injure you--you the wondrous one. it was incredible--their disdain of you. i was a fool, a selfish boaster, to allow you to go into this thing. the possible loss of money we both discussed, but that any words of mine could injure you as an artist never came to me. believe me, my dearest friend, i am astounded. i am crushed with the thought, and i dare not show my face among your friends. i feel like an assassin. i will call to-morrow--i can't do it to-night. i am bleeding at the heart because i have made you share the shame and failure which i feel to-night are always to be mine. i was born to be of the minority. please don't give another thought to me or my play. go your own way. get back to the plays that please people. be happy. you have the right to be happy, and i am a selfish, unthinking criminal whom you would better forget. don't waste another dollar or another moment on my play--it is madness. i am overwhelmed with my debt to you, but i shall repay it some day." ix helen was more deeply hurt and humiliated by her playwright's flight than by the apparent failure of the play, but the two experiences coming together fairly stunned her. to have the curtain go down on her final scenes to feeble and hesitating applause was a new and painful experience. never since her first public reading had she failed to move and interest her audience. what had happened? what had so swiftly weakened her hold on her admirers? up to that moment she had been sure that she could make any character successful. for a few moments she stood in the middle of the stage stifling with a sense of mortification and defeat, then turned, and without a word or look to any one went to her dressing-room. her maid was deeply sympathetic, and by sudden impulse stooped and kissed her cheek, saying, "never mind, miss merival, it was beautiful." this unexpected caress brought the tears to the proud girl's eyes. "thank you, nora. some of the audience will agree with you, i hope." "i'm sure of it, miss. don't be downcast." hugh knocked at the door. "can you come out?" "not now, hugh. in a few moments." "there are some people here to see you--" she wanted to say, "i don't want to see them," but she only said, "please ask them to wait." she knew by the tone of her brother's voice that he, too, was choking with indignation, and she dreaded the meeting with him and with westervelt. she was sustained by the hope that douglass would be there to share her punishment. "why had he not shown himself?" she asked again, with growing resentment. when she came out fully dressed she looked tired and pale, but her head was high and her manner proudly self-contained. westervelt, surrounded by a small group of depressed auditors, among whom were mrs. macdavitt, hugh, and royleston, was holding forth in a kind of bellow. "it proves what? simply that they will not have her in these preachy domestic parts, that's all. every time she tries it she gets a 'knock.' i complain, i advise to the contrary. does it do any good? no. she must chance it, all to please this crank, this reformer." the mother, reading the disappointment and suffering in helen's white face, reached for her tremulously and drew her to her bosom. "never mind what they say, nellie; it was beautiful and it was true." even westervelt was awed by the calm look helen turned on the group. "you are very sure of yourself, mr. westervelt, but to my mind this night only proves that this audience came to hear me without intelligent design." she faced the silent group with white and weary face. "certainly mr. douglass's play is not for such an audience as that which has been gathering to see me as _the baroness_, but that does not mean that i have no other audience. there is a public for me in this higher work. if there isn't, i will retire." westervelt threw his hands in the air with a tragic gesture. "retire! my gott, that would be insanity!" helen turned. "come, mother, you are tired, and so am i. mr. westervelt, this is no place for this discussion. good-night." she bowed to the friends who had loyally gathered to greet her. "i am grateful to you for your sympathy." there was, up to this time, no word of the author; but hugh, as he walked by her side, broke out resentfully, "do you know that beggar playwright--" "not a word of him, hugh," she said. "you don't know what that poor fellow is suffering. our disappointment is nothing in comparison with his. think of what he has lost." "nonsense! he has lost nothing, because he had nothing to lose. he gets us involved--" "hugh!" there was something in her utterance of his name which silenced him more effectually than a blow. "i produced this play of my own free will," she added, a moment later, "and i will take the responsibility of it." in the carriage the proud girl leaned back against the cushions, and pressed her two hands to her aching eyes, from which the tears streamed. it was all so tragically different from their anticipations. they were to have had a little supper of jubilation together, to talk it all over, to review the evening's triumph, and now here she sat chill with disappointment, while he was away somewhere in the great, heartless city suffering tortures, alone and despairing. the sweet, old mother put her arm about her daughter's waist. "don't cry, dearie; it will all come right. you can endure one failure. 'tis not as bad as it seems." helen did not reply as she was tempted to do by saying, "it isn't my defeat, it is his failure to stand beside me and receive his share of the disaster." and they rode the rest of the way in sad silence. as she entered her room a maid handed her a letter which she knew to be from douglass even before she saw the handwriting, and, without opening it, passed on into her room. "his message is too sacred for any other to see," she said to herself, with instant apprehension of the bitter self-accusation with which he had written. the suffering expressed by the scrawling lines softened her heart, her anger died away, and only big tears of pity filled her glorious eyes. "poor boy! his heart is broken." and a desire to comfort him swelled her bosom with a passion almost maternal in its dignity. now that his pride was humbled, his strong figure bowed, his clear brain in turmoil, her woman's tenderness sought him and embraced him without shame. her own strength and resolution came back to her. "i will save you from yourself," she said, softly. when she returned to the reception-room she found westervelt and hugh and several of the leading actors (who took the evening's "frost" as a reflection on themselves, an injury to their reputations), all in excited clamor; but when they saw their star enter they fell silent, and westervelt, sweating with excitement, turned to meet her. "you must not go on. it is not the money alone; it will ruin you with the public. it is not for you to lecture the people. they will not have it. such a failure i have never seen. it was not a 'frost,' it was a frozen solid. we will announce _the baroness_ for to-morrow. the pressmen are waiting below. i shall tell them?" his voice rose in question. "mr. westervelt, this is my answer, and it is final. i will not take the play off, and i shall expect you to work with your best energy to make it a success. one night does not prove _lillian_ a failure. the audience to-night was not up to it, but that condemns the auditors, not the play. i do not wish to hear any more argument. good-night." the astounded and crestfallen manager bowed his head and went out. helen turned to the others. "i am tired of this discussion. one would think the sky had fallen--from all this tumult. i am sorry for you, mr. royleston, but you are no deeper in the slough than miss collins and the rest, and they are not complaining. now let us sit down to our supper and talk of something else." royleston excused himself and went away, and only hugh, miss collins, miss carmichael, and the old mother drank with the star to celebrate the first performance of _lillian's duty_. "i have had a letter from mr. douglass," helen said, softly, when they were alone. "poor fellow, he is absolutely prostrate in the dust, and asks me to throw him overboard as our jonah. put yourself in his place, hugh, before speaking harshly of him." "i don't like a coward," he replied, contemptuously. "why didn't he face the music to-night? i never so much as set eyes on him after he came in. he must have been hiding in the gallery. he leads you into this crazy venture and then deserts you. a man who does that is a puppy." a spark of amusement lit helen's eyes. "you might call him that when you meet him next." hugh, with a sudden remembrance of the playwright's powerful frame, replied, a little less truculently: "i'll call him something more fit than that when i see him. but we won't see him again. he's out of the running." helen laid her cheek on her folded hands, and, with a smile which cleared the air like a burst of sunshine, said, laughingly: "hugh, you're a big, bad boy. you should be out on the ice skating instead of managing a theatre. you have no more idea of george douglass than a bear has of a lion. this mood of depression is only a cloud; it will pass and you will be glad to beg his pardon. my faith in him and in _lillian's duty_ is unshaken. he has the artistic temperament, but he has also the pertinacity of genius. come, let's all go to bed and forget our hurts." and with this she rose and kissed her mother good-night. hugh, still moody, replied, with sudden tenderness: "it hurt me to see them go out on your last scene. i can't forgive douglass for that." she patted his cheek. "never mind that, hughie. 'this, too, shall pass away.'" x at two o'clock, when douglass returned to his hotel, tired and reckless of any man's scorn, the night clerk smiled and said, as he handed him a handful of letters, "i hear you had a great audience, mr. douglass." the playwright did not discover helen's note among his letters till he had reached his room, and then, without removing his overcoat, he stood beneath the gas-jet and read: "my dear author,--my heart bleeds for you. i know how you must suffer, but you must not despair. a first night is not conclusive. do not blame yourself. i took up your play with my eyes open to consequences. you are wrong if you think even the failure of this play (which i do not grant) can make any difference in my feeling towards you. the power of the lines, your high purpose, remain. suppose it does fail? you are young and fertile of imagination. you can write another and better play in a month, and i will produce it. my faith in you is not weakened, for i know your work is good. i have turned my back on the old art and the old rôles; i need you to supply me with new ones. this is no light thing with me. i confess to surprise and dismay to-night, but i should not have been depressed had you been there beside me. i was deeply hurt and puzzled by your absence, but i think i understand how sore and wounded you were. come in to see me to-morrow, as usual, and we will consider what can be done with this play and plan for a new one. come! you are too strong and too proud to let a single unfriendly audience dishearten you. we will read the papers together at luncheon and laugh at the critics. don't let your enemies think they have driven you into retirement. forget them in some new work, and remember my faith in you is not shaken." this letter, so brave, so gravely tender and so generous, filled him with love, choked him with grateful admiration. "you are the noblest woman in the world, the bravest, the most forgiving. i will not disappoint you." his bitterness and shame vanished, his fists clinched in new resolution. "you are right. i can write another play, and i will. my critics shall laugh from the other side of their mouths. they shall not have the satisfaction of knowing that they have even wounded me. i will justify your faith in my powers. i will set to work to-morrow--this very night--on a new play. i will make you proud of me yet, helen, my queen, my love." with that word all his doubts vanished. "yes, i love her, and i will win her." in the glow of his love-born resolution he began to search among his papers for an unfinished scenario called _enid's choice_. when he had found it he set to work upon it with a concentration that seemed uncanny in the light of his day's distraction and dismay. _lillian's duty_ and the evening's bitter failure had already grown dim in his mind. helen's understanding of him was precise. he was of those who never really capitulate to the storm, no matter how deeply they may sink at times in the trough of the sea. as everything had been against him up to that moment, he was not really taken by surprise. all his life he had gone directly against the advice and wishes of his family. he had studied architecture rather than medicine, and had set his face towards the east rather than the west. every dollar he had spent he had earned by toil, and the things he loved had always seemed the wasteful and dangerous things. he wrote plays in secret when he should have been soliciting commissions for warehouses, and read novels when he should have been intent upon his business. "it was impossible that i should succeed so quickly, so easily, even with the help of one so powerful as helen merival. it is my fate to work for what i get." and with this return of his belief that to himself alone he must look for victory, his self-poise and self-confidence came back. he looked strong, happy, and very handsome next morning as he greeted the clerk of the embric, who had no guile in his voice as he said: "good-morning, mr. douglass. i hear that your play made a big hit last night." "i reckon it hit something," he replied, with easy evasion. the clerk continued: "my wife's sister was there. she liked it very much." "i am very glad she did," replied douglass, heartily. as he walked over towards the elevator a couple of young men accosted him. "good-morning, mr. douglass. we are from _the blazon_. we would like to get a little talk out of you about last night's performance. how do you feel about the verdict." "it was a 'frost,'" replied douglass, with engaging candor, "but i don't consider the verdict final. i am not at all discouraged. you see, it's all in getting a hearing. miss merival gave my play a superb production, and her impersonation ought to fill the theatre, even if _lillian's duty_ were an indifferent play, which it is not. miss merival, in changing the entire tone and character of her work, must necessarily disappoint a certain type of admirer. last night's audience was very largely made up of those who hate serious drama, and naturally they did not like my text. all that is a detail. we will create our own audience." the reporters carried away a vivid impression of the author's youth, strength, and confidence, and one of them sat down to convey to the public his admiration in these words: "mr. douglass is a western man, and boldly shies his buckskin into the arena and invites the keenest of his critics to take it up. if any one thinks the 'roast' of his play has even singed the author's wings, he is mistaken. he is very much pleased with himself. as he says, a hearing is a great thing. he may be a chopping-block, but he don't look it." helen met her playwright with an anxious, tired look upon her face, but when he touched her fingers to his lips and said, "at your service, my lady," she laughed in radiant, sudden relief. "oh, but i'm glad to see you looking so gay and strong. i was heart-sore for you last night. i fancied you in all kinds of torture." his face darkened. "i was. my blue devils assailed me, but i vanquished them, thanks to your note," he added, with a burning glance deep-sent, and his voice fell to a tenderness which betrayed his heart. "i think you are the most tolerant star that ever put out a hand to a poor author. what a beast i was to run away! but i couldn't help it then. i wanted to see you, but i couldn't face westervelt and royleston. i couldn't endure to hear them say, 'i told you so.' you understood, i'm sure of it." she studied him with admiring eyes. "yes, i understood--later. at first i was crushed. it shook my faith in you for a little while." she put off this mood (whose recollected shadows translated into her face filled douglass's throat with remorse) and a smile disclosed her returning sense of humor. "oh, hugh and westervelt are angry--perfectly purple with indignation against you for leading me into a trap--" "i feared that. that is why i begged you to throw my play--" she laid a finger on her lips, for mrs. macdavitt came in. "mother, here is mr. douglass. i told you he would come. i hope you are hungry. let us take our places. hugh is fairly used up this morning. do you see that bunch of papers?" she asked, pointing at a ragged pile. "after breakfast we take our medicine." "no," he said, firmly. "i have determined not to read a line of them. to every word you speak i will listen, but i will not be harrowed up by a hodgepodge of personal prejudices written by my enemies before the play was produced or in a hurried hour between the fall of the curtain and going to press. i know too much about how these judgments are cooked up. i saw the faults of the play a good deal clearer than did any of those sleepy gentlemen who came to the theatre surfeited and weary and resentful of your change of programme." she looked thoughtful. "perhaps you are right," she said, at last. "i will not read them. i know what they will say--" "i thought the play was very beautiful," said mrs. macdavitt. "and my nellie was grand." helen patted her mother's hand. "we have one loyal supporter, mr. douglass." "ye've many more, if the truth were known," said the old mother, stoutly, for she liked young douglass. "i believe that," cried helen. "did you consider that as i change my rôles and plays i must also, to a large extent, change my audience? the people who like me as _baroness telka_ are amazed and angered by your play. they will not come to see me. but there are others," she added, with a smile at the slang phrase. "i thought of that, but not till last night." "it will take longer to inform and interest our new public than any of us realized. i am determined to keep _lillian_ on for at least four weeks. meanwhile you can prune it and set to work on a new one. have you a theme?" "i have a scenario," he triumphantly answered. "i worked it out this morning between two o'clock and four." she reached her hand to him impulsively, and as he took it a warm flush came into her face and her eyes were suffused with happy tears. "that's brave," she said. "i told them you could not be crushed. i knew you were of those who fight hardest when closest pressed. you must tell me about it at once--not this minute, of course, but when we are alone." when hugh came in a few minutes later he found them discussing a new automobile which had just made a successful trial run. the play became the topic of conversation again, but on a different plane. hugh was blunt, but not so abusive as he had declared his intention to be. "there's nothing in _lillian_," he said--"not a dollar. we're throwing our money away. we might better close the theatre. we won't have fifty dollars in the house to-night. it's all right as a story, but it won't do for the stage." douglass kept his temper. "it was too long; but i can better that in a few hours. i'll have a much closer-knit action by wednesday night." as they were rising from the table westervelt entered with a face like a horse, so long and lax was it. "they have burned us alive!" he exclaimed, as he sank into a chair and mopped his red neck. he shook like a gelatine pudding, and helen could not repress a smile. "your mistake was in reading them. we burned the critics." the manager stared in vast amaze. "you didn't read the papers?" "not one." "well, they say--" she stopped him. "don't tell me what they say--not a word. we did our best and we did good work, and will do better to-night, so don't come here like a bird of ill-omen, herr westervelt. go kill the critics if you feel like it, but don't worry us with tales of woe. our duty is to the play. we cannot afford to waste nervous energy writhing under criticism. what is said is said, and repeating it only hurts us all." her tone became friendly. "really, you take it too hard. it is only a matter of a few thousand dollars at the worst, and to free you from all further anxiety i will assume the entire risk. i will rent your theatre." "no, no!" cried hugh. "we can't afford to do that." "we can't afford to do less. i insist," she replied, firmly. the manager lifted his fat shoulders in a convulsive shrug. his face indicated despair of her folly. "good gott! well, you are the doctor, only remember there will not be one hundred people in the house to-night." he began to recover speech. "think of that! helen merival playing to empty chairs--in _my_ theatre. himmel!" "it is sad, i confess, but not hopeless, herr westervelt. we must work the harder to let the thoughtful people of the city know what we are trying to do." "thoughtful people!" again his scorn ran beyond his words for a moment and his tongue grew german. "doughtful beople. dey dondt bay dwo tollors fer seats! _our_ pusiness iss to attract the rich--the gay theatre-goers. who is going to pring a theatre-barty to see a sermon on the stage--hay?" "you are unjust to _lillian's duty_. it is not a sermon; it is a powerful acting play--the best part, from a purely acting standpoint, i have ever undertaken to do. but we will not discuss that now. the venture is my own, and you will be safe-guarded. i will instruct my brother to make the new arrangement at once." with a final, despairing shrug the manager rose and went out, and helen, turning an amused face to douglass, asked, humorously: "isn't he the typical manager?--in the clouds to-day, stuck in the mud to-morrow. sometimes he is excruciatingly funny, and then he disgusts me. they're almost all alike. if business should be unexpectedly good to-night he would be a man transformed. his face would shine, he would grasp every actor by the hand, he would fairly fall upon your neck; but if business went down ten dollars on wednesday night then look for the 'icy mitt' again. big as he is he curls up like a sensitive plant when touched by adversity. he can't help it; he's really a child--a big, fat boy. but come, we must now consider the cuts for _lillian_; then to our scenario." as the attendants whisked away the breakfast things helen brought out the original manuscript of _lillian's duty_, and took a seat beside her playwright. "now, what is the matter with the first act?" "nothing." "i agree. what is out in the second?" "needs cutting." "where?" "here and here and here," he answered, turning the leaves rapidly. "i felt it. i couldn't hold them there. royleston's part wants the knife badly. now, the third act?" "it is too diffuse, and the sociologic background gets obstinately into the foreground. as i sat there last night i saw that the interest was too abstract, too impersonal for the ordinary play-goer. i can better that. the fourth act must be entirely rewritten. i will do that this afternoon." she faced him, glowing with recovered joy and recovered confidence. "now you are richard once again upon his horse." "a hobby horse," he answered, with a laugh, then sobered. "in truth, my strength comes from you. at least you roused me. i was fairly in the grasp of the evil one when your note came. your splendid confidence set me free. it was beautiful of you to write me after i had sneaked away like a wounded coyote. i cannot tell you what your letter was to me." she held up a finger. "hush! no more of that. we are forgetting, and you are becoming personal." she said this in a tone peculiarly at variance with the words. "now read me the scenario of the new play. i am eager to know what has moved you, set you on high again." the creative fire began to glow in his eyes. "this is to be as individual, as poetic, as the other was sociologic. the character you are to play is that of a young girl who knows nothing of life, but a great deal of books. _enid's_ whole world is revealed by the light which streams from the window of a convent library--a gray, cold light with deep shadows. she is tall and pale and severe of line, but her blue eyes are deep and brooding. her father, a western mine-owner, losing his second wife, calls on his daughter to return from the canadian convent in which she has spent seven years. she takes her position as an heiress in his great house. she is plunged at once into the midst of a pleasure-seeking, thoughtless throng of young people whose interests in life seem to her to be grossly material. she becomes the prey of adventurers, male and female, and has nothing but her innate purity to defend her. ultimately there come to her two men who type the forces at war around her, and she is forced to choose between them." as he outlined this new drama the mind of the actress took hold of _enid's_ character, so opposite in energy to _lillian_, and its great possibilities exalted her, filled her with admiration for the mind which could so quickly create a new character. "i see i shall never want for parts while you are my playwright," she said, when he had finished. "oh, i can write--so long as i have you to write for and to work for," he replied. "you are the greatest woman in the world. your faith in me, your forgiveness of my cowardice, have given me a sense of power--" she spoke quickly and with an effort to smile. "we are getting personal again." he bowed to the reminder. "i beg your pardon. i will not offend again." xi helen's warning was not as playful as it seemed to her lover, for something in the glow of his eyes and something vibrant in the tones of his voice had disturbed her profoundly. the fear of something which he seemed perilously near saying filled her with unrest, bringing up questions which had thus far been kept in the background of her scheme of life. "some time i shall marry, i suppose," she had said to one of her friends, "but not now; my art will not permit it. wedlock to an actress," she added, "is almost as significant as death. it may mean an end of her playing--a death to her ambitions. when i decide to marry i shall also decide to give up the stage." "oh, i don't know," replied the other. "there are plenty who do not. in fact, mary anderson is the exception. when the conquering one comes along you'll marry him and make him your leading man, the way so many others do." "when 'the conquering one' comes along i shall despise the stage," retorted helen, with laughing eyes--"at least i'm told i will." "pish! you'd give a dozen husbands for the joy of facing a big first-night audience. i tell horace that if it comes to a matter of choice for me he'll have to go. gracious goodness! i could no more live without the applause of the stage--" "how about the children?" "the children! oh, that's different. the dear tots! well, luckily, they're not absolutely barred. it's hard to leave the darlings behind. when i go on the road i miss their sweet little caresses; but i have to earn their bread, you see, and what better career is open to me." helen grew grave also. "i don't like to think of myself as an _old_ actress. i want to have a fixed abiding-place when i am forty-five. gray hairs should shine in the light of a fireside." "there's always peroxide," put in the other, and their little mood of seriousness vanished. it was, indeed, a very unusual situation for a young and charming actress. the hotel embric stood just where three great streams of wealth and power and fashion met and mingled. its halls rustled with the spread silks of pride and glittered with the jewels of spendthrift vanity, and yet few knew that high in the building one of the most admired women of the city lived in almost monastic seclusion. the few men who recognized her in the elevator or in the hall bowed with deferential admiration. she was never seen in the dining-rooms, and it was known that she denied herself to all callers except a very few intimate friends. this seclusion--this close adherence to her work--added to her mystery, and her allurement in the eyes of her suitors increased as they sought vainly for an introduction. it was reported that this way of life was "all a matter of business, a cold, managerial proposition," a method of advertising; but so far as helen herself was implicated, it was a method of protection. she had an instinctive dislike, almost a fear, of those who sought her acquaintance, and when westervelt, with blundering tactlessness or impudent design, brought round some friends, she froze them both with a single glance. furthermore, by denying herself to one she was able to escape the other, and thus save herself for her work; for though she had grown to hate the plays through which she reached the public, she believed in the power and the dignity of her art. it was a means of livelihood, it gratified her vanity; but it was more than this. in a dim way she felt herself in league with a mighty force, and the desire to mark an epoch in the american drama came to her. this, too, was a form of egotism, but a high form. "i do not care to return to the old," she said. "there are plenty of women to do _beatrice_ and _viola_ and _lady macbeth_. i am modern. i believe in the modern and i believe in america. i don't care to start a fad for ibsen or shaw. i would like to develop our own drama." "you will have to eliminate the tired business-man and his fat wife and their late dinners," said a cynical friend. "all business-men are not tired and all wives are not fat. i believe there is a public ready to pay their money to see good american drama. i have found a man who can write--" "beware of that man," said the cynic, with a twofold meaning in his tone. "'he is a dreamer; let him pass.'" "i do not fear him," she replied, with a gay smile. xii douglass now set to work on his second play with teeth clinched. "i will win out in spite of them," he said. "they think i am beaten, but i am just beginning to fight." as the days wore on his self-absorption became more and more marked. all his morning hours were spent at his writing, and when he came to helen he was cold and listless, and talked of nothing but _enid_ and her troubles. even as they rode in the park his mind seemed forever revolving lines and scenes. in the midst of her attempt to amuse him, to divert him, he returned to his theme. he invited her judgments and immediately forgot to listen, so morbidly self-centred was he. he made no further changes in the book of _lillian's duty_, but put aside westervelt's request with a wave of his hand. "i leave all that to miss merival," he said. "i can't give it any thought now." from one point of view helen could not but admire this power of concentration, but when she perceived that her playwright's work had filled his mind to the exclusion of herself she began to suffer. her pride resented his indifference, and she was saved from anger and disgust only by the beauty of the writing he brought to her. "the fury of the poet is on him. i must not complain," she thought, and yet a certain regret darkened her face. "all that was so sweet and fine has passed out of our intercourse," she sadly admitted to herself. "i am no longer even the great actress to him. once he worshipped me--i felt it; now i am a commonplace friend. is the fault in me? am i one whom familiarity lessens in value?" she did not permit herself to think that this was a lasting change, that he had forever passed beyond the lover, and that she would never again fill his world with mystery and light and longing. and yet this monstrous recession was the truth. in the stress of his work the glamour had utterly died out of douglass's conception of helen, just as the lurid light of her old-time advertising had faded from the bill-boards and from the window displays of broadway. as cold, black, and gray instantaneous photographs had taken the place of the gorgeous, jewel-bedecked, elaborate lithographs of the old plays, so now his thought of her was without warmth. helen became aware, too, of an outside change. her friends used this as a further warning. "you are becoming commonplace to the public," one said, with a touch of bitterness. "your admirers no longer wonder. go back to the glitter and the glory." "no," she replied. "i will regain my place, and with my own unaided character--and my lines," she added, with a return to her faith in douglass. and yet her meetings with him were now a species of torture. her self-respect suffered with every glance of his eyes. he resembled a man suffering from a fever. at times he talked with tiresome intensity about some new situation, quoting his own characters, beating and hammering at his scenes until helen closed her eyes for very weariness. only at wide intervals did he return to some dim realization of his indebtedness to her. one day he gratified her by saying, with a note of tenderness in his voice: "you are keeping the old play on; don't do it. throw it away; it is a tract--a sermon." then spoiled it all by bitterly adding, "go back to your old successes." "you used to dislike me in such rôles," she answered, with pain and reproach in face and voice. "it will only be for a little while," he replied, with a swift return to his enthusiasm. "in two weeks i'll have the new part ready for you." but the sting of his advice remained long in the proud woman's heart. he went no more to the theatre. "i can't bear to see you playing to empty seats," he declared, in explanation, but in reality he had a horror of the scene of his defeat. he came to lunch less often, and when they went driving or visiting the galleries all the old-time, joyous companionship was gone. not infrequently, as they stood before some picture or sat at a concert, he would whisper, "i have it; the act will end with _enid_ doing so-and-so," and not infrequently he hurried away from her to catch some fugitive illumination which he feared to lose. he came to her reception-room only once of a saturday afternoon, just before the play closed. "how is the house?" he asked, with indifference. "bad." "very bad?" "oh yes." "i must work the harder," he replied, and sank into a sombre silence. he never came inside again. helen was deeply wounded by this visit, and was sorely tempted to take him at his word and end the production, but she did not. she could not, so deep had her interest in him become. loyal to him she must remain, loyal to his work. as his bank account grew perilously small, douglass fell into deeps of black despair, wherein all imaginative power left him. at such times the lack of depth and significance in his work appalled him. "it is hopelessly poor and weak; it does not deserve to succeed. i've a mind to tear it in rags." but he resisted this spirit, partly restrained by some hidden power traceable to the influence of helen and partly by his desire to retrieve himself in the estimation of the world, but mainly because of some hidden force in his own brain, and set to work each time filing and polishing with renewed care of word and phrase. slowly the second drama took on form and quality, developing a web of purpose not unlike that involved in a strain of solemn music, and at the last the author's attention was directed towards eliminating minute inharmonies or to the insertion of cacophony with design to make the _andante_ passages the more enthrallingly sweet. as the play neared completion his absorption began to show results. he lost vigor, and helen's eyes took anxious note of his weariness. "you are growing thin and white, mr. author," she said to him, with solicitude in her voice. "you don't look like the rugged western scotchman you were when i found you. am i to be your vampire?" "on the contrary, i am to destroy you, to judge from the money you are losing on my wretched play. i begin to fear i can never repay you, not even with a great success. i have days when i doubt my power to write a successful drama." "you work too hard. you must not ruin your health by undue haste. a week or two will not make a killing difference with us. i don't mind playing _lillian_ another month, if you need the time. it is good discipline, and, besides, i enjoy the part." "that is because you are good and loyal to a poor writer," he answered, with a break to humble appreciation of her bounty and her bravery. "be patient with me," he pleaded. "_enid_ will recoup you for all you have suffered. it will win back all your funds. i have made it as near pure poetry as our harsh, definite life and our elliptical speech will permit." and straightway his mind was filled with dreams of conquering, even while he faced his love, so strangely are courtship and ambition mingled in the heart of man. at last he began to exult, to boast, to call attention to the beauty of the lines spoken by _enid_. "see how her simplicity and virginal charm are enhanced by the rugged, remorseless strength, and by the conscienceless greed of the men surrounding her, and yet she sees in them something admirable. they are like soldiers to her. they are the heroes who tunnel mountains and bridge cataracts. when she looks from her slender, white hands to their gross and powerful bodies she shudders with a sort of fearsome admiration." "can all that appear in the lines?" "yes. in the lines and in the acting; it _must_ appear in your acting," he added, with a note of admonition. her face clouded with pain. "he begins to doubt my ability to delineate his work," she thought, and turned away in order that he might not know how deeply he had wounded her. xiii helen's pride contended unceasingly with her love during the weeks of her lover's alienation; for, with all her sweet dispraise of herself, she was very proud of her place in the world, and it was not easy to bow her head to neglect. sometimes when he forgot to answer her or rushed away to his room with a hasty good-bye, she raged with a perfectly justifiable anger. "you are selfish and brutal," she cried out after him on one occasion. "you think only of yourself. you are vain, egotistical. all that i have done is forgotten the moment you are stung by criticism," and she tried to put him aside. "what do his personal traits matter to me?" she said, as if in answer to her own charge. "he is my dramatist, not my husband." but when he came back to her, an absent-minded smile upon his handsome lips, holding in his hands some pages of exquisite dialogue, she humbled herself before him. "after all, what am i beside him? he is a poet, a creative mind, while i am only a mimic," and straightway she began to make excuses for him. "have i not always had the same selfish, desperate concentration? am i always a sweet and lovely companion? certainly the artistic temperament is not a strange thing to me." nevertheless, she suffered. it was hard to be the one optimist in the midst of so many pessimists. the nightly performance to an empty house wore on her most distressingly, and no wonder. she, who had never hitherto given a moment's troubled thought to such matters, now sat in her dressing-room listening to the infrequent, hollow clang of the falling chair seats, attempting thus to estimate the audience straggling sparsely, desolately in. to re-enter the stage after an exit was like an icy shower-bath. each night she hoped to find the receipts larger, and indeed they did from time to time advance suddenly, only to drop back to desolating driblets the following night. these gains were due to the work of the loyal hugh as advertising agent, or to some desperate discount sale to a club on the part of westervelt, who haunted the front of the house, a pale and flabby wraith of himself, racking his brain, swearing strange, german oaths, and perpetually conjuring up new advertising devices. his suffering approached the tragic. his theatre, which had once rustled with gay and cheerful people, was now cold, echoing, empty, repellent. nothing came from the balcony, wherein helen's sweet voice wandered, save a faint, half-hearted hand-clapping. no one sat in the boxes, and only here and there a man wore evening-dress. the women were always intense, but undemonstrative. under these sad conditions the music of the orchestra became factitious, a brazen clatter raised to reinforce the courage of the ushers, who flitted about like uneasy spirits. there were no carriages in waiting, and the audience returned to the street in silence like funeral guests from a church. hugh remained bravely at his post in front. each night after a careful toilet he took his stand in the lobby watching with calculating eye and impassive face the stream of people rushing by his door. "if we could only catch one in a hundred?" he said to westervelt. "i never expected to see helen merival left like this. i didn't think it possible. i thought she could make any piece go. to play to fifty dollars was out of my reckoning. it is slaughter." once his disgust topped all restraint, and he burst forth to helen: "look at this man douglass. he bamboozles us into producing his play, then runs off and leaves us to sink or swim. he won't even change the lines--says he's working on a new one that will make us all 'barrels of money.' that's the way of these dramatists--always full of some new pipe-dream. meanwhile we're going into the hole every night. i can't stand it. we were making all kinds of money with _the baroness_. come, let's go back to it!" his voice filled with love, for she was his ideal. "sis, i hate to see you doing this. it cuts me to the heart. why, some of these newspaper shads actually pretend to pity you--you, the greatest romantic actress in america! this man douglass has got you hypnotized. honestly, there's something uncanny about the way he has queered you. brace up. send him whirling. he isn't worth a minute of your time, nellie--now, that's the fact. he's a crazy freak. say the word and i'll fire him and his misbegotten plays to-night." to this helen made simple reply. "no, hugh; i intend to stand to my promise. we will keep _lillian_ on till the new play is ready. it would be unfair to mr. douglass--" "but he has lost all interest in it himself. he never shows up in front, never makes a suggestion." "he is saving all his energy for the new play." hugh's lips twisted in scorn. "the new play! yes, he's filled with a lot of pale-blue moonshine now. he's got another 'idea.' that's the trouble with these literary chaps, they're so swelled by their own notions they can't write what the common audience wants. his new play will be a worse 'frost' than this. you'll ruin us all if you don't drop him. we stand to lose forty thousand dollars on _lillian_ already." "nevertheless, i shall give the new play a production," she replied, and hugh turned away in speechless dismay and disgust. the papers were filled with stinging allusions to her failure. a shrewd friend from boston met her with commiseration in her face. "it's a good play and a fine part," she said, "but they don't want you in such work. they like you when you look wicked." "i know that, but i'm tired of playing the wanton adventuress for such people. i want to appeal to a more thoughtful public for the rest of my stage career." "why not organize a church like mrs. allinger?" sneered another less friendly critic. "the stage is no place for sermons." "you are horribly unjust. _lillian's duty_ is a powerful acting drama, and has its audience if i could reach it. perhaps i'm not the one to do mr. douglass's work, after all," she added, humbly. deep in her heart helen macdavitt the woman was hungry for some one to tell her that he loved her. she longed to put her head down on a strong man's breast to weep. "if douglass would only open his arms to me i would go to him. i would not care what the world says." she wished to see him reinstate himself not merely with the public but in her own estimate of him. as she believed that by means of his pen he would conquer, she comprehended that his present condition was fevered, unnatural, and she hoped--she believed--it to be temporary. "success will bring back the old, brave, sanguine, self-contained douglass whose forthright power and self-confidence won my admiration," she said, and with this secret motive to sustain her she went to her nightly delineation of _lillian_. she had lived long without love, and her heart now sought for it with an intensity which made her art of the highest account only as served the man she loved. praise and publicity were alike of no value unless they brought success and happiness to him whose eyes called her with growing power. xiv at last the new play was finished and the author brought it and laid it in the hands of the actress as if it were a new-born child, and her heart leaped with joy. he was no longer the stern and self-absorbed writer. his voice was tender as he said, "i give this to you in the hope that it may regain for you what you have lost." the tears sprang to helen's eyes, and a word of love rose to her lips. "it is very beautiful, and we will triumph in it." he seemed about to speak some revealing, sealing word, but the presence of the mother restrained him. helen, recognizing the returning tide of his love, to which she related no self-seeking, was radiant. "come, we will put it in rehearsal at once," she said. "i know you are as eager to have it staged as i. i will not read it. i will wait till you read it for the company to-morrow morning." "i do not go to that ordeal with the same joy as before," he admitted. the company met him with far less of interest in this reading of the second play, and his own manner was distinctly less confident. hugh and westervelt maintained silence, but their opposition was as palpable as a cold wind. royleston's cynical face expressed an open contempt. the lesser people were anxious to know the kind of characters they were to play, and a few were sympathetically eager to hear the play itself. he read the manuscript with some assurance of manner, but made no suggestion as to the stage business, contenting himself with producing an effect on the minds of the principals; but as the girlish charm of _enid's_ character made itself felt, the women of the company began to glow. "why, it's very beautiful!" they exclaimed. hugh, on the scent for another "problem," began to relax, and even westervelt grunted a few words of approval, qualified at once by the whispered words, "not a cent in it--not a cent." royleston, between his acts, regarded the air with dreamy gaze. "i don't see myself in that part yet, but it's very good--very good." the reading closed rather well, producing the desired effect of "happy tears" on the faces of several of the feminine members of the cast, and helen again spoke of her pleasure in such work and asked them to "lend themselves" to the lines. "this play is a kind of poem," she said, "and makes a direct appeal to women, and yet i believe it will also win its way to the hearts of the men." as they rose douglass returned the manuscript to helen with a bow. "i renounce all rights. hereafter i am but a spectator." "i think you are right in not attempting rehearsals. you are worn and tired. why don't you go away for a time? a sea voyage would do you good." "no, i must stay and face the music, as my father used to say. i do not wish to seem to run away, and, besides, i may be able to offer a suggestion now and then." "oh, i didn't mean to have you miss the first night. you could come back for that. if you stay we will be glad of any suggestion at any time--won't we, hugh?" hugh refused to be brought into any marked agreement. "of course, the author's advice is valuable, but with a man like olquest--" "i don't want to see a single rehearsal," replied douglass. "i want to have the joy this time of seeing my characters on the opening night fully embodied. if the success of the play depended upon my personal supervision, the case would be different, but it doesn't. i trust you and olquest. i will keep away." again they went to lunch together, but the old-time elation was sadly wanting. hugh was silent and douglass gloomy. helen cut the luncheon for a ride in the park, which did them good, for the wind was keen and inspiriting and the landscape wintry white and blue and gold. she succeeded in provoking her playwright to a smile now and then by some audacious sally against the sombre silence of her cavaliers. they halted for half an hour in the upper park while she called the squirrels to her and fed them from her own hands--those wonderful hands that had so often lured with jewels and threatened with steel. no one seeing this refined, sweet woman in tasteful furs would have related her with the _gismonda_ and _istar_, but douglass thrilled with sudden accession of confidence. "how beautiful she will be as _enid_!" he thought, as, with a squirrel on her shoulder, she turned with shining face to softly call: "this is david. isn't he a dear?" she waited until the keen-eyed rascals had taken her last nut, then slowly returned to the carriage side. "i like to win animals like that. it thrills my heart to have them set their fearless little feet on my arm." hugh uttered a warning. "you want to be careful how you handle them; they bite like demons." "oh, now, don't spoil it!" she exclaimed. "i'm sure they know me and trust me." douglass was moved to their defence, and strove during the remainder of the ride to add to helen's pleasure; and this effort on his part made her eyes shine with joy--a joy almost pathetic in its intensity. as they parted at the door of his hotel he said: "if you do not succeed this time i will utterly despair of the public. i know how sweet you will be as _enid_. they must bow down before you as i do." "i will give my best powers to this--be sure nothing will be neglected at rehearsal." "i know you will," he answered, feelingly. she was better than her promise, laboring tirelessly in the effort to embody through her company the poetry, the charm, which lay even in the smaller rôles of the play. that one so big and brusque as douglass should be able to define so many and such fugitive feminine emotions was a constant source of wonder and delight to her. the discovery gave her trust and confidence in him, and to her admiration of his power was added something which stole into her mind like music, causing foolish dreams and moments of reckless exaltation wherein she asked herself whether to be a great actress was not, after all, a thing of less profit than to be a wife and mother. she saw much less of him than she wished, for hugh remained coldly unresponsive in his presence, and threw over their meetings a restraint which prevented the joyous companionship of their first acquaintanceship. more than this, helen was conscious of being watched and commented upon, not merely by hugh and westervelt, but by guests of the hotel and representatives of the society press. douglass, in order to shield her, and also because his position in the world was less secure than ever, returned to his self-absorbed, impersonal manner of speech. he took no part in the rehearsals, except to rush in at the close with some changes which he wished embodied at once, regardless of the vexation and confusion resulting. his brain was still perilously active, and not only cut and refined the dialogue, but made most radical modifications of the "business." helen began to show the effects of the strain upon her; for she was not merely carrying the burden of _lillian's duty_, and directing rehearsals of the new piece--she was deeply involved in the greatest problem than can come to a woman. she loved douglass; but did she love him strongly enough to warrant her in saying so--when he should ask her? his present poverty she put aside as of no serious account. a man so physically powerful, so mentally alert, was rich in possibilities. the work which he had already done entitled him to rank above millionaires, but that his very forcefulness, his strong will, his dominating idealism would make him her master--would inevitably change her relation to the world--had already changed it, in fact--she was not ready to acknowledge. up to this time her love for the stage had been single-minded. no man had touched her heart with sufficient fire to disturb her serenity, but now she was not merely following where he led, she was questioning the value and morality of her avocation. "if i cannot play high rôles, if the public will not have me in work like this i am now rehearsing, then i will retire to private life. i will no longer be a plaything for the man-headed monster," she said one day. "you should have retired before sinking your good money in these douglass plays," hugh bitterly rejoined. "it looks now as though we might end in the police station." "i have no fear of that, hugh; i am perfectly certain that _enid_ is to regain all our losses." "i wish i had your beautiful faith," he made answer, and walked away. westervelt said little to her during these days; he only looked, and his doleful gestures, his lugubrious grimaces, were comic. he stood to lose nothing, except possible profits for helen. she was paying him full rental, but he claimed that his house was being ruined. "it will get the reputation of doing nothing but failures," he said to her once, in a last despairing appeal, and to this she replied: "very well. if at the end of four weeks _enid_ does not pull up to paying business i will release you from your contract. i will free your house of helen merival." "no, no! i don't want that. i want you, but i do not want this crazy man douglass. you must not leave me!" his voice grew husky with appeal. "return to the old plays, sign a five-year contract, and i will make you again rich." "there will be time to consider that four weeks hence." "yes, but the season is passing." "courage, mein herr!" she said, with a smile, and left him almost in tears. xv as the opening night of _enid's choice_ drew near, douglass suffered greater anxiety but experienced far less of nervous excitement than before. he was shaking rather than tense of limb, and did not find it necessary to walk the streets to calm his physical excitement. he was depressed by the knowledge that a second defeat would leave him not merely discredited but practically penniless. nevertheless, he did not hide; on the contrary, he took a seat in one of the boxes. the audience he at once perceived was of totally different character and temper from that which greeted _lillian_. it was quiet and moderate in size, rather less than the capacity of the orchestra seats, for helen had asked that no "paper" be distributed. very few were in the gallery, and those who were had the quietly expectant air of students. only three of the boxes were occupied. the fashionables were entirely absent. plainly these people were in their seats out of interest in the play or because of the known power of the actress. they were not flushed with wine nor heavy with late dinners. the critics were out again in force, and this gave the young author a little satisfaction, for their presence was indisputable evidence of the interest excited by the literary value of his work. "i have made a gain," he said, grimly. "such men do not go gunning for small deer." but that they were after blood was shown by the sardonic grins with which they greeted one another as they strolled in at the door or met in the aisles. they expected another "killing," and were resolute to be thorough. from the friendly shelter of the curtain douglass could study the house without being seen, and a little glow of fire warmed his heart as he recognized five or six of the best-known literary men of the city seated well down towards the front, and the fifteen minutes' wait before the orchestra leader took his seat was rendered less painful by his pride in the really high character of his audience; but when the music blared forth and the curtain began to rise, his blood chilled with a return of the fear and doubt which had assailed him at the opening of _lillian's duty_. "it is impossible that i should succeed," was his thought. however, his high expectation of pleasure from the performance came back, for he had resolutely kept away from even the dress rehearsal, and the entire creative force of his lines was about to come to him. "in a few moments my characters will step forth from the world of the disembodied into the mellow glow of the foot-lights," he thought, and the anticipated joy of welcoming them warmed his brain and the chill clutch of fear fell away from his throat. the dignity and the glow, the possibilities of the theatre as a temple of literature came to him with almost humbling force. he knew that hugh and the actors had worked night and day towards this event--not for him (he realized how little they cared for him), but for helen. she, dear girl, thought of everybody, and forgot herself in the event. that westervelt and hugh had no confidence in the play, even after dress rehearsal, and that they had ignored him as he came into the theatre he knew, but he put these slights aside. westervelt was busy incessantly explaining to his intimates and to the critics that he no longer shared in merival's "grazy schemes. she guarantees me, orderwise i would glose my theatre," he said, with wheezy reiteration. the first scene opened brilliantly in the home of calvin wentworth, a millionaire mine-owner. into the garish and vulgarly ostentatious reception-room a pale, sweet slip of a girl drifted, with big eyes shining with joy of her home-coming. some of the auditors again failed to recognize the great actress, so wonderful was her transformation in look and manner. the critics themselves, dazed for a moment, led in the cheer which rose. this warmed the house to a genial glow, and the play started with spirit. helen, deeply relieved to see douglass in the box, advanced towards him, and their eyes met for an instant in a lovers' greeting. again that subtle interchange of fire took place. she looked marvellously young and light-hearted; it was hard to believe that she was worn with work and weakened by anxiety. her eyes were bright and her hands like lilies. the act closed with a very novel piece of business and some very unusual lines passing between _enid_ and _sidney_, her lover. towards this passage douglass now leaned, uplifted by a sense of power, exulting in helen's discernment, which had enabled her to realize, almost perfectly, his principal characters. he had not begun to perceive and suffer from the shortcomings of her support; but when _enid_ left the stage for a few minutes, the fumbling of the subordinate actors stung and irritated him. they had the wrong accent, they roared where they should have been strong and quiet, and the man who played _sidney_ stuttered and drawled, utterly unlike the character of the play. "oh, the wooden ass!" groaned douglass. "he'll ruin the piece." a burning rage swept over him. so much depended on this performance, and now--"i should have directed the rehearsals. i was a fool to neglect them. why does she keep the sot?" and part of his anger flowed out towards the star. helen, returning, restored the illusion, so complete was her assumption of the part, and the current set swiftly towards that unparalleled ending, those deeply significant lines which had come to the author only late in the week, but which formed, indeed, the very key to _sidney's_ character--they were his chief enthusiasm in this act, suggesting, as they did, so much. tingling, aching with pleasurable suspense, the author waited. the curtain fell on a totally different effect--with _sidney_ reading utterly different lines! for a moment the author sat stunned, unable to comprehend what had happened. at last the revelation came. "they have failed to incorporate the changes i made. they have gone back to the weak, trashy ending which i discarded. they have ruined the scene utterly!" and, looking at two of the chief critics, he caught them in the act of laughing evilly, even as they applauded. with face set in rage, he made his way back of the curtain towards helen's room. she met him at the door, her face shining with joy. "it's going! it's going!" she cried out, gleefully. his reply was like a blow in the face. "why didn't you incorporate that new ending of the act?" he asked, with bitter harshness. helen staggered, and her hands rose as if to shield herself from violence. she stammered, "i--i--i--couldn't. you see, the lines came so late. they would have thrown us all out. i will do so to-morrow," she added. "to-morrow!" he answered, through his set teeth. "why to-morrow? to-night is the time. don't you see i'm staking my reputation on to-night? to-night we win or lose. the house is full of critics. they will write of what we do, not of what we are _going_ to do." he began to pace up and down, trembling with disappointment and fury. he turned suddenly. "how about the second act? did you make those changes in _sidney's_ lines? i infer not," he added, with a sneer. helen spoke with difficulty, her bosom heaving, her eyes fixed in wonder and pain on his face. "no. how could i? you brought them only yesterday morning; they would have endangered the whole act." then, as the indignity, the injustice, the burning shame of his assault forced themselves into her mind, she flamed out in reproach: "why did you come back here at all? why didn't you stay away, as you did before? you are cruel, heartless!" the tears dimmed her eyes. "you've ruined my whole performance. you've broken my heart. have you no soul--no sense of honor? go away! i hate you! i'll never speak to you again! i hate you!" and she turned, leaving him dumb and staring, in partial realization of his selfish, brutal demands. hugh approached him with lowering brows and clinched hands. "you've done it now. you've broken her nerve, and she'll fail in her part. haven't you any sense? we pick you off the street and feed you and clothe you--and do your miserable plays--and you rush in here and strike my sister, helen merival, in the face. i ought to kick you into the street!" douglass stood through this like a man whose brain is benumbed by the crashing echoes of a thunderbolt, hardly aware of the fury of the speaker, but this final threat cleared his mind and stung him into reply. "you are at liberty to try that," he answered, and an answering ferocity shone in his eyes. "i gave you this play; it's good work, and, properly done, would succeed. ruin it if you want to. i am done with it and you." "thank god!" exclaimed the brother, as the playwright turned away. "good riddance to a costly acquaintance." hardly had the street door clapped behind the blinded author when helen, white and agitated, reappeared, breathlessly asking, "where is he; has he gone?" "yes; i am glad to say he has." "call him back--quick! don't let him go away angry. i must see him again! go, bring him back!" hugh took her by the arm. "what do you intend to do--give him another chance to insult you? he isn't worth another thought from you. let him go, and his plays with him." the orchestra, roaring on its _finale_, ended with a crash. hugh lifted his hand in warning. "there goes the curtain, helen. go on. don't let him kill your performance. go on!" and he took her by the arm. the training as well as the spirit and quality of the actress reasserted their dominion, and as she walked out upon the stage not even the searching glare of the foot-lights could reveal the cold shadow which lay about her heart. when the curtain fell on the final "picture" she fairly collapsed, refusing to take the curtain call which a goodly number of her auditors insisted upon. "i'm too tired," she made answer to hugh. "too heart-sick," she admitted to herself, for douglass was gone with angry lights in his eyes, bearing bitter and accusing words in his ears. the temple of amusement was at the moment a place of sorrow, of despair. xvi douglass knew before he had set foot upon the pavement that his life was blasted, that his chance of success and helen's love were gone, forfeited by his own egotism, his insane selfishness; but it was only a half-surrender; something very stark and unyielding rose within him, preventing his return to ask forgiveness. the scorn, the contempt of hugh's words, and the lines of loathing appearing for the first time in helen's wonderfully sensitive face burned each moment deeper into his soul. the sorrows of _enid's_ world rose like pale clouds above the immovable mountains of his shame and black despair. he did not doubt for a moment but that this separation was final. "after such a revelation of my character," he confessed, "she can do nothing else but refuse to see me. i have only myself to blame. i was insane," and he groaned with his torment. "she is right. hugh is right in defending his household against me. my action was that of a fool--a hideous, egotistic fool." seeking refuge in his room, he faced his future in nerveless dejection. his little store of money was gone, and his profession, long abandoned, seemed at the moment a broken staff--his place on the press in doubt. what would his good friend say to him now when he asked for a chance to earn his bread? he had flouted the critics, the dramatic departments of all the papers. in his besotted self-confidence he had cast away all his best friends, and with these reflections came the complete revelation of helen's kindness--and her glittering power. back upon him swept a realization of the paradise in which he had lived, in whose air his egotism had expanded like a mushroom. leagued with her, enjoying her bounty and sharing in the power which her success had brought her, he had imagined himself a great writer, a man with a compelling message to his fellows. it seemed only necessary to reach out his hand in order to grasp a chaplet--a crown. with her the world seemed his debtor. now he was a thing cast off, a broken boy grovelling at the foot of the ladder of fame. while he withered over his defeat the electric cars, gigantic insects of the dawn, began to howl and the trains on the elevated railway thundered by. the city's voice, which never ceases, but which had sunk to a sleepy murmur, suddenly awoke, and with clattering, snarling crescendo roar announced the coming of the tides of toilers. "i am facing the day," he said to himself, "and the papers containing the contemptuous judgments of my critics are being delivered in millions to my fellow-citizens. this thing i have gained--i am rapidly becoming infamous." his weakness, his shuddering fear made his going forth a torture. even the bell-boy who brought his papers seemed to exult over his misery, but by sternly sending him about an errand the worn playwright managed to overawe and silence him, and then, with the city's leading papers before him, he sat down to his bitter medicine. as he had put aside the judgments of _lillian's duty_, with contemptuous gesture, so now he searched out every line, humbly admitting the truth of every criticism, instructed even by the lash of those who hated him. the play had closed unexpectedly well, one paper admitted, but it could never succeed. it was not dramatic of construction. another admitted that it was a novel and pretty entertainment, a kind of prose poem, a fantasy of the present, but without wide appeal. others called it a moonshine monologue--that a girl at once so naïve and so powerful was impossible. all united in praise of helen, however, and, as though by agreement, bewailed her desertion of the rôles in which she won great renown. "our advice, given in the friendliest spirit, is this: go back to the twilight of the past, to the costume play. get out of the garish light of to-day. the present is suited only for a kind of crass comedy or bowery melodrama. only the past, the foreign, affords setting for the large play of human passion which helen merival's great art demands." "you are cheating us," wrote another. "there are a thousand little _ingénues_ who can play acceptably this goody-goody _enid_, but the best of them would be lost in the large folds of your cloak in _the baroness telka_." only one wrote in almost unmeasured praise, and his words, so well chosen, salved the smarting wounds of the dramatist. "those who have seen miss merival only as the melodrama queen or the adventuress in jet-black evening dress have a surprise in store for them. her _enid_ is a dream of cold, chaste girlhood--a lily with heart of fire--in whose tender, virginal eyes the lust and cruelty of the world arouse only pity and wonder. so complete was miss merival's investiture of herself in this part that no one recognized her as she stepped on the stage. for a moment even her best friends sat silent." and yet this friend ended like the rest in predicting defeat. "the play is away over the heads of any audience likely to come to see it. the beringed and complacent wives of new york and their wine-befuddled husbands will find little to entertain them in this idyl of modern life. as for the author, george douglass, we have only this to say: he is twenty years ahead of his time. let him go on writing his best and be patient. by-and-by, when we have time to think of other things than money, when our wives have ceased to struggle for social success, when the reaction to a simpler and truer life comes--and it is coming--then the quality of such a play as _enid's choice_ will give its author the fame and the living he deserves." the tears came to douglass's eyes. "good old jim! he knows i need comfort this morning. he's prejudiced in my favor--everybody will see that; and yet there is truth in what he says. i will go to him and ask for work, for i must get back to earning a weekly wage." he went down and out into the street. the city seemed unusually brilliant and uncaring. from every quarter of the suburbs floods of people were streaming in to work or to shop, quite unknowing of any one's misfortunes but their own, each intent on earning a living or securing a bargain. "how can i appeal to these motes?" he asked himself. "by what magic can i lift myself out of this press to earn a living--out of this common drudgery?" he studied the faces in the coffee-house where he sat. "how many of these citizens are capable of understanding for a moment _enid's choice_? is there any subject holding an interest common to them and to me which would not in a sense be degrading in me to dramatize for their pleasure?" this was the question, and though his breakfast and a walk on the avenue cleared his brain, it did not solve his problem. "they don't want my ideas on architecture. my dramatic criticism interests but a few. my plays are a proved failure. what is to be done?" mingled with these gloomy thoughts, constantly recurring like the dull, far-off boom of a sombre bell, was the consciousness of his loss of helen. he did not think of returning to ask forgiveness. "i do not deserve it," he repeated each time his heart prompted a message to her. "she is well rid of me. i have been a source of loss, of trouble, and vexation to her. she will be glad of my self-revelation." nevertheless, when he found her letter waiting for him in his box at the office he was smitten with sudden weakness. "what would she say? she has every reason to hate me, to cast me and my play to the winds. has she done so? i cannot blame her." safe in his room, he opened the letter, the most fateful that had ever come to him in all his life. the very lines showed the agitation of the writer: "my dear author,--pardon me for my harshness last night, and come to see me at once. i was nervous and anxious, as you were. i should have made allowances for the strain you were under. please forgive me. come and lunch, as usual, and talk of the play. i believe in it, in spite of all. it must make its own public, but i believe it will do so. come and let me hear you say you have forgotten my words of last night. i didn't really mean them; you must have known that." his throat filled with tenderness and his head bowed in humility as he read these good, sweet, womanly lines, and for the moment he was ready to go to her and receive pardon kneeling. but as he thought of the wrong he had done her, the misfortune he had brought upon her, a stubborn, unaccountable resolution hardened his heart. "no, i will not go back till i can go as her equal. i am broken and in disgrace now. i will not burden her generosity further." the thought of making his peace with hugh, of meeting westervelt's hard stare, aided this resolution, and, sitting at his desk, he wrote a long and passionate letter, wherein he delineated with unsparing hand his miserable failure. he took a pride and a sort of morbid pleasure in punishing himself, in denying himself any further joy in her company. "it is better for you and better for me that we do not meet again--at least till i have won the tolerance of your brother and manager and my own self-respect. the work i have done is honest work; i will not admit that it is wholly bad, but i cannot meet hugh again till i can demand consideration. it was not so much the words he used as the tone. i was helpless in resenting it. that i am a beggar, a dangerous influence, i admit. i am appalled at the thought of what i have done to injure you. cast me overboard. not even your beauty, your great fame, can make my work vital to the public. i am too perverse, too individual. there is good in me, but it is evil to you. i no longer care what they say of me, but i feel every word derogatory of you as if it were a red-hot point of steel. i did not sleep last night; i spent the time in reconstructing myself. i confessed my grievous sins, and i long to do penance. this play is also a failure. i grew cold with hate of myself last night as i thought of the irreparable injury i had done to you. i here relinquish all claim to both pieces; they are yours to do with as you like. take them, rewrite them, play them, or burn them, as you will. "you see, i am very, very humble. i have put my foolish pride underfoot. i am not broken. i am still very proud and, i fear, self-conceited, in spite of my severe lesson. _enid_ is beautiful, and i know it, and it helps me write this letter, but i have no right to ask even friendship from you. my proved failure as a playwright robs me of every chance of meeting you on equal terms. i want to repay you, i _must_ repay you, for what you have done. if i could write now, it would be not to please myself, but to please you, to help you regain your dominion. i want to see you the radiant one again, speaking to throngs of happy people. if i could by any sacrifice of myself call back the homage of the critics and place you where i found you, the acknowledged queen of american actresses, i would do it. but i am helpless. i shall not speak or write to you again till i can come with some gift in my hand--some recompense for your losses through me. i have been a malign influence in your life. i am in mad despair when i think of you playing to cold and empty houses. i am going back to the west to do sash factories and wheat elevators; these are my _métier_. you are the one to grant pardon; i am the malefactor. i am taking myself out of your world. forgive me and--forget me. hugh was right. my very presence is a curse to you. good-bye." xvii this letter came to helen with her coffee, and the reading of it blotted out the glory of the morning, filling her eyes with smarting tears. it put a sudden ache into her heart, a fierce resentment. at the moment his assumed humbleness, his self-derision, his confession of failure irritated her. "i don't want you to bend and bow," she thought, as if speaking to him. "i'd rather you were fierce and hard, as you were last night." she read on to the end, so deeply moved that she could scarcely see the lines. her resentment melted away and a pity, profound and almost maternal, filled her heart. "poor boy! what could hugh have said to him! i will know. it has been a bitter experience for him. and is this the end of our good days?" with this internal question a sense of vital loss took hold upon her. for the first time in her life the future seemed desolate and her past futile. back upon her a throng of memories came rushing--memories of the high and splendid moments they had spent together. first of all she remembered him as the cold, stern, handsome stranger of that first night--that night when she learned that his coldness was assumed, his sternness a mask. she realized once again that at this first meeting he had won her by his voice, by his hand-clasp, by the swiftness and fervor of his speech; he had dominated her, swept her from her feet. and now this was the end of all their plans, their dreams of conquest. there could be no doubt of his meaning in this letter: he had cut himself off from her, perversely, bitterly, in despair and deep humiliation. she did not doubt his ability to keep his word. there was something inexorable in him. she had felt it before--a sort of blind, self-torturing obstinacy which would keep him to his vow though he bled for every letter. and yet she wrote again, patiently, sweetly, asking him to come to her. "i don't know what hugh said to you--no matter, forgive him. we were all at high tension last night. i know you didn't intend to hurt me, and i have put it all away. i will forget your reproach, but i cannot have you go out of my life in this way. it is too cruel, too hopeless. come to me again, your good, strong, buoyant self, and let us plan for the future." this message, so high, so divinely forgiving, came back to her unopened, with a line from the clerk on the back--"mr. douglass left the city this evening. no address." this laconic message struck her like a blow. it was as if douglass himself had refused her outstretched hand. her nerves, tense and quivering, gave way. her resentment flamed up again. "very well." she tore the note in small pieces, slowly, with painful precision, as if by so doing she were tearing and blowing away the great passion which had grown up in her heart. "i was mistaken in you. you are unworthy of my confidence. after all, you are only a weak, egotistical 'genius'--morbid, selfish. hugh is right. you have proved my evil genius. you skulked the night of your first play. you alternately ignored and made use of me--as you pleased--and after all i had done for you you flouted me in the face of my company." she flung the fragments of the note into the fire. "there are your words--all counting for nothing." and she rose and walked out to her brother and her manager, determined that no sign of her suffering and despair should be written upon her face. the day dragged wearily forward, and when westervelt came in with a sorrowful tale of diminishing demand for seats she gave her consent to a return to _baroness telka_ on the following monday morning. the manager was jubilant. "now we will see a theatre once more. i tought i vas running a church or a school. now we will see carriages at the door again and some dress-suits pefore the orchestra. eh, hugh?" "i'm glad to see you come to your senses," said hugh, ignoring westervelt. "that chap had us all--" she stopped him. "not a word of that. mr. douglass was right and his plays are right, but the public is not yet risen to such work. i admire his work just as much now as ever. i am only doubting the public. if there is no sign of increasing interest on saturday we will take _enid_ off. that is all i will say now." it seemed a pitiful, a monstrous thing. hugh made no further protest, but that his queenly sister, after walking untouched through swarms of rich and talented suitors, should fall a victim to a poor and unknown architect, who was a failure at his own business as well as a playwright. mrs. macdavitt, who stood quite in awe of her daughter, and who feared the sudden, hot temper of her son, passed through some trying hours as the days went by. helen was plainly suffering, and the mother cautioned the son to speak gently. "i fear she prized him highly--the young douglass," she said, "and, i confess, i had a kin' o' liking for the lad. he was so keen and resolved." "he was keen to 'do' us, mother, and when he found he couldn't he pulled his freight. he could write, i'll admit that, but he wouldn't write what people wanted to hear. he was too badly stuck on his own 'genius.'" helen went to her task at the theatre without heart, though she pretended to a greater enthusiasm than ever. but each time she entered upon the second act of the play a mysterious and solacing pleasure came to her. she enjoyed the words with which _enid_ questions the life of her richest and most powerful suitor. the mingled shrewdness, simplicity, and sweetness of this scene always filled her with a new sense of douglass's power of divination. indeed, she closed the play each night with a sense of being more deeply indebted to him as well as a feeling of having been near him. once she saw a face strangely like his in the upper gallery, and the blood tingled round her heart, and she played the remainder of the act with mind distraught. "can it be possible that he is still in the city?" she asked herself. xviii it was, indeed, the playwright. each night he left his boarding-place, drawn by an impulse he could not resist, to walk slowly to and fro opposite the theatre entrance, calculating with agonized eye the meagre numbers of those who entered. at times he took his stand near the door in a shadowy nook (with coat-collar rolled high about his ears), in order to observe the passing stream, hoping, exulting, and suffering alternately as groups from the crowd paused for a moment to study the displayed photographs, only to pass on to other amusement with some careless allusion to the fallen star. this hurt him worst of all--that these motes, these cheap little boys and girls, could now sneer at or pity helen merival. "i brought her to this," he repeated, with morbid sense of power. "when she met me she was queen of the city; now she is an object of pity." this feeling of guilt, this egotism deepened each night as he watched the city's pleasure-seekers pace past the door. it was of no avail to say that the few who entered were of higher type than the many who passed. "the profession which helen serves cannot live on the wishes of the few, the many must be pleased. to become exclusive in appeal is to die of hunger. this is why the sordid, commonplace playwrights and the business-like managers succeed while the idealists fail. there is an iron law of limitation here." "that is why my influence is destructive," he added, and was reassured in the justice of his resolution to take himself out of helen's life. "everything i stand for is inimical to her interests. to follow my path is to eat dry crusts, to be without comfort. to amuse this great, moiling crowd, to dance for them like a monkey, to pander to their base passions, this means success, and so long as her acting does not smirch her own soul what does it matter?" in such wise he sometimes argued in his bitterness and wrath. from the brilliant street, from the gay crowds rolling on in search of witless farce-comedy and trite melodrama, the brooding idealist climbed one night to the gallery to overlook a gloomy, empty auditorium. concealing himself as best he could, he sat through the performance, tortured by some indefinable appeal in helen's voice, hearing with cold and sinking heart the faint applause from the orchestra chairs which used to roar with bravos and sparkle with the clapping of white and jewelled hands. there was something horrifying in this change. in his morbid and overwrought condition it seemed murderous. at last a new resolution set his lips in a stern line, and when the curtain fell on the last act his mind was made up. "i will write one more play for the sensation-loving fools, for these flabby business men and their capon-stuffed wives. i will mix them a dramatic cocktail that will make them sit up. i will create a dazzling rôle for helen, one that will win back all her old-time admirers. they shall come like a roaring tide, and she shall recoup herself for every loss--in purse and prestige." it was this night, when his face was white with suffering, that helen caught a glimpse of him hanging across the railing of the upper balcony. he went no more to see her play. in his small, shabby room in a musty house on one of the old side streets he set to work on his new plan. he wrote now without fervor, without elation, plodding along hour after hour, erasing, interlining, destroying, rewriting. he toiled terribly. he permitted himself no fancy flights. he calculated now. "i must have a young and beautiful duchess or countess," he mused, bitterly. "our democratic public loves to see nobility. she must peril her honor for a lover--a wonderful fellow of the middle-class, not royal, but near it. the princess must masquerade in a man's clothing for some high purpose. there must be a lord high chamberlain or the like who discovers her on this mission to save her lover, and who uses his discovery to demand her hand in marriage for his son--" in this cynical mood he worked, sustained only by the memory of "the glittering woman" whose power and beauty had once dazzled him. slowly the new play took shape, and, try as he might, he could not keep out of it a line now and then of real drama--of literature. each act was designed to end with a clarion call to the passions, and he was perfectly certain that the curtain would rise again and again at the close. at every point was glitter and the rush of heroics. he lived sparely, seeing no one, going out only at night for a walk in the square. to send to his brother or his father for money he would not, not even to write his wonder-working drama. his letters home, while brief, were studiedly confident of tone. the play-acting business and all those connected with it stood very remote from the farming village in which dr. donald douglass lived, and when he read from his son's letters references to his dramas his mind took but slight hold upon the words. his replies were brief and to the point. "go back to your building and leave the play-actors to themselves. they're a poor, uneasy lot at the best." to him an architect was a man who built houses and barns, with a personal share in the physical labor, a wholesome, manly business. the son understood his father's prejudices, and they formed a barrier to his approach when in need. on the morning of the fifteenth day _alessandra_ went to the type-writer, and the weary playwright lifted his head and took a full, free breath. he was convinced beyond any question that this melodrama would please. it had all the elements which he despised, therefore it must succeed. his desire to see helen now overpowered him. worn with his toil and exultant in his freedom, he went out into the street to see what the world was doing. _enid's choice_ was still running. a slight gain at the end of the first week had enabled helen to withhold her surrender to mammon. the second week increased the attendance, but the loss on the two plays was now very heavy, and hugh and westervelt and all her friends as well urged her to give way to the imperious public; but some deep loyalty to douglass, some reason which she was not free to give, made her say, "no, while there is the slightest hope i am going to keep on." to her mother she said: "they are associated in my mind with something sweet and fine--a man's aspiration. they taste good in my mouth after all these years of rancid melodrama." to herself she said: "if they succeed--if they win the public--my lover will come back. he can then come as a conqueror." and the hope of this, the almost certain happiness and honor which awaited them both led her to devise new methods of letting the great non-theatre-going public know that in george douglass's _enid_ they might be comforted--that it was, indeed, a dramatic sign of promise. "we will give it a faithful trial here, then go on the road. life is less strenuous in the smaller towns--they have time to think." hugh and westervelt counselled against any form of advertising that would seem to set the play in a class by itself, but helen, made keen by her suffering, bluntly replied: "you are both wrong, utterly wrong. our only possible chance of success lies in reaching that vast, sane, thoughtful public which seldom or never goes to the theatre. this public very properly holds a prejudice against the theatrical world, but it will welcome a play which is high and poetic without being dull. this public is so vast it makes the ordinary theatre-going public seem but a handful. we must change all our methods of printing." these ideas were sourly adopted in the third week, just when a note from douglass reached her by the hand of a special messenger. in this letter he said: "i have completed another play. i have been grubbing night and day with incessant struggle to put myself and all my ideals aside--to give the public what it wants--to win your old admirers back, in order that i might see you playing once more to crowded and brilliant houses. it will succeed because it is diametrically opposed to all i have expressed. it is my sacrifice. will you accept it? will you read my play? shall i send it to you?" something went out from this letter which hurt helen deeply. first of all there was a certain humble aloofness in his attitude which troubled her, but more significant still was his confessed departure from his ideals. her brave and splendid lover had surrendered to the enemy--for her sake. her first impulse was to write refusing to accept his sacrifice. but on second thought she craftily wrote: "i do not like to think of you writing to please the public, which i have put aside, but come and bring your play. i cannot believe that you have really written down to a melodramatic audience. what i will do i cannot say till i have seen your piece. where have you kept yourself? have you been west? come and tell me all about it." to this self-contained note he replied by sending the drama. "no, i cannot come till hugh and you have read and accepted this play. i want your manager to pass on _alessandra_. you know what i mean. you are an idealist like myself. you will condemn this drama, but westervelt may see in it a chance to restore the glitter to his theatre. ask them both to read it--without letting them know who wrote it. if they accept it, then i can meet them again on equal terms. i long to see you; but i am in disgrace and infinitely poorer than when i first met you." over this letter helen pondered long. her first impulse was to send the play back without reading it, but her love suggested another subterfuge. "i will do his will, and if hugh and westervelt find the play acceptable i will share in his triumph. but i will not do the play except as a last resort--for his sake. _enid_ is more than holding its own. so long as it does i will not permit him to lower his splendid powers." to hugh she carelessly said: "here is another play--a melodrama, to judge from the title. look it over and see if there is anything in it." as plays were constantly coming in to them, hugh took this one quite as a matter of routine, with expectation of being bored. he was a little surprised next morning when she asked, "did you look into that manuscript?" he answered: "no. i didn't get time." she could hardly conceal her impatience. "i wish you'd go over it this morning. from the title it's one of those middle-age italian things that costume well." "oh, is it?" he exclaimed. "well, i'll get right at it." her interest in it more than the title moved him. it was a most hopeful sign of weakening on her part. he came to lunch full of enthusiasm. "say, sis, that play is a corker. there is a part in it that sees the _baroness_ and goes her one better. if the last act keeps up we've got a prize-winner. who's edwin baxter, anyhow?" helen quietly stirred her tea. "i never heard the name before. a new man in the theatrical world, apparently." "well, he's all right. i'm going over the whole thing again. have you read it?" "no, i thought best to let you and westervelt decide this time. i merely glanced at it." "well, it looks like the thing to pull us out of our hole." that night westervelt came behind the scenes with shining face. "i hope you will consent to do this new piece; it is a cracker-jack." he grew cautious. "it really is an immensely better piece of work than _the baroness_, and yet it has elements of popularity. i have read it hastily. i shall study it to-night. if it looks as big to me to-morrow morning as now i will return to the old arrangement with you--if you wish." "how is the house to-night?" she asked. his face dropped. "no better than last night." he shrugged his shoulders. "oh, ten or fifteen dollars, maybe. we can play all winter to two hundred dollars a night with this play. i do not understand such audiences. apparently each man sends just one to take his place. there is no increase." "well, report to me to-morrow about _alessandra_, then i will decide upon the whole matter." in spite of herself she shared in the glow which shone on the faces of her supports, for the word had been passed to the leading members that they were going back to the old drama. "they've found a new play--a corking melodrama." royleston straightened. "what's the subject?" "middle-age italian intrigue, so hugh says--bully costumes--a wonder of a part for merival." "then we are on velvet again," said royleston. the influence of the news ran through the action on the stage. the performance took on spirit and gusto. the audience immediately felt the glow of the players' enthusiasm, and warmed to both actress and playwright, and the curtain went down to the most vigorous applause of the entire run. but westervelt did not perceive this, so engrossed was he in the new manuscript. reading was prodigious labor for him--required all his attention. he was at the hotel early the next morning, impatient to see his star. as he waited he figured on a little pad. his face was flushed as if with drink. his eyes swam with tears of joy, and when helen appeared he took her hand in both his fat pads, crying out: "my dear lady, we have found you a new play. it is to be a big production. it will cost a barrel of money to put it on, but it is a winner. tell the writer to come on and talk terms." helen remained quite cool. "you go too fast, herr westervelt. i have not read the piece. i may not like the title rôle." the manager winced. "you will like it--you must like it. it is a wonderful part. the costuming is magnificent--the scenes superb." "is there any text?" westervelt did not feel the sarcasm. "excellent text. it is not sardou--of course not--but it is of his school, and very well done indeed. the situations are not new, but they are powerfully worked out. i am anxious to secure it. if not for you, for some one else." "very well. i will read the manuscript. if i like it i will send for the author." with this show of tepid interest on the part of his star westervelt had to be content. to hugh he complained: "the influence of that crazy douglass is strong with her yet. i'm afraid she will turn down this part." hugh was also alarmed by her indifference, and at frequent intervals during the day asked how she was getting on with the reading. to this query she each time replied: "slowly. i'm giving it careful thought." she was, indeed, struggling with her tempted self. she was more deeply curious to read the manuscript than any one else could possibly be, and yet she feared to open the envelope which contained it. she did not wish to be in any sense a party to her lover's surrender. she knew that he must have written falsely and without conviction to have made such a profound impression on westervelt. the very fact that the theme was italian, and of the middle ages, was a proof of his abandonment of a cardinal principle, for he had often told her how he hated all that sort of thing. "what kind of a national drama would that be which dealt entirely with french or italian mediæval heroes?" he had once asked, with vast scorn. it would win back her former worshippers, she felt sure of that. the theatre would fill again with men whose palates required the highly seasoned, the far-fetched. the critics would rejoice in their victory, and welcome helen merival to her rightful place with added fervor. the bill-boards would glow again with magnificent posters of helen merival, as _alessandra_, stooping with wild eyes and streaming hair over her slain paramour on the marble stairway, a dagger in her hand. people would crowd again behind the scenes at the close of the play. the magazines would add their chorus of praise. and over against this stood the slim, poetic figure of _enid_, so white of soul, so simple, so elemental of appeal. a whole world lay between the two parts. all that each stood for was diametrically opposed to the other. one was modern as the telephone, true, sound, and revealing. the other false from beginning to end, belonging to a world that never existed, a brilliant, flashing pageant, a struggle of beasts in robes of gold and velvet--assassins dancing in jewelled garters. every scene, every motion was worn with use on the stage, and yet her own romance, her happiness, seemed to depend upon her capitulation as well as his. "if they accept _alessandra_ he will come back to me proudly--at least with a sense of victory over his ignoble enemies. if i return it he will know i am right, but will still be left so deeply in my debt that he will never come to see me again." and with this thought she determined upon a course of action which led at least to a meeting and to a reconciliation between the author and the manager, and with the thought of seeing him again her heart grew light. when she came to the theatre at night westervelt was waiting at the door. "well?" he asked, anxiously. "what do you think of it?" "i have sent for the author," she answered, coldly. "he will meet me to-morrow at eleven. come to the hotel and i will introduce him to you." "splendid! splendid!" exclaimed the manager. "you found it suited to you! a great part, eh?" "i like it better than _the baroness_," she replied, and left him broad-faced with joy. "she is coming sensible again," he chuckled. "now that that crank is out of the way we shall see her as she was--triumphant." again the audience responded to every line she spoke, and as she played something reassuring came up to her from the faces below. the house was perceptibly less empty, but the comfort arose from something more intangible than an increase of filled chairs. "i believe the tide has turned," she thought, exultantly, but dared not say so to hugh. that night she sent a note to douglass, and the words of her message filled him with mingled feelings of exultation and bitterness: "you have won! westervelt and hugh are crazy to meet the author of _alessandra_. they see a great success for you, for me, for all of us. westervelt is ready to pour out his money to stage the thing gorgeously. come to-morrow to meet them. come proudly. you will find them both ready to take your hand--eager to acknowledge that they have misjudged you. we have both made a fight for good work and failed. no one can blame us if we yield to necessity." the thought of once more meeting her, of facing her managers with confident gaze on equal terms, made douglass tremble with excitement. he dressed with care, attempting as best he could to put away all the dust and odors of his miserable tenement, and went forth looking much like the old-time, self-confident youth who faced down the clerk. his mind ran over every word in helen's note a dozen times, extracting each time new and hidden meanings. "if it is the great success they think it, my fortune is made." his spirits began to overleap all bounds. "it will enable me to meet her as an equal--not in worth," he acknowledged--"she is so much finer and nobler than any man that ever lived--but i will at least be something more than a tramp kennelled in a musty hole." his mind took another flight. "i can go home with pride also. oh, success is a sovereign thing. think of hugh and westervelt waiting to welcome me--and helen!" when he thought of her his confident air failed him, his face flushed, his hands felt numb. she shone now like a far-off violet star. she had recovered her aloofness, her allurement in his mind, and it was difficult for him to realize that he had once known her intimately and that he had treated her inconsiderately. "i must have been mad," he exclaimed. it seemed months since he had looked into her face. the clerk he dreaded to meet was off duty, and as the elevator boy knew him he did not approach the desk, but went at once to helen's apartments. she did not meet him at the door as he had foolishly expected. delia, the maid, greeted him with a smile, and led him back to the reception-room and left him alone. he heard helen's voice, the rustle of her dress, and then she stood before him. as he looked into her face and read love and pity in her eyes he lost all fear, all doubt, and caught her hand in both of his, unable to speak a word in his defence--unable even to tell her of his gratitude and love. she recovered herself first, and, drawing back, looked at him searchingly. "you poor fellow, you've been working like mad. you are ill!" "no, i am not ill--only tired. i have had only one thought, one aim since i saw you last, that was to write something to restore you to your old place----" "i do not want to be restored. now listen, lord douglass. if i do _alessandra_, it is because we both need the money and the prestige; but i do not despair, and you must not. please let me manage this whole affair; will you?" "i am your slave." "don't say such things. i don't want you to be humble. i want you to be as brave, as proud as before." she said this in such a tone that he rose to it. his face reset in lines of resolution. "i will not be humble with any other human being but you. i worship you." she stood for a moment looking at him fixedly, a smile of pride and tender dream on her lips, then said, "you must not say such things to me--not now." the bell rang. "here comes your new-found admirers," she exclaimed, gleefully. "now, you sit here, a little in the shadow, and i will bring them in." douglass heard hugh ask, eagerly, "is he here?" "yes, he is waiting for you." a moment later she re-entered, followed closely by westervelt. "herr westervelt, let me introduce mr. george douglass, author of _alessandra_, _lillian's duty_, and _enid's choice_." for an instant westervelt's face was a confused, lumpy mass of amazement and resentment; then he capitulated, quick to know on which side his bread was buttered, and, flinging out a fat hand, he roared: "very good joke. ha! ha! you have fooled me completely. mr. douglass, i congratulate you. you have now given helen merival the best part she has ever had. you found we were right, eh?" douglass remained a little stiff. "yes, for the present we'll say you are right; but the time is coming--" hugh came forward with less of enthusiasm, but his wall of reserve was melting. "i'm mighty glad to know that you wrote _alessandra_, douglass. it is worthy of sardou, and it will win back every dollar we've lost in the other plays." "that's what i wrote it for," said douglass, sombrely. westervelt had no further scruples--no reservations. "well, now, as to terms and date of production. let's get to business." helen interposed. "no more of that for to-day. mr. douglass is tired and needs recreation. leave business till to-morrow. come, let us go to mother; she is anxious to see you--and you are to breakfast with us in the good old spirit." it was sweet to sit with them again on the old footing--to be released from his load of guilty responsibility. to face the shining table, the dear old mother--and helen! something indefinably domestic and tender came from her hesitating speech and shone in her liquid, beaming eyes. the room swam in vivid sunshine, and seemed thus to typify the toiler's escape from poverty and defeat. "don't expect me to talk," he said, slowly, strangely. "i'm too dazed, too happy to think clearly. i can't believe it. i have lived two months in a horrible nightmare; but now that the business men, the practical ones, say you are to be saved by me, i must believe it. i would be perfectly happy if only i had won the success on my own lines without compromise." "put that aside," she commanded, softly. "the fuller success will come. we have that to work towards." xix helen insisted that her playwright should go back to the west for a month's rest. "i do not need rest, i need you," he answered, recklessly. "it fills me with content merely to see you." "nevertheless, you must go. we don't need you here. and, besides, you interfere with my plans." "is that true?" his eyes searched deep as he questioned. "i am speaking as the actress to the playwright." she pointed tragically to the door. "go! your poor old, lonely mother awaits you." "there are six in the family; she's my stepmother, and we don't get on smoothly." "your father is waiting to congratulate you." "on the contrary. he thinks actresses and playwrights akin to 'popery.'" she laughed. "well, then, go on my account--on your account. you are tired, and so am i--" "that is why i should remain, to relieve you, to help you. or, do you mean you're tired of me?" "i won't say that; but i must not see you. i must not see any one. if i do this big part right, i must rest. i intend to sleep a good part of the time. i have sent for henry olquest, and i intend to put the whole of the stage end of this play in his hands. our ideals are not concerned in this _alessandra_, you remember." his face clouded. "that is true. i wish it were otherwise. but can you get olquest?" "yes; his new play has failed. 'too good,' westervelt said." "oh, what blasphemy! to think harry olquest's plays are rejected, and on such grounds! you are right--as always. i will go." "thank you!" "i am a little frazled, i admit, and a breath of mountain-air will do me good. i will visit my brother walt in darien. it's hard to go. my heart begins to ache already with prospective hunger. you have been my world, my one ambition for three months--my incessant care and thought." "all the more reason why you should forget me and things dramatic for a while. there is nothing so destructive to peace and tranquillity as the stage." "don't i know that? when i was a youth in a western village i became in some way the possessor of two small photographs of elsie melville. she was my ideal till i saw her, fifteen years later." helen laughed. "poor elsie, she took on flesh dreadfully in her later years." "nevertheless, those photographs started me on the road to the stage. i used to fancy myself as macbeth, but i soon got switched into the belief that i could write plays. now that i have demonstrated that"--his tone was a little bitter again--"i think i would better return to architecture." she silenced him. "all that we will discuss when you come back reinvigorated from the mountains." she turned to her desk. "i have something here for you. here is a small check from westervelt on account. don't hesitate to take it. he was glad to give it." "it is the price of my intellectual honesty." "by no means!" she laughed, but her heart sickened with a sense of the truth of his phrase. "it's only a very small part payment. you can at least know that the bribe they offer is large." "yes"--he looked at her meaningly--"the prize was too great for my poor resolution. all they can give will remain _part_ payment. i wonder if you will be compassionate enough to complete the purchase--" "_that_, too, is in the future," she answered, still struggling to be gayly reassuring, though she knew, perfectly well, that she was face to face with a most momentous decision and that an insistent, determined lover was about to be restored to confidence and pride. "and now, good-bye." and she gave him her hand in positive dismissal. he took the hand and pressed it hard, then turned and went away without speaking. * * * * * there was a hint of spring in the air the afternoon of his leaving. the wind came from the southwest, brisk and powerful. in the pale, misty blue of the sky a fleet of small, white clouds swam, like ships with wide and bellying sails, low down in the eastern horizon, and the sight of them somehow made it harder for douglass to leave the city of his adoption. he was powerfully minded to turn back, to remain on the ferry-boat and land again on the towering island so heavily freighted with human sorrows, so brilliant with human joys, and only a realization that his presence might trouble and distract helen kept him to his journey's westward course. as he looked back at the monstrous hive of men the wonder of helen's personality came to him. that she alone, and unaided (save by her own inborn genius and her beauty), should have succeeded in becoming distinguished, even regnant, among so many eager and striving souls, overwhelmed him with love and admiration. he wondered how he could have assumed even for an instant the tone of a lover, the gesture of a master. "i, a poor, restless, penniless vagabond on the face of the earth--i presumed to complain of her!" he exclaimed, and shuddered with guilty disgust at thought of that night behind the scenes. in this mood he rode out into the west, which was bleak with winter winds and piled high with snow. he paused but a day with his father, whom he found busy prolonging the lives of the old people with whom the town was filled. it was always a shock to the son, this contrast between the outward peace and well-seeming of his native town and the inner mortality and swift decay. even in a day's visit he felt the grim destroyer's presence, palpable as the shadow of a cloud. he hastened on to darien, that curious mixture of spanish-mexican indolence and bustling american enterprise, a town wherein his brother walt had established himself some years before. walter douglass was shocked by the change in his brother. "i can't understand how fourteen months in new york can reduce a lusty youth to the color of a cabbage and the consistency of a gelatine pudding. i reckon you'd better key yourself down to my pace for a while. look at me!" the playwright smiled. "i haven't indulged myself too much. you can't hit a very high pace on twelve dollars a week." "oh, i don't know. there are cheap brands of whiskey; and you can breathe the bad air of a theatre every night if you climb high enough. i know you've been too strenuous at some point. now, what's the meaning of it all?" "i've been working very hard." "shouldn't do it. look at me. i never work and never worry. i play. i weigh two hundred pounds, eat well, sleep like a doorknob, make about three thousand dollars a year, and educate my children. i don't want to seem conceited, but my way of life appeals to me as philosophic; yours is too wasteful. come, now, you're keeping back something. you might as well 'fess up. what _were_ you doing?" the playwright remained on his guard. "well, as i wrote you, i had a couple of plays accepted and helped to produce them. there's nothing more wearing than producing a play. the anxiety is killing." "i believe you. i think the writing of one act would finish me. yes, i can see that would be exciting business; but what's all this about your engagement to some big actress?" this brought the blood to the younger man's cheek, but he was studiedly careless in reply. "all newspaper talk. of course, in rehearsing the play, i saw a great deal of miss merival, but--that's all. she is one of the most successful and brilliant women on the stage, while i--well, i am only a 'writing architect,' earning my board by doing a little dramatic criticism now and then. you need not put any other two things together to know how foolish such reports are." walt seemed satisfied. "well, my advice is: slow down to darien time. eat and sleep, and ride a bronco to make you eat more and sleep harder, and in two weeks you'll be like your old-time self." this advice, so obviously sound, was hard to follow, for each day brought a letter from helen, studiously brief and very sparing of any terms of affection--frank, good letters, kindly but no more--and young douglass was dissatisfied, and said so. he spent a large part of each morning pouring out upon paper the thoughts and feelings surging within him. he told her of the town, of the delicious, crisp climate--like october in the east--of the great snow-peaks to the west, of his rides far out on the plain, of his plans for the coming year. "i dug an old play out of my trunk to-day" (he wrote, towards the end of the first week). "it's the first one i ever attempted. it is very boyish. i had no problems in my mind then, but it is worth while. i am going to rewrite it and send it on to you, for i can't be idle. i believe you'll like it. it is a love drama pure and simple." to this she replied: "i am interested in what you say of your first play, but don't work--rest and enjoy your vacation." a few days later he wrote, in exultation: "i got a grip on the play yesterday and re-wrote two whole acts. i think i've put some of the glory of this land and sky into it--i mean the exultation of health and youth. i am putting you into it, too--i mean the adoration i feel for you, my queen! "do you know, all the old wonder of you is coming back to me. when i think of you as the great actress my nerves are shaken. is it possible that the mysterious helen merival is my helen? i am mad to rush back to you to prove it. isn't it presumptuous of me to say, 'my helen'? but at this distance you cannot reprove me. i came across some pictures of you in a magazine to-day, and was thrilled and awed by them. i have not said anything of helen macdavitt to my people, but of the good and great actress helen merival i speak copiously. they all feel very grateful to you for helping me. father thinks you at least forty. he could not understand how a woman under thirty could rise to such eminence as you have attained. walt also takes it for granted you are middle-aged. he knows how long the various 'maggies' and 'ethels' and 'annies' have been in public life. he saw something in a paper about us the other day, but took it as a joke. if this fourth play of mine comes off, and you find it worth producing, i shall be happy. it might counteract the baleful influence of _alessandra_. i began to wonder how i ever did such a melodrama. is it as bad as it seems to me now?... "i daren't ask how _enid_ is doing. it makes me turn cold to think of the money you are losing. wouldn't it pay to let the theatre go 'dark' till the new thing is ready?... "i am amazed at my temerity with you, serene lady. if i had not been filled with the colossal conceit of the young author, i never would have dared to approach--what i did during those mad weeks (you know the ones i mean) gives me such shame and suffering as i have never known, and my whole life is now ordered to make you forget that side of my character. i ask myself now, 'what would helen have me do?' i don't say this humble mood will last. if _alessandra_ should make a 'barrel of money,' i am capable of soaring to such heights of audacity that you will be startled." to this she replied: "i am not working at rehearsal more than is necessary. mr. olquest is a jewel. he has taken the whole burden of the stage direction off my hands. i lie in bed till noon each morning and go for a drive each pleasant afternoon. our spring weather is gone. winter has returned upon us again.... i miss you very much. for all the worry you gave us, we found entertainment in you. don't trouble about the money we are losing. westervelt is putting up all the cash for the new production and is angelic of manner--or means to be. i prefer him when in the dumps. he attends every rehearsal and is greatly excited over my part. he now thinks you great, and calls you 'the american sardou.' ... i have put all our dismal hours behind me. 'all this, too, shall pass away.' ... i care not to what audacity you wing your way, if only you come back to us your good, sane, undaunted self once more." in this letter, as in all her intercourse with him, there was restraint, as though love were being counselled by prudence. and this was, indeed, the case. a foreboding of all that an acknowledgment of a man's domination might mean to her troubled helen. the question, "how would marriage affect my plans," beset her, though she tried to thrust it away, to retire it to the indefinite future. her love grew steadily, feeding upon his letters, which became each day more buoyant and manly, bringing to her again the sense of unbounded ambition and sane power with which his presence had filled her at their first meeting. "you are not of the city," she wrote. "you belong to the country. think how near new york came to destroying you. you ought not to come back. why don't you settle out there and take up public life?" his answer was definite: "you need not fear. the city will never again dominate me. i have found myself--through you. with you to inspire me i cannot fail. public life! do you mean politics? i am now fit for only one thing--to write. i have found my work. and do you think i could live anywhere without hope of seeing you? my whole life is directed towards you--to be worthy of you, to be justified in asking you to join your life to mine. these are my ambitions, my audacious desires. i love you, and you must know that i cannot be content with your friendship--your affection--which i know i have. i want your love in return. not now--not while i am a man of words merely. as i now feel _alessandra_ is a little thing compared with the sacrifice you have made for me. i have stripped away all my foolish egotism, and when i return to see you on the opening night i shall rejoice in your success without a tinge of bitterness. it isn't as if the melodrama were degrading in its appeal. it does not represent my literary ideals, of course, but it is not contemptible, it is merely conventional. my mind _has_ cleared since i came here. i see myself in proper relation to you and to the public. i see now that with the large theatre, with the long 'run' ideals, a play _must_ be very general in its appeal, and with such conditions it is folly for us to quarrel. we must have our own little theatre wherein we can play the subtler phases of american life--the phases we both rejoice in. if _alessandra_ should pay my debt to you--- you see how my mind comes back to that thought--we will use it to build our own temple of art. as i think of you there, toiling without me, i am wild with desire to return to be doing something. i am ready now to turn my hand to any humble thing--to direct rehearsals, to design costumes, anything, only to be near you. one word from you and i will come." to this she replied: "no; on the contrary, you must stay a week longer. we have postponed the production on account of some extra scenic effect which hugh wishes to perfect. they profess wonder now at your knowledge of scenic effect as well as your eye for costume and stage-setting. your last letter disturbed me greatly, while it pleased me. i liked its tone of boyish enthusiasm, but your directness of speech scared me. i'm almost afraid to meet you. you men are so literal, so insistent in your demands. a woman doesn't know what she wants--sometimes; she doesn't like to be brought to bay so roundly. you have put so much at stake on _alessandra_ that i am a-tremble with fear of consequences. if it succeeds you will be insufferably conceited and assured; if it fails we will never see you again. truly the life of a star is not all glitter." this letter threw him into a panic. he hastened to disclaim any wish to disturb her. "if you will forgive me this time i will not offend again. i did not mean to press for an answer. i distinctly said that at present i have no right to do so. i daren't do so, in fact. i send you, under another cover, the youthful play which i call _the morning_. isn't that fanciful enough? it means, of course, that i am now just reaching the point in my life where the man of thirty-odd looks back upon the boy of eighteen with a wistful tenderness, feeling that the mystery of the world has in some sense departed with the morning. of a certainty this idea is not new, but i took a joy in writing this little idyl, and i would like to see you do 'the wonderful lady i see in my dreams.' can you find an actor who can do my lad of 'the poetic fancy'?" she replied to this: "your play made me cry, for i, too, am leaving the dewy morning behind. i like this play; it is very tender and beautiful, and do you know i believe it would touch more hearts than your gorgeous melodrama. mr. howells somewhere beautifully says that when he is most intimate in the disclosures of his own feelings he finds himself most widely responded to--or something like that. i really am eager to do this play. it has increased my wonder of your powers. i really begin to feel that i know only part of you. first _lillian's duty_ taught me some of your stern scotch morality. then _enid's choice_ revealed to me your conception of the integrity of a good woman's soul--that nothing can debase it. _alessandra_ disclosed your learning and your imaginative power. now here i feel the poet, the imaginative boy. i will not say this has increased my faith in you--it has added to my knowledge of you. but i must confess to you it has made it very difficult for me to go on with _alessandra_. all the other plays are in line of a national drama. _alessandra_ is a bitter and ironical concession. _the morning_ makes its splendor almost tawdry. it hurt me to go to rehearsal to-day. westervelt's presence was a gloating presence, and i hated him. hugh's report of the exultant 'i told you so's' of the dramatic critics sickened me--" her letter ended abruptly, almost at this point. his reply contained these words: "it is not singular that you feel irritated by _alessandra_ while i am growing resigned, for you are in daily contact with the sordid business. tell me i may come back. i want to be at the opening. i know you will secure a great personal triumph. i want to see you shining again amid a shower of roses. i want to help take your horses from your carriage, and wheel you in glory through the streets as they used to do in olden times as tribute to their great favorites. i haven't seen a new york paper since i came west. i hope you have put _enid_ away. what is the use wearing yourself out playing a disastrous rôle while forced to rehearse a new one? my longing to see you is so great that the sight of your picture on my desk is a sweet torture. write me that you want me, dearest." she replied, very simply: "you may come. our opening night is now fixed for monday next. you will have just time to get here. all is well." to this he wired reply: "i start to-night. arrive on monday at grand central. eleven-thirty." * * * * * helen was waiting for him at the gate of the station in a beautiful spring hat, her face abloom, her eyes dancing, and the sight of her robbed him of all caution. dropping his valise, he rushed towards her, intent to take her in his arms. she stopped him with one outstretched hand. "how well you look!" her voice, so rich, so vibrant, moved him like song. "and you--you are the embodiment of spring." then, in a low voice, close to her ear, he added: "i love you! i love you! how beautiful you are!" "hush!" she lifted a finger in a gesture of warning. "you must not say such things to me--here." with the addition of that final word her face grew arch. then in a louder tone: "i was right, was i not, to send you away?" "i am a new being," he answered, "morally and physically. but tell me, what is the meaning of these notices? have you put _the morning_ on in place of _alessandra_?" hugh interposed. "that's what she's done," and offered his hand with unexpected cordiality. "you take my breath away," said douglass. "i can't follow your reckless campaigns." "we'll explain. we're not as reckless as we seem." they began to move towards the street, hugh leading the way with the playwright's bag. helen laughed at her lover's perplexity and dismay. "you look befoozled." "i am. i can't understand. after all that work and expense--after all my toilsome grind--my sacrifice of principles." she was close to his shoulder as she said, looking up at him with beaming, tender eyes: "that's just it. i couldn't accept your offering. after _the morning_ came in, my soul revolted. i ordered the _alessandra_ manuscript brought in. do you know what i did with it?" "rewrote it, i hope." her face expressed daring, humor, triumph, but the hand lifted to the chin expressed a little apprehension as she replied: "rewrote it? no, i didn't think of that. _i burned it._" he stopped, unconscious of the streaming crowds. "burned it! i can't believe you. my greatest work--" "it is gone." the smile died out of her eyes, her face became very grave and very sweet. "i couldn't bear to have you bow your head to please a public not worthy of you. the play was un-american, and should not have been written by you." he was dazed by the enormous consequences of this action, and his mind flashed from point to point before he answered, in a single word: "westervelt." thereat they both laughed, and she explained. "it was dreadful. he raged, he shook the whole block as he trotted to and fro tearing his hair. i think he wished to tear my hair. he really resembled the elder salvini as othello--you know the scene i mean. i gave him a check to compensate him. he tore it up and blew it into the air with a curse. oh, it was beautiful comedy. i told him our interview would make a hit as a 'turn' on the vaudeville stage. nothing could calm him. i was firm, and _alessandra_ was in ashes." they moved on out upon the walk and into the hideous clamor of forty-second street, his mind still busy with the significance of her news. henry olquest in an auto sat waiting for them. after a quick hand-shake douglass lifted helen to her place, followed her with a leap, and they were off on a ride which represented to him more than an association with success--it seemed a triumphal progress. something in helen's eyes exalted him, filled his throat with an emotion nigh to tears. his eyes were indeed smarting as she turned to say: "you are just in time for dress rehearsal. do you want to see it?" "no, i leave it all to you. i want to be the author if i can. i want to get the thrill." "i think you will like our production. mr. olquest has done marvels with it. you'll enjoy it; i know you will. it will restore your lost youth to you." "i hope it will restore some of your lost dollars. i saw by the papers that you were still struggling with _enid_. i shudder to think what that means. the other poor little play will never be able to lift that huge debt." "i'm not so sure about that," she gayly answered. "the rehearsals have almost resigned"--she pointed at hugh's back--"him to the change." "i confess i was surprised by his cordial greeting." "oh, he's quite shifted his point of view. he thinks _the morning_ may 'catch 'em' on other grounds." "and you--you are radiant. i expected to find you worn out. you dazzle me." "you mustn't look at me then. look at the avenue. isn't it fine this morning?" he took her hint. "it is glorious. i feel that i am again at the centre of things. after all, this is our one great city, the only place where life is diverse enough to give the dramatist his material. i begin to understand the attitude of actors when they land from the ferry-boat, draw a long breath, and say, 'thank god, i'm in new york again.'" "it's the only city in america where an artist can be judged by his peers. i suppose that is one reason why we love it." "yes, it's worth conquering, and i'll make my mark upon it yet," and his tone was a note of self-mastery as well as of resolution. "it is a city set on a hill. to take it brings great glory and lasting honor." she smiled up at him again, a proud light in her eyes. "now you are your good, rugged self, the man who 'hypnotized' me into taking _lillian's duty_. you'll need all your courage; the critics are to be out in force." "i do not fear them," he answered, as they whirled into the plaza and up to the side entrance of the hotel. "i've engaged a room for you here, douglass," said hugh, and the new note of almost comradeship struck the playwright with wonder. he was a little sceptical of it. "very well," he answered. "i am reckless. i will stay one day." "mother will be waiting to see you," said helen, as they entered the hall. "she is your stanch supporter." "she is a dear mother. i wish she were my own." each word he uttered now carried a hidden meaning, and some inner relenting, some sweet, secret concession which he dimly felt but dared not presume upon, gave her a girlish charm which she had never before worn in his eyes. they took lunch together, seated at the same table in the same way, and yet not in the same spirit. he was less self-centred, less insistent. his winter of proved inefficiency, his sense of indebtedness to her, his all-controlling love for her gave him a new appeal. he was at once tender and humorous as he referred again to _alessandra_. "well, now that my chief work of art is destroyed, i must begin again at the bottom. i have definitely given up all idea of following my profession. i am going to do specials for one of the weeklies. anderson has interceded for me. i am to enter the ranks of the enemy. i am not sure but i ought to do a criticism of my own play to-morrow night." she was thinking of other things. "tell me of your people. did you talk of me to them? what did they say of me?" "they all think of you as a kind, middle-aged lady, who has been very good to a poor country boy." she laughed. "how funny! why should they think me so old?" "they can't conceive how a mere girl can be so rich and powerful. how could they realize the reckless outpouring of gold which flows from those who seek pleasure to those who give it." she grew instantly graver. "they would despise me if they knew. i don't like being a mere toy of the public--a pleasure-giver and nothing else. of course there are different ways of pleasing. that is why i couldn't do _alessandra_. tell me of your brother. i liked what you wrote of him. he is our direct opposite, isn't he? does he talk as well as you reported, or were you polishing him a little?" "no, walt has a remarkable taste in words. he has always been the literary member of our family, but is too lazy to write. he is content to grow fat in his little round of daily duties." "i wonder if we haven't lost something by becoming enslaved to the great city! our pleasures are more intense, but they _do_ wear us out. think of you and me to-morrow night--our anxiety fairly cancelling our pleasure--and then think of your brother going leisurely home to his wife, his babies, and his books. i don't know--sometimes when i think of growing old in a flat or a hotel i am appalled. i hate to keep mother here. sometimes i think of giving it all up for a year or two and going back to the country, just to see how it would affect me. i don't want to get artificial and slangy with no interests but the stage, like so many good actresses i know. it's such a horribly egotistic business--" "there are others," he said. "writers are bad enough, but actors and opera-singers are infinitely worse. mother has helped me." she put her soft palm on her mother's wrinkled hand. "nothing can spoil mother; nothing can take away the home atmosphere--not even the hotel. well, now i must go to our final rehearsal. i will not see you again till the close of the second act. you must be in your place to-night," she said, with tender warning. "i want to see your face whenever i look for it." "i am done with running away," he answered, as he slowly released her hand. "i shall pray for your success--not my own." "fortunately my success is yours." "in the deepest sense that is true," he answered. xx as douglass entered the theatre that night westervelt met him with beaming smile. "i am glad to see you looking so well, mr. douglass." he nodded and winked. "you are all right now, my boy. you have them coming. i was all wrong." "what do you mean?" "didn't she tell you?" "you mean about the advance sale?--no." westervelt grew cautious. "oh--well, then, i will be quiet. she wants to tell you. she will do so." "advance sale must be good," thought the playwright, as he walked on into the auditorium. the ushers smiled, and the old gatekeeper greeted him shortly. "ye've won out, mr. douglass." "can it be that this play is to mark the returning tide of helen's popularity?" he asked himself, and a tremor of excitement ran over him, the first thrill of the evening. up to this moment he had a curious sense of aloofness, indifference, as if the play were not his own but that of a stranger. he began now to realize that this was his third attempt to win the favor of the public, and according to an old boyish superstition should be successful. helen had invited a great american writer--a gracious and inspiring personality--to occupy her box to meet her playwright, and once within his seat douglass awaited the coming of the great man with impatience and concern. he was conscious of a great change in himself and his attitude towards helen since he last sat waiting for the curtain to rise. "nothing--not even the dropping of an act--could rouse in me the slightest resentment towards her." he flushed with torturing shame at the recollection of his rage, his selfish, demoniacal, egotistic fury over the omission of his pet lines. "i was insane," he muttered, pressing a hand to his eyes as if to shut out the memory of helen's face as she looked that night. "and she forgave me! she must have known i was demented." and her sweetness, her largeness of sympathy again overwhelmed him. "dare i ask her to marry me?" he no longer troubled himself about her wealth nor with the difference between them as to achievement, but he comprehended at last that her superiority lay in her ability to forgive, in her power to inspire love and confidence, in her tact, her consideration for others, her wondrous unselfishness. "what does the public know of her real greatness? capable of imagining the most diverse types of feminine character, living each night on the stage in an atmosphere of heartless and destructive intrigue, she yet retains a divine integrity, an inalienable graciousness. dare i, a moody, selfish brute, touch the hem of her garment?" in this mood he watched the audience gather--a smiling, cheerful-voiced, neighborly throng. there were many young girls among them, and their graceful, bared heads gave to the orchestra chairs a brilliant and charmingly intimate effect. the _roué_, the puffed and beefy man of sensual type, was absent. the middle-aged, bespangled, gluttonous woman was absent. the faces were all refined and gracious--an audience selected by a common interest from among the millions who dwell within an hour's travel of the theatre. douglass fancied he could detect in these auditors the same feeling of security, of satisfaction, of comfort with which they were accustomed to sit down of an evening with a new book by a favorite author. "if i could but win a place like that," he exclaimed to himself, "i would be satisfied. it can be done when the right man comes." a dinner engagement delayed the eminent author, but he came in as the curtain was rising, and, shaking hands cordially, presented mr. rufus brown, a visiting london critic. "mr. brown is deeply interested in your attempt to do an american play," said the great novelist. "i hope--i am sure he will witness your triumph to-night." thereupon they took seats with flattering promptness in order not to miss a word of the play. helen, coming on a moment after, was given a greeting almost frenziedly cordial, and when she bowed her eyes sought the box in which her lover sat, and the audience, seeing the distinguished novelist and feeling some connection between them, renewed their applause. douglass, at the back of the box, rose and stood with intent to express to helen the admiration, the love, and the respect which he felt for her. she was, indeed, "the beautiful, golden-haired lady" of whom he had written as a boy, and a singular timidity, a wave of worship went over him. he became the imaginative lad of the play, who stood in awe and worship of mature womanhood. the familiar helen was gone, the glittering woman was gone, and in her place stood the ideal of the boy--the author himself had returned to "the land of morning glow"--to the time when the curl of a woman's lip was greater than any war. the boy on the stage chanted: "where i shall find her i know not. but i trust in the future! to me she will come. i am not forgot. out in the great world she's waiting, perhaps by the shore of the sea, by the fabulous sea, where the white sand gleams, i shall meet her and know her and claim her. the beautiful, stately lady i see in my dreams." "i dare not claim her," said the man, humbled by her beauty. "i am not worthy of her." the applause continued to rise instant and cordial in support of players and play. auditors, actors, and author seemed in singularly harmonious relation. as the curtain fell cries of approval mingled with the hand-clapping. the novelist reached a kindly hand. "you've found your public, my dear fellow. these people are here after an intelligent study of your other plays. this is a gallant beginning. don't you think so, brown?" "very interesting attempt to dramatize those boyish fancies," the english critic replied. "but i don't quite see how you can advance on these idyllic lines. it's pretty, but is it drama?" "he will show us," replied the novelist. "i have great faith in mr. douglass. he is helping to found an american drama. you must see his other plays." westervelt came to the box wheezing with excitement. "my boy, you are made. the critics are disarmed. they begin to sing of you." douglass remained calm. "there is plenty of time for them to turn bitter," he answered. "i am most sceptical when they are gracious." the second act left the idyllic ground, and by force of stern contrast held the audience enthralled. the boy was being disillusioned. _the morning_ had grown gray. doubt of his ideal beset the poet. the world's forces began to benumb and appall him. his ideal woman passed to the possession of another. he lost faith in himself. the cloud deepened, the sky, overshadowed as by tempest, let fall lightning and a crash of thunder. so the act closed. the applause was unreservedly cordial--no one failed to join in the fine roar--and in the midst of it douglass, true to his promise, hurried back to the scenes to find helen. she met him, radiant with excitement. "my brave boy! you have won your victory. they are calling for you." he protested. she insisted. "no, no. it is _you_. i've been out. hear them; they want the author. come!" dazed and wordless, weak from stage-fright, he permitted himself to be led forth into the terrifying glare of the footlight world. there his guide left him, abandoned him, pitifully exposed to a thousand eyes, helpless and awkward. he turned to flee, to follow her, but the roguish smile on her face, as she kissed her fingers towards him, somehow roused his pride and gave him courage to face the tumult. as he squared himself an awesome silence settled over the house--a silence that inspired as well as appalled by its expectancy. "friends, i thank you," the pale and resolute author weakly began. "i didn't know i had so many friends in the world. two minutes ago i was so scared my teeth chattered. now i am entirely at my ease--you notice that." the little ripple of laughter which followed this remark really gave him time to think--gave him courage. "i feel that i am at last face to face with an audience that knows my work--that is ready to support a serious attempt at playwriting. i claim that a play may do something more than amuse--it may _interest_. there is a wide difference, you will see. to be an amusement merely is to degrade our stage to the level of a punch-and-judy show. i am sorry for tired men and weary women, but as a dramatist i can't afford to take their troubles into account. i am writing for those who are mentally alert and willing to support plays that have at least the dignity of intention which lies in our best novels. this does not mean gloomy plays or problem plays, but it does mean conscientious study of american life. if you like me as well after the close of the play"--he made dramatic pause--"well i shall not be able to sleep to-night. i sincerely thank you. you have given me a fair hearing--that is all i can ask--and i am very grateful." this little speech seemed to please his auditors, but his real reward came when helen met him at the wings and caught his arm to her side in an ecstatic little hug. "you did beautifully! you make me afraid of you when you stand tall and grand like that. you were scared though. i could see that." "you deserted me," he answered, in mock accusation. "you led me into the crackling musketry and ran away." "i wanted to see of what metal you were made," she answered, and fled to her dressing-room to prepare for the final act. "now for the real test," said the novelist, with a kindly smile. "i think we could all write plays if it were not for the difficulty of ending them." "i begin to tremble for my climax," douglass answered. "it is so important to leave a sweet and sonorous sound in the ear at the last. it must die on the sense like the sound of a bell." "it's a remarkable achievement, do you know," began the english critic, "to carry a parable along with a realistic study of life. i can't really see how you're coming out." "i don't know myself," replied douglass. the play closed quietly, with a subjective climax so deep, so true to human nature that it laid hold upon every heart. the applause was slow in rising, but grew in power till it filled the theatre like some great anthem. no one rose, no one was putting on wraps. the spell lasted till the curtain rose three times on the final picture. douglass could not speak as the critic shook his hand. it was so much more affecting than he had dared to hope. to sit there while his ideals, his hopes, his best thoughts, his finest conceptions were thus gloriously embodied was the greatest pleasure of his life. all his doubt and bitterness was lost in a flood of gratitude to helen and to the kindly audience. as soon as he could decently escape he hurried again to helen. the stage this time was crowded with people. the star was hid, as of old, in a mob of her admirers, but they were of finer quality than ever before. the grateful acknowledgment of these good people was an inspiration. every one smiled, and yet in the eyes of many of the women tears sparkled. helen, catching sight of her lover, lifted her hand and called to him, and though he shrank from entering the throng he obeyed. those who recognized him fell back with a sort of awe of his good-fortune. helen reached her hand, saying, huskily, "i am tired--take me away." he took her arm and turned to the people still crowding to speak to her. "friends, miss merival is very weary. i beg you to excuse her. it has been a very hard week for her." and with an air of mastery, as significant as it was unconscious he led her to her room. safely inside the door she turned, and with a finger to her lips, a roguish light in her eyes, she said: "i want to tell you something. i can't wait any longer. _enid's choice_ ran to the capacity of the house last week." for a moment he did not realize the full significance of this. "what! _enid's choice_? why, how can that be? i thought--" "we had twelve hundred and eighty dollars at the saturday matinée and eleven hundred at night. of course part of this was due to the knowledge that it was the last day of the piece, but there is no doubt of its success." a choking came to his throat, his eyes grew dim. "i can't believe it. such success is impossible to me." "it is true, and that is the reason i was able to burn _alessandra_." "and that is the reason hugh and westervelt were so cordial, and i thought it was all on account of the advance sale of _the morning_!" "and this is only the beginning. i intend to play all your plays in a repertoire, and you're to write me others as i need them. and finally--and this i hate to acknowledge--you are no longer in my debt." "that i know is not true," he said. "everything i am to-night i owe to you." "the resplendent author has made the wondrous woman very proud and yet very humble to-night," she ended, softly, with eyelashes drooping. "she has reared a giant that seeks to devour her." he caught her to his side. "do you know what all this means to you and to me? it means that we are to be something more than playwright and star. it means that i will not be satisfied till your life and mine are one." she put him away in such wise that her gesture of dismissal allured. "you must go, dearest. our friends are waiting, and i must dress. some time i will tell you how much--you have become to me--but not now!" he turned away exultant, for her eyes had already confessed the secret which her lips still shrank from uttering. the end team (http://www.fadedpage.com) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) the girl in the mirror by elizabeth jordan author of "the wings of youth," "may iverson--her book," "lovers' knots," etc. illustrated by paul meylan [illustration: "well, princess," he said at last, still trying to speak lightly] [illustration] new york the century co. copyright, , by the century co. copyright, , by today's housewife published, october, to mrs. henry ferre cutler with happy memories of florence contents chapter page i barbara's wedding ii rodney loses a battle iii laurie meets miss mayo iv a pair of gray eyes v mr. herbert ransome shaw vi laurie solves a problem vii griggs gets an order viii samuel plays a new game ix an invitation x the lair of shaw xi a bit of bright ribbon xii doris takes a journey xiii the house in the cedars xiv laurie checks a revelation xv mr. shaw decides to talk xvi burke makes a promise xvii laurie makes a confession xviii a little look forward xix "what about laurie?" list of illustrations "well, princess," he said at last, still trying to speak lightly _frontispiece_ facing page "you see, what we were going to do isn't done much nowadays" "there is someone outside that door!" she whispered "what you been doin' to yerself?" he gasped the girl in the mirror the girl in the mirror chapter i barbara's wedding the little city of devondale, ohio, had shaken off for one night at least the air of aristocratic calm that normally distinguished it from the busy mill towns on its right and left. elm avenue, its leading residence street, usually presented at this hour only an effect of watchful trees, dark shrubbery, shaded lamps, and remote domestic peace. now, however, it had blossomed into a brilliant thoroughfare, full of light, color, and movement, on all of which the december stars winked down as if in intimate understanding. automobiles poured through the wide gates of its various homes and joined a ceaseless procession of vehicles. pedestrians, representing every class of the city's social life, jostled one another on the sidewalks as they hurried onward, following this vanguard. overwrought policemen barked instructions at chauffeurs and sternly reprimanded daring souls who attempted to move in a direction opposite to that the crowd was following. for the time, indeed, there seemed to be but one destination which a self-respecting citizen of devondale might properly have in mind; and already many of the elect had reached this objective and had comfortably passed through its wide doors, down its aisles, and into its cushioned pews. the episcopal church of st. giles was the largest as well as the most fashionable of devondale's houses of god, but it had its limitations. it could not hold the entire population of the town and surrounding counties. the chosen minority, having presented cards of admission at the entrance, accepted with sedate satisfaction the comfortable seats assigned to it. the uninvited but cheerful majority lingered out in the frosty street, forming a crowd that increasingly blocked the avenue and the church entrance, besides wrecking the nervous systems of traffic men. it was an interested, good-humored, and highly observant crowd, pressing forward as each automobile approached, to watch with unashamed curiosity the guests who alighted and made their way along the strip of carpet stretching from curbstone to church. devondale's leading citizens were here, and the spectators knew them all, from those high personages who were presidents of local banks down to little jimmy harrigan, who was barbara devon's favorite caddie at the country club. unlike most of his fellow guests, jimmy arrived on foot; but the crowd saw his unostentatious advent and greeted him with envious badinage. "hi, dere, chimmie, where's yer evenin' soot?" one acquaintance desired to know. and a second remarked solicitously, "de c'rect ting, chimmie, is t' hold yer hat to yer heart as y' goes in!" jimmy made no reply to these pleasantries. the occasion was too big and too novel for that. he merely grinned, presented his card of admission in a paw washed clean only in spots, and accepted with equal equanimity the piercing gaze of the usher and the rear seat to which that outraged youth austerely conducted him. there, round-eyed, jimmy stared about him. he had never been inside of st. giles's before. it was quite possible that he would never find himself inside of it again. he took in the beauty of the great church; its blaze of lights; its masses of flowers; its whispering, waiting throng; the broad white ribbon that set apart certain front pews for the bride's special friends, including a party from new york. jimmy knew all about those friends and all about this wedding. his grimy little ears were ceaselessly open to the talk of the town, and for weeks past the town had talked of nothing but the devons and barbara devon's approaching wedding. even now the townspeople were still talking of the devons, during the brief interval before the bridal party appeared. in the pew just in front of jimmy, mrs. arthur lytton, a lady he recognized as a ubiquitous member of the country club, was giving a few intimate details of miss devon's life to her companion, who evidently was a new-comer to the city. "you see," mrs. lytton was murmuring, "this is really the most important wedding we've ever had here. barbara devon owns most of devondale, and her home, devon house, is one of the show places of the state. she hasn't a living relative except her brother laurie, and i fancy she has been lonely, notwithstanding her hosts of friends. we all love her, so we're glad to know she has found the right man to marry, especially as we are not to lose her ourselves. she intends to live in devon house every summer." the new-comer--a mrs. renway who had social aspirations--was politely attentive. "i met laurence devon at the country club yesterday," she said. "he's the handsomest creature i've ever seen, i think. he's really _too_ good-looking; and they say there's some romantic story about him. do you know what it is?" her friend nodded. "mercy, yes! every one does." observing the other's growing attention, she went on expansively: "you see, laurie was the black sheep of the family; so the devons left all their great fortune to barbara and put laurie in her care. that infuriated him, of course, for he is a high-spirited youngster. he promptly took on an extra shade of blackness. he was expelled from college, and sowed whole crops of wild oats. he gambled, was always in debt, and barbara had to pay. for a long time she wasn't able to handle the situation. they're both young, you know. she's about twenty-four, and laurie is a year younger. but last year she suddenly put her mind on it and pulled him up in a rather spectacular way." mrs. renway's eyes glittered with interest. "tell me how!" she begged. the raconteur settled back into her pew, with the complacent expression of one who is sure of her hearer's complete absorption in her words. "why," she said, "she made laurie a sporting-proposition, and he accepted it. he and she were to go to new york and earn their living for one year, under assumed names and without revealing their identity to anybody. they were to start with fifty dollars each, and to be wholly dependent upon themselves after that was gone. laurie was to give up all his bad habits and buckle down to the job of self-support. for every dollar he earned more than barbara earned, she promised him five dollars at the end of the year. and if he kept his pledges he was to have ten thousand dollars when the experiment was over, whether he succeeded or failed. he and barbara were to live in different parts of the city, to be ignorant of each other's addresses, and to see each other only twice." she stopped for breath. her friend drove an urgent elbow into her side. "go on!" she pleaded. "what happened?" "something very unexpected," chuckled mrs. lytton. (for some reason, barbara's friends always chuckled at this point in the story.) "barbara, who is so clever," she went on, "almost starved to death. and laurie, the black sheep, after various struggles and failures fell in with some theatrical people and finally collaborated with a successful playwright in writing a play. perhaps it was partly luck. but the play made a tremendous hit, laurie kept his pledges, and barbara has had to pay him a small fortune to meet her bargain!" the hearer smiled sympathetically. "that's splendid," she said, "for laurie! but is the cure permanent, do you think? the boy's so young, and so awfully good-looking--" "i know," mrs. lytton looked ominous. "he is straight as a string so far, and absorbed in his new work. but of course his future is on the knees of the gods, for barbara is going to japan on her honeymoon, and laurie will be alone in new york the rest of the winter. barbara found her husband in new york," she added. "he's a broker there, robert warren. that's what _she_ got out of the experiment! she met him while she was working in the mailing-department of some business house, for seven dollars a week--" mrs. lytton stopped speaking and craned her head backward. "they're coming!" she whispered excitedly. "oh, dear, i hope i sha'n't cry! i always _do_ cry at weddings, and i _never_ know why." from the crowd outside there rose a cheer, evidently at the bride's appearance. the echoes of it accompanied her progress into the church. "the mill people adore barbara," whispered mrs. lytton. "she built a big club-house for them two years ago, and she's the president of most of their clubs." in his seat behind her, jimmy harrigan, who had given his attention to the conversation, sniffed contemptuously. if the dame in front was goin' to talk about miss devon, why didn't she tell somethin' worth while? why didn't she tell, fer ins'ance, that miss devon played the best golf of any woman in the club, and had beaten mrs. lytton to a frazzle in a match last month? an' why didn't she say somethin' about how generous miss devon was to caddies in the matter of skates and boxing-gloves and clothes? and why didn't she say what a prince laurie devon was, instead of all dat stale stuff what everybody knew? but now mrs. lytton was exclaiming over the beauty of the bride, and here jimmy whole-heartedly agreed with her. "how lovely she looks!" she breathed. "she's like laurie, so stunning she rather takes one's breath away! oh, dear, i'm going to cry, i know i am! and crying makes my nose actually purple!" the excitement in the street had communicated itself to the dignified assemblage in the church. the occupants of the pews were turning in their seats. the first notes of the great pipe-organ rolled forth. friends who had known and loved barbara devon since she was a little girl, and many who had known her father and mother before her, looked now at the radiant figure she presented as she walked slowly up the aisle on her brother's arm, and saw that figure through an unexpected mist. "what a pair!" whispered mrs. renway, who had a pagan love of beauty. "they ought to be put in one of their own parks and kept there as a permanent exhibit for the delight of the public. it's almost criminal negligence to leave that young man at large," she darkly predicted. "something will happen if they do!" mrs. lytton absently agreed. "the bridegroom is very handsome, too," she murmured. "that stunning, insolent creature who is acting as matron of honor, and looking bored to death by it, is his sister, mrs. ordway, of new york. the first bridesmaid is another new york friend, a russian girl named sonya orleneff, that barbara met in some lodging-house. and _will_ you look at the infant samuel!" an expression of acute strain settled over the features of mrs. renway. she hurriedly adjusted her eye-glasses. "the _what?_" she whispered, excitedly. "where? i don't see any infant!" mrs. lytton laughed. "of course you don't! it's too small and too near the floor. it's a thirty-months-old youngster barbara picked up in a new york tenement. she calls him the infant samuel, and she has brought him here with his mother, to live on her estate. they say she intends to educate him. he's carrying her train and he's dressed as a page, in tiny white satin breeches and lace ruffles. oh, _don't_ miss him!" a little ripple stirred the assemblage. three figures in the long advancing line of the bridal party held the attention of observers. two were the bride and her brother. the third, stalking behind her, with her train grasped in his tiny fists, his round brown eyes staring straight ahead, and his fluffy brown hair flying out as if swept backward by an eternal breeze, was obviously the infant samuel mrs. lytton had mentioned. from a rear pew the infant's mother watched her offspring with pride and shuddering apprehension. it was quite on the cards that he might suddenly decide to leave the procession and undertake a brief side excursion into the pews. but samuel had been assured that he was "taking a walk," and as taking a walk happened to be his favorite pastime he kept manfully to this new form of diversion, even though it had features that did not strongly appeal to him. his short legs wabbled, and his tiny arms ached under the light weight of the bridal train, but something would happen if he let that train drop. he did not know quite what this something would be, but he abysmally inferred that it would be extremely unpleasant. he held grimly to his burden. suddenly he forgot it. the air was full of wonderful sounds such as he had never heard before. his eyes grew larger. his mouth formed the "o" that expressed his deepest wonder. he longed to stop and find out where the sounds came from, but the train drew him on and on. with an unconscious sigh he accompanied the train; bad as things were, they might have been worse, for he knew that somewhere in advance of him, lost in a mass of white stuff, was the "babs" he adored. when the train stopped, he stopped. in response to an urgent suggestion from some one behind him, he dropped it. in obedience to an equally urgent inner prompting, he sat down on it and gazed around. the walk had been rather a long one. now the big house he was in was very still, save for one voice, saying something to babs. it was all strange and unfamiliar, and babs seemed far away. nothing and nobody looked natural. samuel became increasingly doubtful about the pleasure of this walk. the corners of his mouth went down. a flower fell into his lap, and looking up he saw sonya orleneff smiling at him. even sonya was a new sonya, emerging from what samuel dimly felt to be pink clouds. but the eyes were hers, and the smile was hers, and it was plain that she expected him to play with the pink flower. he pulled it to pieces, slowly and absorbedly. the task took some time. from it he passed to a close contemplation of a pink slippered foot which also proved to be sonya's, and then to a careful study of a black pump and black silk sock that proved to be lawwie's. lawwie was smiling down at samuel, too, and wobert was standing beside babs, saying something in a voice that wabbled. samuel sighed again. perhaps by and by lawwie would take him out for a real walk in the snow. all this pink-and-white display around him might be pretty, but there was nothing in it for a small boy. he gazed appealingly at sonya, who promptly hoisted him to his fat legs. the man at the railing had stopped talking to babs and the walk was resumed, this time toward the door. again that especially precious part of the white stuff was in samuel's keeping. the sounds that now filled the air were more wonderful than ever. they excited samuel. his fat arms waved, and the light train waved with them. a compelling hand, sonya's, quieted them and it. there was absolutely nothing a little boy could do in this queer walk. gloomily but sedately the infant samuel continued his promenade. "here he is," murmured mrs. lytton to her friend. "you can see him now, can't you?" mrs. renway gurgled happily. she could. "rodney bangs, the playwright who collaborated with laurie, is sitting in the front pew," continued her informant, "and the fat little bald man next to him is jacob epstein, the new york manager who put on their play." at the same moment epstein was whispering to his companion, as the two watched barbara and her husband start down the aisle in the first little journey of their married life. "say, bangs, if ve could put this vedding into a play, just like they done it here, ve could vake up broadvay a little--ain't it?" bangs nodded, vaguely. his brown eyes were alternately on the bride and on his chum and partner, her brother. he was conscious of an odd depression, of an emotion, new and poignant, that made him understand the tears of barbara's women friends. under the influence of this, he spoke oracularly: "weddings are beastly depressing things. what the public wants to see is something cheerful!" epstein nodded in his turn. his thoughts, too, were busy. like many of those around him, he was mentally reducing the spectacle he was watching to terms that he could understand. a wedding conducted on this scale, he estimated, probably represented a total cost of about ten thousand dollars. but what was that to a bride with thirty or forty millions? it was strange her family had left them all to her and none to the boy, even if the boy had been a little wild. but the boy was all right now. he'd make his own fortune if life and women and the devil would let him alone. he had made a good start already. a few more successes like "the man above" would make epstein forget several failures he had already and unwisely produced this season. if he could get bangs and devon to start work at once, on another good play-- epstein closed his eyes, lent his jewish soul to the spell of the music, and dreamed on, of art and dollars, of dollars and art. a little later, in the automobile that whirled him and epstein out to the wedding-reception at devon house, rodney bangs briefly developed the wedding theme. "i suppose the reason why women cry at weddings and men feel glum is that they know what the bride's in for," he remarked, gloomily. epstein grunted. "you an' me is bachelors," he reminded the momentarily cynical youth. "ve should vorry!" "what i'm worrying about is laurie," bangs admitted. epstein turned to him with awakened interest. "vell," he demanded, "what about laurie? he's all right, ain't he?" "his sister has always kept a collar and leash on laurie," bangs reminded him, "and laurie has needed them both. now she's off for japan on a four-months' honeymoon. the leash and collar are off, too. it's going to be mighty interesting and rather anxious business for us to see what a chap like laurie does with his new freedom. his nature hasn't changed in a year, you see, though his circumstances have," he added, slowly. "and all his promises to barbara are off. his year of probation is over." epstein grunted again. he was fond of saying that he loved bangs and laurie as if they were the sons he had never had; but he was not given to analysis of himself or others, and he had little patience with it. his reply showed a tolerance unusual in him. "vell, ve keep an eye on him, don't ve?" he predicted. bangs frowned. "we'll have to do it mighty carefully," he muttered. "if devon catches us at it, he won't leave us an eye to keep on anything!" epstein grunted again. "ve keep him busy," he suggested, eagerly. "start him right avay on another play. eh? that's the idea!" bangs shook his head. "that's it," he conceded. "but laurie has decided that he won't work again, just yet. he says he's tired and wants a few months' rest. besides, he thinks america will declare war before the winter's over. he's going to volunteer as soon as it does, and he doesn't want any loose ends dragging here, any half-finished plays, for example." epstein looked worried. this was serious news. without allowing him time to recover from it, bangs administered a second jolt. "and of course, in that case," he added simply, "i'd volunteer, too." under the double blow epstein's head and shoulders went down. he knew in that moment what even he himself had sometimes doubted, that his boasted love for the boys was deep and sincere. few fathers could have experienced a more poignant combination of pride and pain than that which shook him now. but he remained, as always, inarticulate. "oh, vell," he said vaguely, "i guess ve meet all that if it comes, eh? ve needn't go to it to-day." at devon house they found the congestion characteristic of wedding-receptions. a certain line had been drawn at the church. seemingly no line at all had been drawn in the matter of guests at the reception. all barbara devon's protégés were there, and they were many; all the young folks in her clubs; all the old and new friends of her crowded life. each of the great and beautiful rooms on the main floor of devon house held a human frieze as a background for the throng of new-comers that grew rather than lessened as the hours passed. as bangs and epstein entered the main hall laurie devon saw them over the heads of the crowd and hurried to meet them, throwing an arm across the shoulder of each. he was in a mood both men loved and feared, a mood of high and reckless exhilaration. he liked and approved of his new brother-in-law. the memory of his own new york triumph was still fresh enough to give him a thrill. he was devoted to his partners, and proud of his association with them and their work. but most of all, and this he himself would loyally have denied, deep in his heart he was exulting fiercely over his coming freedom. laurie loved his sister, but he was weary of leading-strings. henceforth he could live his own life. it should be a life worth while, on that he had decided, and it should continue free from the vices of gambling and drinking, of which he was sure he had cured himself in the past year. he had come into a full realization of the folly of these and of the glory of the work one loves. he hadn't the least notion what he was going to do with his independence, but a boundless delight filled him in the prospect of it. whatever life held he was convinced would be good. looking down from his slender height on the plump epstein and the stocky bangs, he smiled into the sober face of each, and under the influence of that smile their momentary solemnity fell from them like dropped veils. "come and see barbara," laurie buoyantly suggested. "she wants to say good-by to you, and to tell you how to tuck me into my crib every night. she's going to slip away pretty soon, you know. bob and i have got her off in an alcove to get a few minutes' rest." he led them to this haven, of which only fifty or sixty other guests seemed aware, for the room was but comfortably filled. they found barbara sitting in a high-backed spanish chair, against which, in her bridal array and her extraordinary beauty, she made a picture that unaccountably deepened the new depression in rodney's soul. on her train by the side of the chair, the infant samuel slumbered in peace, like an exhausted puppy. warren, hovering near his wife, shook hands with the new-comers and responded to their congratulations. then, slipping his arm through laurie's, he drew him across the room to where his sister, mrs. ordway, was languidly talking to several of the bride's old friends. he knew that barbara wanted a final and serious word with her brother's partners. laurie knew it, too, and winked at the pair like an impish child as he permitted himself to be led away. young mrs. warren, whose title was still so new that she looked startled when they addressed her by it, greeted them warmly and indicated the sleeping samuel with an apologetic smile. "his mother is lost somewhere in the crowd," she explained. "he has had two glasses of milk, four fat cakes, and three plates of ice-cream; and he's either asleep or unconscious, i'm not sure which." her manner sobered. "i'm so glad to have a moment with you two," she said gently. "you know what i want to talk about." "we can guess it." bangs smiled at her with the odd wistfulness his smile always took on when he spoke to barbara. to bangs, barbara had become a temple at whose portal he removed his earth-stained shoes. "you want us to look after laurie," he added, quietly. "well, you bet we're going to do it." she smiled again, this time the rare smile that warmed her face like a light from within. "then i shall go away happy," she told them. "and there's nothing more to be said; for of course you both understand that i don't distrust laurie. how could i, after he has been so wonderful all this year? it's only--" she hesitated--"i suppose it's life i'm afraid of," she confessed. "i never used to be. but--well, i learned in new york how helpless we are, sometimes." rodney's nod was understanding. "i know," he robustly agreed. "but it's going to be absolutely all right. be sure of that." epstein added his well-meaning but none too happily chosen bit. "laurie can't get into no scrape ve can't get him out of," he earnestly assured laurie's sister. barbara laughed. a circle of new-comers was forming around them. "we'll let it go at that," she said, and extended a hand to each man. "good-by. i won't try to thank you. but--god bless you both!" under the influence of this final benediction, epstein waddled over to the corner where warren, very pale, and louise ordway, very much bored, stood surrounded by a group that included sonya orleneff. firmly detaching the bridegroom from this congenial assemblage, epstein led him to one side. "varren," he said solemnly, "i got to congratulate you all over again. you got von voman in a million--no, you got von voman in eighty million!" warren laughed, rather shakily. over the heads of the crowd his eyes caught his wife's and held them for an instant. "make it a million million," he suggested joyously, and led epstein to the supper room. laurie was there with bangs and a group of friends, who, having patronized young devon a year ago, were endeavoring to wipe out the memory of this indiscretion by an excess of friendly attention. laurie's brilliant eyes, filled with the excited glitter they had taken on to-night, saw through the attempt and the situation. both amused him. in his clubs, or anywhere but here, he might have indulged himself to the extent of having a little fun with these people. but not in his own home, while he was acting as host at his sister's wedding. here his manner was perfect, though colored by the exhilaration of his mood. "no," warren and epstein heard him say to mrs. lytton and mrs. renway, "there's nothing i'd like better than to come, thank you. but i'm going back to new york to-morrow. you see," he added, "this business of marrying off a sister, and attending to all the details and seeing that she conducts herself properly as long as she's in my care, is a bit of a strain. i've got to get back to town and recuperate." "i suppose you will rest your mind by writing another play?" gushed mrs. renway. laurie shook his black head. "not a bit of it!" he asserted. "don't even suggest such a thing before epstein, there. it sounds abhorrently like work." mrs. renway's curiosity had a brief and losing struggle with her good breeding. "then what _are_ you going to do?" she demanded coquettishly. the young man pondered, as if considering the question for the first time. "well," he said at last, "between you and me, i'm going in for adventure. i intend to devote the next four months to discovering how much excitement a worthy youth can crowd into his life if he makes a business of going after the gay bird of adventure, and finding it, and putting salt on its tail!" the puzzled countenance of mrs. renway cleared. "oh, i see," she said brightly, "you're joking." laurie smiled and turned to greet a late guest who had come up behind him. in the little group that had overheard him, three pairs of eyes met in startled glances. "humph!" said warren. "hear that?" "nice prospect for us!" muttered rodney bangs. jacob epstein looked harassed. a little later he joined the throng in the main hall, and watched the showers of rice fall harmlessly from the polished sides of barbara's limousine as the bride and groom were whirled away from the brilliant entrance of devon house. "she's gone," he said to bangs as the two men turned and reëntered the still crowded yet suddenly empty house. and he added solemnly, "believe me, bangs, on that job she left us you an' me 've got our hands full!" chapter ii rodney loses a battle rodney bangs, author of "the black pearl" and co-author of "the man above," was annoyed. when mr. bangs was annoyed he usually betrayed the fact, for his was an open nature. he was betraying it now. his clear, red-brown eyes were clouded. the healthy pink of his youthful cheeks had deepened to an unbecoming flush. his wide, engaging grin, the grin of a friendly bulldog, was lacking, and his lips were set tight. even his burnished red pomadour added to the general pugnaciousness of his appearance. standing up at its most aggressive angle, it seemed to challenge the world. sitting on a low chair in the dressing-room of the bachelor apartment he and laurence devon occupied together, rodney drew on a shoe and stamped his foot down into it with an emphasis that shook the floor. devon, fastening his tie before the full-length mirror set in the door leading to their common bath-room, started at the sound, like a high-strung prima donna. this was one of laurie's temperamental mornings. "what the devil's the matter with you, bangs?" he demanded, but without ill humor. "can't you get on a shoe without imitating the recoil of a seventy-five centimeter gun?" bangs grunted, drew on the other shoe, and drove his foot into it with increased energy. laurie looked at him, and this time there was a spark in his black eyes. very quietly he turned, crossed the small room, and, planting himself in front of his chum, resentfully stared down at the dynamic youth. "what's the idea?" he demanded. "are you deliberately trying to be annoying?" rodney did not raise his head. his fingers were busy with a complicated knot. "oh, shut up!" he muttered. laurie, his hands in his pockets, remained where he was. under his continued inspection, the fingers of bangs grew clumsy. he fumbled with the knot, and, having unfastened it, prolonged to the utmost the process of lacing his shoes. he knew what must come as soon as he settled back in his chair. it had been coming for days. he was in for an unpleasant ten minutes. but the situation was one he had deliberately created as the only possible way of bringing about a serious talk with his friend. now that it was here, he was anxious to make the most of it. with head bent and thoughts busy he played for time. at last, the shoes laced and his campaign mapped out, he sat up and met laurie's eyes. their expression of antagonism, temporary though he knew it to be, hurt him. devon, when he had his own way, and he usually had it, was a singularly sweet-tempered chap. never before, throughout their year of close association, had he looked at bangs like that. rodney knew that he deserved the look. for days past he had deliberately subjected his companion to a series of annoyances, small but intensely irritating. "well?" demanded laurie. "what's the answer?" "what answer?" rodney was in the position of a small boy challenged to combat in cold blood. he was experiencing some difficulty in working himself up to the necessary heat for an engagement. but laurie's next words helped him out. "you've been making a damned nuisance of yourself for the last week," he said deliberately. "i want to know why." bangs squared his stocky shoulders and rose to his feet. his brown eyes were below the level of his chum's black ones, but the two glances met sharply and a flash passed between them. under the force of his rising excitement the voice of rodney shook. "the reason i've been a damned nuisance," he said curtly, "is because you've been acting like an infernal fool, and i'm sick of it." laurie's lips tightened, but the other rushed on without giving him a chance to reply. the moment was his. he must crowd into it all he had not dared to say before and might not be given a chance to say again. "oh, i know what you'll say!" he cried. "it's none of my business, and you're your own master, and all that sort of rot. and i know you're not drinking, and god knows i'm not ass enough to take on any high moral tone and try to preach to you, whatever you do. what gets my goat, devon, and the only thing i'm worrying about, is this damnable waste of your time and mine." laurie grinned, and the grin infuriated bangs. he whirled away from it. a footstool impeded his progress, and he kicked it out of his way with large abandon. it was his habit to rush about a room when he was talking excitedly. he rushed about now; and laurie lit a cigarette and watched him, at first angrily, then with a growing tolerance born of memories of scenes in their plays which bangs had threshed out in much this same manner. the world could never be wholly uninteresting while rodney pranced about in it, cutting the air with gestures like that. "here i am," snapped rodney, "ready with my play, the best plot i've had yet. you won't let me even mention it to you. here's the new season. here's epstein, sitting on our door-mat with a check-book in each hand, waiting to put on anything we give him. you know he's lost a small fortune this fall. you know it's up to us to give him a play that will pull him out of the hole he's in. here's haxon, the best director in town, marking time and holding off other managers in the hope that you and i will get down to business. and here you are, the fellow we're all counting on--" he stopped for breath and adjectives. "yes," laurie politely prompted him. "here i am. what about it? what am i doing?" "you know damned well what you're doing. you're loafing!" bangs fired the word at him as if it were a shell from a big bertha. "you're loafing till it makes us all sick to look at you. we thought a week or two of it would be enough, when you realized the conditions; but it's gone on for a month; and, instead of getting tired, you're getting more and more into the loafing habit. you abuse time till it shrieks in agony." "good sentence," applauded laurie. "but don't waste it on me. put it into a play." bangs seemed not to hear him. he was standing by the room's one window, now, staring unseeingly out of it, his hands deep in his pockets, taking in the knowledge of the failure of his appeal. under the realization of this he tossed a final taunt at his partner over his shoulder. "i can forgive the big blunders a man makes in his life," he muttered; "but, by god, i haven't much patience with a chap that lies around and shirks at a time like this!" laurie removed the half-smoked cigarette from his mouth, and not finding an ash tray within reach, carefully crushed out its burning end against the polished top of the dressing-case. he had grown rather pale. "that will be about all, bangs," he said quietly. "what you and epstein and haxon don't seem to remember is just one thing. if you don't like matters as they are, it's mighty easy to change them. it doesn't take half a minute to agree to dissolve a partnership." "i know." bangs returned to his chair, and, dropping limply into it, his hands still in his pockets, stared despondently at his outstretched legs. "that's all it means to you," he went on, morosely. "our partnership is one in a thousand. it's based on friendship as well as on financial interest. if i do say it, it represents a combination of brains, ability, backing, and prospects that comes only once in a lifetime, if it comes at all. yet in one year you're sick of it, and tired of work. you're ready to throw it all over, and to throw over at the same time the men whose interests are bound up with yours. you're dawdling in cabarets and roadhouses and restaurants, when you might be doing work--" bangs's voice capitalized the word--"real work," he added fiercely, "work other fellows would give their souls to be able to do." he ended on a flat note, oddly unlike his usual buoyant tones, and sat still as if everything had been said. laurie lit a fresh cigarette, drew in a mouthful of smoke, and exhaled it in a series of pretty rings. in his brief college experience he had devoted some time to acquiring this art. admiringly watching the little rings pass through the big rings, he spoke with studied carelessness. "it was a pretty good scene, bangs," he said, "and it showed careful rehearsing. but it would be a lot more effective if you had a real situation to base it on. as it is, you're making a devil of a row about nothing. i worked like a horse all last year, and you know it. now i'm resting, or loafing, if you prefer to call it that, and"--he bit off the words and fairly threw them at his friend--"it will save you and epstein and haxon a lot of mental wear and tear if you will mind your own business and let me alone." bangs raised his eyes and dropped them again. "you _are_ our business," he somberly reminded his partner. "i've got so i can't work without you," he added, with a humility new to him. "you know that. and you know i've got the plot. it's ready--great scott, it's boiling in me! i'm crazy to get it out. and here i've got to sit around watching you kill time, while you know and i know that you'd be a damn sight happier if you were on the job. good lord, laurie, work's the biggest thing there is in life! doesn't it mean anything at all to you?" "not just now." laurie spoke with maddening nonchalance. "then there's something rotten in you." laurie winced, but made no answer. he hoped bangs would go on talking and thus destroy the echo of his last words, with which the silent room seemed filled. but nothing came. rodney's opportunity had passed, and he was lost in depressed realization of its failure. laurie strolled back to the mirror, his forgotten tie dangling in his hand. "we'll let it go at that," he said then. "think things over, and make up your mind what you want to do about the contract." "all right." bangs replied in the same flat notes he had used a moment before, and without changing his position; but the two words gave laurie a shock. he did not believe that either rodney or epstein would contemplate a dissolution of their existing partnership; but an hour ago he would not have believed that rodney bangs could say to him the things he had said just now. he was beginning to realize that he had tried his partners sorely in the month that had passed since his return to town; and all for what? he himself had brought out of the foolish experience nothing save a tired nervous system, a sense of boredom such as he had not known for a year, and, especially when he looked at bangs, an acute mental discomfort which introspective persons would probably have diagnosed as the pangs of conscience. laurie did not take the trouble to diagnose it. he merely resented it as a grievance added to the supreme grievance based on the fact that he had not yet even started on the high adventure he had promised himself. he was gloomily considering both grievances, and tying his tie with his usual care, when something in the mirror caught and held his attention. he looked at it, at first casually, then with growing interest. in the glass, directly facing him, was a wide studio window. it was open, notwithstanding the cold january weather, and a comfortable, middle-aged, plump woman, evidently a superior type of caretaker, was sitting on the sill, polishing an inner pane. the scene was as vivid as a mirage, and it was like the mirage in that it was projected from some point which itself remained unseen. laurie turned to the one window the dressing-room afforded--a double french window, at his right, but a little behind him, and reaching to the floor. through this he could see across a court the opposite side of his own building, but no such window or commonplace vision as had just come to him. in his absorption in the phenomenon he called to bangs, who rose slowly, and, coming to his side, regarded the scene without much interest. "it's a cross projection from a house diagonally opposite us," he said, after studying the picture a moment. "it must be that old red studio building on the southwest corner of the square. if we had a room back of this and looking toward the west, we could see the real window." "as it is," said laurie, "we've got a reserved seat for an intimate study of any one who lives there. i wonder who has that studio?" bangs had no idea. he was grateful to the little episode, however, for spreading over the yielding ground beneath his feet the solid strip on which he had crossed back to his chum. he threw an arm across laurie's shoulders and looked into his face, with something in his expression that reminded young devon of a favorite collie he had loved and lost in boyhood. "all right now?" the look asked, just as the dog's look had asked it of the little chap of ten, when something had gone wrong. rodney's creed of life was held together by a few primitive laws, the first of which was loyalty. already he was reproaching himself for what he had said and done. laurie carefully completed the tying of his tie, and turned to him with his gayest smile. "hurry up and finish dressing," he cheerfully suggested, "and we'll go out to breakfast. since you insist on waiting 'round for me like mary's little lamb, i suppose i've got to feed you." rodney's wide grin responded, for the first time in many days. he bustled about, completing his toilet, and ten minutes later the two young men started out together with a lightness of spirit which each enjoyed and neither wholly understood. both had a healthy horror of "sentimental stuff" and a gay, normal disregard of each other's feelings in ordinary intercourse. but in the past half-hour, for the first time in their association, they had come close to a serious break, and the soul of each had been chilled by a premonitory loneliness as definite as the touch of an icy finger. in the quick reaction they experienced now their spirits soared exultantly. they breakfasted in a fellowship such as they had not known since barbara's marriage, the month before. if bangs had indulged in any dream of a change of life in laurie, however, following this reconciliation, the next few days destroyed the tender shoots of that hope. laurie's manner retained its pleasant camaraderie, but work and he met as strangers and passed each other by. the routine of his days remained what they had been during the past five weeks. he gadded about, apparently harmlessly, came home at shocking hours, and spent most of the bracing january days wrapped in a healthful slumber that infuriated bangs, who wandered in and out of their apartment like an unhappy ghost. on the rare occasions when he and rodney lunched or dined together, laurie was entirely good-humored and when epstein was with them seemed wholly impervious to any hints thrown out, none too subtly, by his producing partner. "listen, laurie," said that disgusted individual, almost a month after the new year had been ushered in, "the new year's here. that's a good time for a young fella to get busy again on somethin' vorth while. ain't i right?" laurie suppressed a yawn and carefully struck off with his little finger the firm ash of an excellent cigarette. he was consuming thirty or forty cigarettes a day, and his nerves were beginning to show the effect of this indulgence. "i believe it is," he courteously agreed. "it has been earnestly recommended to the young as a good time to start something." "vell," epstein's voice took on the guttural notes of his temperamental moments, "don't that mean nothin' to you?" laurie grinned. he had caught the quick look of warning bangs shot at the producer and it amused him. "not yet," he said. "not till i've had my adventure." epstein sniffed. "the greatest adventure in life," he stated dogmatically, "is to make a lot of money. i tell you vy. because then you got all the other adventures you can handle, trying to hold on to it!" bangs, who was developing a new and hitherto unsuspected vein of tact, encouraged epstein to enlarge on this congenial theme. he now fully realized that devon would go his own gait until he wearied of it, and that no argument or persuasion could enter his armor-clad mind. the position of bangs was a difficult one, for while he was accepting and assimilating this unpleasant fact, epstein and haxon--impatient men by temperament and without much training in self-control--were getting wholly out of patience and therefore out of hand. haxon, indeed, was for the time entirely out of hand, for he had finally started the rehearsals of a new play which, he grimly informed bangs, would make "the man above" look like a canceled postage-stamp. bangs repeated the comment to his chum the next morning, during the late dressing-hour which now gave them almost their only opportunity for a few words together. he had hoped it would make an impression, and he listened with pleasure to a sharp exclamation from laurie, who chanced to be standing before the door mirror in the dressing-room, brushing his hair. the next instant bangs realized that it was not his news which had evoked the tribute of that exclamation. "come here!" called laurie, urgently. "here's something new; and, by jove, isn't she a beauty!" bangs interrupted his toilet to lounge across the room. looking over laurie's shoulder, his eyes found the cynosure that held the gaze of his friend. the wide-open studio window was again reflected in the mirror, but with another occupant. this was a girl, young and lovely. she appeared in the window like a half-length photograph in a frame. her body showed only from above the waist. her elbows were on the sill. her chin rested in the hollows of her cupped hands. her wavy hair, parted on one side and drawn softly over the ears in the fashion of the season, was reddish-gold. her eyes were brown, and very thoughtful. down-dropped, they seemed to stare at something on the street below, but the girl's expression was not that of one who was looking at an object with interest. instead, she seemed lost in a deep and melancholy abstraction. laurie, a hair-brush in each hand, stared hard at the picture. "isn't she charming!" he cried again. bangs's reply revealed a severely practical side of his nature. "she'll have a beastly cold in the head if she doesn't shut that window," he grumpily suggested. but his interest, too, was aroused. he stared at the girl in the mirror with an attention almost equal to laurie's. as they looked, she suddenly stirred and moved backward, as if occultly warned of their survey. they saw her close the window, and, drawing a chair close to it, sit down and stare out through the pane, still with that intent, impersonal expression. bangs strolled back to the dressing-case and resumed his interrupted toilet. laurie, fumbling vaguely with his brushes, kept his eyes on the girl in the mirror. "do you suppose we could see her if we went out on the street?" he asked, suddenly. "her? oh, you mean that girl?" with difficulty bangs recalled his thoughts from haxon's new play. "no, i don't think so," he decided. "you see, we're up on the tenth floor, so she must be fairly high up, too." "she's a wonder." laurie was still gazing into the mirror. "prettiest girl i've ever seen, i think," he reflected aloud. bangs snorted. "she's probably a peroxide," he said. "even if she isn't, she can't hold a candle to your sister." "oh, barbara--" laurie considered the question of barbara's beauty as if it were new to him. "babs is good-looking," he handsomely conceded. "but there's something about this girl that's unusual. perhaps it's her expression. she doesn't look happy." bangs sighed with ostentation. "if you want to study some one that isn't happy, look at me," he invited warmly. "if that play of mine isn't out of me pretty soon, i'll have to have an operation!" laurie made no reply to this pathetic prediction, and bangs sadly shook his head and concluded his toilet, meditating gloomily the while on the unpleasant idiosyncrasies of every one he knew. to see devon turn suddenly into a loafer upset all his theories as well as all his plans. laurie, for some reason, dawdled more than usual that morning. it was after eleven before he went to breakfast. an hour earlier bangs departed alone for their pet restaurant. the girl in the mirror remained at her window for a long time, and laurie watched her in growing fascination. it was not until she rose and disappeared that he felt moved to consider so sordid a question as that of food. he joined bangs just as that youth was finishing his after-breakfast cigar. even under its soothing influence, he was in the mood of combined exasperation and depression with which his friends were becoming familiar. "if we had begun work as soon as we got back to town after your sister's wedding," he told laurie, "we'd have had two acts ready by now, in the rough." "no reason why you shouldn't have four acts ready, so far as i can see," murmured laurie, cheerfully attacking his grape-fruit. "all you've got to do is to write 'em." bangs's lips set. "not till i've talked 'em over with you and got your ideas," he declared, positively. "if you'd just let me give you an outline--" laurie set down his cup. "do i get my breakfast in peace, or don't i?" he demanded, coldly. "you do, confound you!" bangs bit off the end of a fresh cigar and smoked it in stolid silence. he was a person of one idea. if he couldn't talk about the play, he couldn't talk at all. he meditated, considering his characters, his situations, his partner's and his own position, in a mental jumble that had lately become habitual and which was seriously affecting his nerves. laurie, as he ate, chatted cheerfully and at random, apparently avoiding with care any subject that might interest his partner. bangs rose abruptly. "well, i'm off," he said. "see you at dinner time, i suppose." but laurie, it appeared, had engagements. he was taking a party of friends out to gedney farms that evening, in his new car, and they might decide to stay there for a day or two. also, though he did not confide this fact to bangs, he had an engagement for the afternoon, at a place where the card rooms were quiet and elegant and the stakes high. he had been there half a dozen times, and had played each time. he had been able to keep himself in hand. in fact, a great part of the fascination of the game now lay in the study of its effect on himself and its test of his new-born will power. thus far, he had played exactly as much as he had planned to play, and had secretly exulted in the fact. what he intended, he told himself, was to learn to do things in moderation; neither to fear them nor to let them master him. the attraction of these diversions filled his mind. he quite forgot the girl in the mirror, and it was no thought of her that drew him back to new york that night. the plans of his guests had changed, that was all. the change brought him home at eleven o'clock. bangs was in his own room, finding in sleep a wall of unconsciouness that separated him from his troubles. laurie decided upon the novel pleasure of a long night of slumber for himself. he fell asleep with surprising ease, and immediately, as it seemed, he saw the girl in the mirror. she was walking toward him, through what appeared to be a heavy fog. her hands were outstretched to him, and he hurried to meet her; but even as he did so the fog closed down and he lost her, though he seemed to hear her voice, calling him from somewhere far away. he awoke late in the morning with every detail of the dream vivid in his mind, so vivid, indeed, that when he approached the mirror after his morning plunge, it seemed almost a continuation of the dream to find the girl there. he stopped short with a chuckle. the curtains of his french window were drawn apart, and in the mirror he saw the reflection of the girl as she stood in profile near her own uncurtained window and slowly dressed her hair. it was wonderful hair, much more wonderful down than up. laurie, who had a sophisticated notion that most of the hair on the heads of girls he knew had been purchased as removable curls and "transformations," stared with pleasure at the red-gold mass that fell down over the girl's white garment. then, with a little shock, he realized that the white garment was a nightdress. it was evident that, high in her lonely room, the girl thought herself safe from observation and was quietly making her toilet for the morning. well, she should be safe. with a quick jerk, laurie drew together the heavy curtains that hung at the sides of the long window. then, smiling a little, he slowly dressed. his thoughts dwelt on the girl. it was odd that she should be literally projected into his life in that unusual fashion. he had never had any such experience before, nor had he heard of one just like it. it was unique and pleasant. it was especially pleasant to have her so young and so charming to look at. she might have been a disheveled art student, given to weird color effects, or an austere schoolma'am, or some plump and matter-of-fact person who set milk bottles on the sill and spread wet handkerchiefs to dry on the window-panes. as it was, all that disturbed him was her expression. he wished he knew her name and something more about her. his thoughts were full of her. before he left the room he parted the curtains again to open the window wide, following his usual program. as he did so he glanced into his mirror. he saw her open window, but it was lifeless. only his own disappointed face confronted him. chapter iii laurie meets miss mayo laurie thought much that day about the girl in the mirror, and he was again home at eleven that night, to the wonder of mr. bangs, who freely expressed his surprise. "something pleasant been coming your way?" he tactfully asked. laurie evaded the question, but he felt that something definitely pleasant had come his way. this something was a new interest, and he had needed a new interest very much. he hoped he would dream of the girl that night, but as he and bangs unwisely consumed a welsh rabbit before they went to bed, he dreamed instead of something highly unpleasant, and was glad to be awakened by the clear sunlight of a brilliant january day. after breakfast he strolled across the square into the somber hall of the studio building on its southwest corner. the hall was empty, but he found and rang a bell at the entrance of a dingy elevator shaft. the elevator descended without haste. when it had reached the floor, the colored youth in charge of it inhospitably filled its doorway and regarded the visitor with indifference. this young man was easy to look at, but he was no one he knew. laurie handed him a dollar and the youth's expression changed, first to one of surprise, then to the tolerance of a man who is wise and is willing to share his wisdom. the visitor went at once to the point of his visit. "a young lady lives here," he began. "she is very pretty, and she has reddish hair and brown eyes. she has a studio in one of the upper floors, at the front of the house. what's her name?" the boy's face showed that he had instantly recognized the description, but he pondered dramatically. "dat young lady?" he then said. "dat young lady mus' be miss mayo, in twenty-nine, on de top flo'. she jes' moved in here las' tuesday." "where does she come from, and what does she do?" the boy hesitated. what did all this mean? and was he giving up too much for a dollar? laurie grinned at him understandingly. "i don't know her," he admitted, "and i don't expect to. i'd like to know something about her--that's all." the youth nodded. he had the air of accepting an apology. "i reckon she come fum some fur'n place. but i dunno what she _do_," he reluctantly admitted. "mebbe she ain't doin' nothin' yit. she's home mos' de time. she don' go out hardly 'tall. seems like she don' know many folks." he seemed about to say more, but stopped. for a moment he obviously hesitated, then blurted out what he had in mind. "one t'ing got me guessin'," he muttered doubtfully. "dat young lady, she don' seem t' _eat_ nothin'!" "what do you mean?" laurie stared at him. the boy shuffled his feet. he was on uncertain ground. "why, jes' what i said," he muttered, defensively. "folkses here either eats _in_ or dey eats _out_. ef dey eats in, dey has stuff _sent_ in--rolls an' eggs an' milk and' stuff like dat. ef dey eats out, dey _goes_ out, reg'lar, to meals. but miss mayo she don' seem to eat in _or_ out. nothin' comes in, an' she don' go out 'nough to eat reg'lar. i bin studyin' 'bout it consider'ble," he ended; and he looked unmistakably relieved, as if he had passed on to another a burden that was too heavy to carry alone. laurie hesitated. the situation was presenting a new angle and a wholly unexpected one. it began to look as if he had come on a sentimental errand and had stumbled on a tragedy. certainly he had blundered into the private affairs of a lady, and was even discussing these affairs with an employee in the building where she lived. that thought was unpleasant. yet the boy's interest was clearly friendly, and the visitor himself had invited revelations about the new lodger. still, not such revelations as these! he frankly did not know what to make of them or how to act. there was a chance that the boy might be all wrong in his inferences, although this chance, laurie mentally admitted, was slight. he knew the shrewdness of this youth's type, the precocious knowledge of human nature that often accompanies such training and environment as he had had. probably he suspected even more than he had revealed. something must be done. laurie drew a bill from his pocket "how soon can you leave the elevator?" he asked. "'bout one o'clock." "all right. now here's what i want you to do. take this money, go over to the clarence restaurant, and buy a good lunch for that lady. get some hot chicken or chops, buttered rolls, vegetables, and a bottle of milk. have it packed nicely in a box. have them put in some fresh eggs and extra rolls and butter for her breakfast. deliver the box at her door as if it came from some one outside. do that and keep the change. understand?" "yaas, sah!" the boy's eyes and teeth were shining. "all right. go to it. i'll drop in later this afternoon for your report." laurie turned and walked away. even yet the experience did not seem real. it was probably all based on some foolish notion of the youth's; and yet he dared not assume that it was a foolish notion. he had the dramatist's distaste for drama anywhere except in its legitimate place, on the stage; but he admitted that sometimes it did occur in life. this might be one of those rare occasions. whatever it was, it haunted him. he lunched with bangs that day, and was so silent that bangs was moved to comment. "if you were any one else," he remarked, "i'd almost think you were thinking!" laurie disclaimed the charge, but his abstraction did not lift. by this time his imagination was hard at work. he pictured the girl in the mirror as stretched on her virginal cot in the final exhaustion of starvation; and the successful effort to keep away from the studio building till four o'clock called for all his will power. suppose the boy blundered, or wasn't in time. suppose the girl really had not eaten anything since last tuesday! these thoughts, and similar ones, obsessed him. at four he strolled into the studio hall, wearing what he hoped was a detached and casual air. to his annoyance, the elevator and its operator were lost in the dimness of the upper stories, and before they descended several objectionable persons had joined laurie, evidently expecting to be taken to upper floors themselves. this meant a delay in his tête-à-tête with the boy, and laurie turned upon the person nearest him, an inoffensive spinster, a look of such intense resentment that it haunted that lady for several days. when the elevator finally appeared, he entered it with the others who were waiting. he looked aloofly past the elevator boy as he did so, and that young person showed himself equal to the situation by presenting to this new-comer a stolid ebony profile. but when the lift had reached the top floor and discharged its passengers, the two conspirators lent themselves to the drama of their rôles. "well?" asked laurie eagerly. "did you get it?" "yaas, sah." "what happened?" the boy stopped his descending car midway between two floors. he had no intention of having his scene spoiled. he bulged visibly under the news he had to impart. "i got de stuff you said, and i lef' it at dat young lady's do'," he began impressively. "yes." "when i looked de nex' time, it was gone." "good! she had taken it in." laurie drew a breath of relief. "no, sah. dat ain't all." the boy's tone dripped evil tidings. "she brung it back!" "what!" his passenger was staring at him in concern. "yaas, sah. de bell rung fum her flo', an' when i got up de young lady was standin' dere wid dat basket in her hand." he paused to give laurie the effect of the tableau, and saw by his visitor's expression that he had got it fully. "yes? go on!" "she look at me mighty sharp. she got brown eyes dat look right _thoo_ you," he interpolated briskly. "den she say, 'sam, who done lef' dat basket at my do'?' i say, 'i done it, miss. it was lef' in de hall, an' de ca'd got yo' name on it. ain't you order it?' i say. "'no,' she say, 'dis yere basket ain't fo' me. take it, an' ef you cain't find out who belong to it, eat dis yere lunch yo'self.'" he paused. laurie's stunned silence was a sufficient tribute to his eloquence, but sam had not yet reached his climax. he introduced it now, with fine effect. "bimeby," he went on unctuously, "i took dat basket back to her. i say, 'miss mayo,' i say, 'i done foun' out 'bout dat basket. 't was lef' by a lady artis' here what got a tergram an' went away sudden. she want dat food et, so she sent it to you.'" laurie regarded him with admiration. "that was pretty good for extemporaneous lying," he commented. "i suppose you can do even better when you take more time to it. what did the lady say?" sam shook a mournful head. "she jes' look at me, an' she kinda smile, an' den she say, 'sam, dis yere basket 'noys me. ef de lady wants it et, sam, you eat it yo'self." he paused. "i et it," he ended, solemnly. laurie's lips twitched under conflicting emotions, but he closed the interview with a fair imitation of indifference. "oh, well," he said carelessly, "you must have been mistaken about the whole thing. evidently miss mayo, if that's her name, wasn't as hungry as you were." the boy nodded and started the car on its downward journey. as his passenger got off on the ground floor, he gave him a new thought to carry away with him. "she'd bin cryin', dough," he muttered. "her eyes was all red." laurie stopped and regarded him resentfully. "confound you!" he said, "what did you tell me that for? _i_ can't do anything about it!" the boy agreed, hurriedly. "no, sah," he assured him. "you cain't. i cain't, neither. none of us cain't," he added as an afterthought. laurie slowly walked away. his thoughts scampered around and around, like squirrels in a cage. the return of the basket, of course, might mean either of two conditions--that the girl was too proud to accept help, or that she was really in no need of it. laurie had met a few art students. he knew that, hungry or not, almost any one of them would cheerfully have taken in that basket and consumed its contents. he had built on that knowledge in providing it. if the girl _had_ taken it in, the fact would have proved nothing. her refusal to touch it was suspicious. it swung the weight of evidence toward the elevator boy's starvation theory. laurie's thoughts returned to that imaginative youth. he saw him consuming the girl's luncheon, and a new suspicion crossed his mind. perhaps the whole business was a bit of graft. but his intelligence rejected that suggestion. if this had been the explanation, the boy would not have concluded the episode so briskly. he had got the strange young man where he might have "kept him going" for days and made a good income in the process. as it was, there seemed nothing more to do. and yet--and yet--how the deuce could one let the thing drop like that? if the girl was really in straits-- thus the subconscious argument went on and on. it worried laurie. he was not used to such violent mental exercise. least of all was he in the habit of disturbing himself about the affairs of others. but this affair was different. the girl was so pretty! also, he had recurrent visions of his sister barbara in the position of his mysterious neighbor. barbara might easily have gone through such an experience during last year's test in new york. in that same experiment laurie himself had learned how slender is the plank that separates one from the abyss that lies beneath the world's workers. he dined alone that night and it was well he did so. his lack of appetite would certainly have attracted the attention of bangs or any other fellow diner, and bangs would as certainly have commented upon it. also, he passed a restless night, troubled by vaguely depressing dreams. the girl was in them, but everything was as hopelessly confused as his daytime mental processes had been. the next morning he deliberately kept away from the mirror until he was fully dressed, but he dressed with a feeling of tenseness and urgency he would have found it difficult to explain. he only knew that to-day he meant to do something definite, something that would settle once for all the question that filled his mind. but what could he do? that little point was still unsettled. knock at the girl's door, pretend that it was a blunder, and trust to inspiration to discover in the brief encounter if anything was wrong? or put money in an envelop and push it under her door? if he did that, she would probably give the money to sam, as she had given him the food. what to do? laurie proceeded with his toilet, using the dressing-case and carefully avoiding the long mirror. he experienced an odd unwillingness to look into that mirror this morning, based partly on delicacy--he remembered the nightdress--but more on the fear of disappointment. if he saw her, it would be an immense relief. if he didn't, he'd fancy all sorts of things, for now his imagination was running away with him. when he was fully dressed he crossed the room in three strides and stopped before the mirror with a suddenness that checked him half-way in the fourth. miss mayo's window was open. he could see that. he could see more than that, and what he saw sent him rushing through the study and out into the hall of the big apartment building, where he furiously rang the elevator bell. he had not stopped for his hat and coat, but he had caught a vision of bangs's astonished face and half of his startled exclamation, "what the dev--" the elevator came and laurie leaped into it. "down," he said briefly. the operator was on his way up to the twelfth floor, but something in the expression of his passenger made him change his plans. also it accelerated his movements. the car descended briskly to the ground floor, from which point the operator was privileged to watch the progress of the temperamental mr. devon, who had plunged through the main entrance of the building and across the square without a word to the hall attendants, or a backward glance. as he reached the studio building laurie recalled himself to a memory of the conventions. he entered without undue haste, and sought the door of the waiting lift. it was noon, and an operator he had not seen before was on duty. "top floor," directed laurie, and stepped into the car. the operator hesitated. he did not remember this tenant, but he must belong to the house, as he wore no hat or coat. probably he was a new-comer, and had run down-stairs to mail an important letter, as the old building held no mail-chute. while these reflections passed slowly through his mind, his car rose as slowly. to the mentally fuming young man at his side its progress was intolerably deliberate. he held himself in, however, and even went through the pantomime of pausing in the top-floor hall to search a pocket as if for a latch-key. satisfied, the attendant started the elevator on its descent, and as it sank from sight laurie looked around him for number twenty-nine. he discovered it in an eye-flash, on the door at the right. the next instant he had reached this door and was softly turning the knob. the door did not yield. he had not expected it to give, and he knew exactly what he meant to do. he stepped back a few feet, then with a rush hurled his shoulder against the wood with the full force of his foot-ball training in the effort. the lock yielded, and under the force of his own momentum the visitor shot into the room. then, recovering his equilibrium, he pushed the door into place and stood with his back against it, breathing heavily and feeling rather foolish. he was staring at the girl before him, who had risen at his entrance. her expression was so full of astonished resentment, and so lacking in any other emotion, that for a sickening moment he believed he had made an idiot of himself, that he had not really seen what he thought he had seen in the glass. a small table separated him from the girl. still staring at her, in the long seconds that elapsed before either spoke, he saw that she had swept her right hand behind her back, in a swift, instinctive effort to hide what it held. his self-possession returned. he had not been mistaken. he smiled at her apologetically. "i beg your pardon," he said. "i'm afraid i frightened you." "you did." she spoke tensely, the effect of overstrained nerves revealing itself in her low voice. "what do you mean by it? what are you doing here?" laurie's brilliant eyes were on hers as she spoke, and held them steadily. under his expression, one that few had seen on his face, her look of antagonism softened a little. he advanced slowly to the table between them. "it will take a few minutes to explain," he said. then, as she waited, he suddenly formed his plan, and followed the good old devon principle of going straight to the point. "i live diagonally across the square," he said quietly, "and i can see into your window from one of mine. so it happened that just now i--i saw what you were going to do." for an instant she stood very still, looking at him, as if not quite taking in the meaning of his words. in the next her face and even her neck crimsoned darkly as if under the rush of a wave of angry humiliation. when she spoke her voice shook. "you forget," she said, "that you have no right either to look into my room or to interfere with what you see there." "i know," he told her, humbly, "and i beg your pardon again. the looking in was an accident, the merest chance, which i will explain to you later. the interference--well, i won't apologize for that. surely you realize that it's--friendly." for the first time her eyes left his. she looked around the room as if uncertain what to do or say. "perhaps you mean it so," she muttered at last. "but i consider it--impertinent." a change was taking place in her. the fire that had flamed up at his entrance was dying out, leaving her with the look of one who is cowed and almost beaten. even her last words lacked assurance. watching her in puzzled sympathy, laurie for the first time wished himself older and wiser than he was. how could he handle a situation like this? neither then nor later did he ask himself how he would have handled it on the stage. for a moment the two young things gazed at each other, in helplessness and irresolution on his side, in resentful questioning on hers. even in the high tension of the moment laurie subconsciously took in the picture she made as she stood there, defying him, with her back to the wall of life. she was very lovely, more lovely than in the mirror; for now he was getting the full effect of her splendid coloring, set off by the gown she wore, a thing of rich but somber shades, lit up by a semi-barbaric necklace of amber and gold, that hung almost to her knees. yes, the girl was a picture against the unforgetable background of that tragic situation. but what he admired most of all was the dignity that shone through her panic and her despair. she was up in arms against him. and yet, if he had not come, if that vision had not flashed into his mirror five minutes ago, she might now have been lying a huddled, lifeless thing on the very spot where she stood so proudly. at the thought his heart shook. the right words came to him at last. "i've had--impulses--like yours," he said. "i've had them twice. fortunately, both times there was some one around to talk me out of them." he had caught her attention. she showed that by the way she looked at him. "the argument that impressed me most," he went on, "was that it's quitting the game. you don't look as if you were a quitter," he ended, thoughtfully. the girl's eyes blazed. he had aroused her once more, and he was glad of it. he didn't know at all what to do or say, but he dimly felt that almost any emotion in her would be better than the lethargy she had just revealed. "i'm not a quitter!" she cried. "but i've got dignity enough to leave a place where i'm not wanted, even if that place happens to be the world. go away!" she added fiercely. "go away and leave me alone!" resting one hand on the table between them, he held out the other. "come, let me have that," he suggested, imperturbably. "then we'll talk things over. i'll try to make you realize what i was made to realize myself--that we were both on the wrong track. i'll tell you what others think who are wiser than we are." as she did not move, he added, more lightly: "you see, what we were going to do isn't done much nowadays. it's all out of date. come," he repeated, gently, "let me have it." with a movement of irritation the girl swept her hand forward and tossed on the table between them the small revolver she had been holding. "take it," she said, almost indifferently. and she added, "another time will do as well." he picked up the little weapon and put it into his pocket. "there isn't going to be any other time," he predicted buoyantly. "now, slip into a coat while i run across the street and get my hat and coat and order a taxicab. we're going out to luncheon, and to tell each other the stories of our lives, with all the grim and gory details." "i don't know you," muttered the girl. she had dropped into a chair beside the table, and was sitting with her chin in her hand, in what seemed a characteristic attitude, watching him with an expression he could not analyze. laurie seemed surprised. "why, so you don't!" he agreed. "but you're going to now. we're going to know each other awfully well before we get through. in the meantime, you can see by the merest glance at me how young and harmless i am. where's the coat?" he turned and began a vague, masculine search for it. the girl wavered. his rising spirits were contagious, and it was clear that she dreaded being left alone. [illustration: "you see, what we were going to do isn't done much nowadays"] "i warn you," she said at last, "that if you have anything to do with me you will be sorry for it." laurie stopped his search, and, turning, gave her one of his straight looks. "why?" he demanded. "because i'm in a net," she said. "and every one who tries to help me gets caught in it, too. oh, don't smile! you won't smile afterward." he picked up a coat he discovered in a corner, and held it for her to slip into. "i like nets," he remarked lightly, "especially if they're bright-colored, large, roomy, comfortable nets. we'll have some great times in ours. come along." she shrugged her shoulders, and in the gesture slipped into the garment. "i'll go," she said, in a low voice. "but don't forget that i warned you!" chapter iv a pair of gray eyes on their way to the restaurant laurie had selected he chatted to his companion in his buoyant, irresponsible fashion, but he had put through the details of the episode with tact and delicacy. he knew that in front of a club two doors away from the studio building a short line of taxicabs was always waiting, with the vast patience of their kind. a gesture brought one of these to the door, and when it had squawked its way around the corner, the girl remained in its shelter until laurie had briefly reëntered his own building and emerged again, wearing his coat and hat. to the selection of the restaurant he gave careful thought. they drove to a quiet place where the food and service were excellent, while the prices were an effective barrier against a crowd. when he and his companion were seated on opposite sides of a table in an isolated corner, laurie confided his order to the waiter, urged that willing individual to special haste, and smiled apologetically at the lady. "i'm hungry," he said briskly. "i haven't had any breakfast this morning. don't be surprised if i seem to absorb most of the nourishment in the place." he studied her as he spoke. it was easy to do so, for she seemed almost to have forgotten him and her surroundings. she sat drooping forward a little in her pet attitude, with her elbows on the table, and her chin in her hand, staring through the window with the look he had seen in the mirror. the lethargy he dreaded again enveloped her like a garment. his heart sank. here was something more than the victim of a mad but temporary impulse. here was a victim of a sick soul, or of a burden greater than she could bear, or perhaps of both. he decided that whatever her trouble might be, it was no new or passing thing. every curve in her despondent figure, every line in her worn, lovely face, suggested a vast weariness of flesh and spirit. he had not seen those lines in the mirror, and he looked at them now with understanding and solemn eyes, as he had looked at the new lines in his sister's face when barbara had been passing through the worst of her ordeal last year. in this moment of realization he almost forgot the girl's beauty, though, indeed, it was not easy to forget. it seemed enhanced rather than dimmed by the haze of melancholy that hung over it, and certainly there was nothing dim in the superb red-gold coloring of her hair. her eyes seemed red-gold, too, for they were reddish-brown with flecks of yellow light in them, quite wonderful eyes. he told himself that he had never seen any just like them. certainly he had rarely seen anything to equal the somber misery of their expression. there was a remoteness in them which repelled sympathy, and which was intensified by the haughty curve of the girl's short upper lip. she was proud, proud as the devil, laurie told himself. again, and very humbly, he wondered how he was to handle a situation and a personality so outside his own experience. in truth, he was afraid. though he did not know it, and perhaps would have vigorously denied it, laurie still looked at women through stained-glass windows. when the food came, her expression changed. she shot a quick look at him, a glance at once furtive and suspicious, which he saw but ignored. he had dismissed the waiter and was serving her himself. in the simple boyish friendliness of his manner she evidently found reassurance, for she suddenly sat up and began her breakfast. laurie exhaled the breath he had been holding. up till the last moment he had feared that she might see through his subterfuge in taking her there, and even now refuse the food he offered. but if in that fleeting instant she felt doubt, it had died as it was born. she drank her coffee slowly and ate her eggs and toast as deliberately, but her characteristic air of intense preoccupation had departed. she looked at her companion as if she really saw him. also, she apparently felt the stirring of some sense of obligation and need of response to this friendly stranger. she was answering him now, and once at least she almost smiled. watching the little twitch of her proud and perfect upper lip, laurie felt his heart-beats quicken. she was a wonder, this girl; and with his delight in her beauty and her pride came another feeling, almost as new as his humility--an overwhelming sympathy for and a desire to help another. these sentiments served as needed balance to his spirits, which, as always, mounted dangerously when he was interested. he held himself down with difficulty. this was no time for the nonsense that he loved to talk. one doesn't rescue a lady from suicide and then try to divert her mind with innocent prattle. one gives her a decent time to pull herself together, and then, with tact and sympathy, one gets to the roots of her trouble, if one can, and helps to destroy them. despite his limited experience with drama off the stage, laurie knew this. because he was very young and very much in earnest, and was talking to a young thing like himself, though in that hour she seemed so much older, he instinctively found the right way to approach the roots. they had finished breakfast, and he had asked and received permission to smoke. when he had lighted his cigarette and exhaled his first satisfying puff of smoke, not in rings this time, he took the cigarette from his mouth, and with his eyes on its blazing end expressed his thought with stark simplicity. "when we were over in your studio," he said, "i admitted that twice in my life i had tried to--make away with myself. only two other persons in the world know that, but i'd like to tell you about it, if you don't mind." she looked at him. there were strange things in the look, things that thrilled him, and other things he subconsciously resented, without understanding why. when she spoke there was a more personal note in her voice than it had yet held. "you?" she asked; and she added almost lightly, "that seems absurd." "i know." laurie spoke with the new humility he had found only to-day. "you think that because i'm so young i couldn't have been desperate enough for that. but--you're young, too." he was looking straight at her as he spoke. her eyes, a little hard and challenging, softened, then dropped. "that's different," she muttered. he nodded. "i know the causes were different enough," he agreed. "but the feeling back of them, that pushes one up against such a proposition, must be pretty much the same sort of thing. anyway, it makes me understand; and i consider that it gives me a claim on you, and the privilege of trying to help you." her eyes were still cast down, and suddenly she flushed, a strange, dark flush that looked out of place on the pure whiteness of her skin. she had the exaggerated but wholesome pallor of skin that often goes with reddish hair and red-brown eyes. it does not lend itself becomingly to flushes, and this deep flush lingered, an unwelcome visitor, throughout her muttered, almost ungracious words. "oh, please don't talk about it," she said, brusquely. "it's no use. i know you mean to be kind, but you can't do anything." "oh, but that's just where you're wrong." laurie spoke with a cheerful assurance he did not feel. "if i hadn't been there myself, i'd talk all sorts of twaddle to you, and do more harm than good; and i'd probably let you go on thinking you were facing a trouble that no one could help. instead of that, you and i are going to hold your bugaboo up to the light, and see just what it is and how small it is. and then--" he smiled at her--"we're going to get rid of it together." she echoed his words, vaguely, as if not knowing quite what to say. "get rid of it?" "yes. tell me what it is, and i'll show you how it can be downed." she pushed back her chair, as if anxious to put a greater distance between them. "no," she exclaimed, nervously, "it's impossible; i can't talk about it." then, in an obvious effort to side-track the issue, "you said you wanted to tell me about your--experience." "i do, but it isn't a nice story. fortunately, it won't take long." he spoke reluctantly. it was not easy to hook two such memories out of the darkest pool of his life and hold them up to a stranger. "oh, i was a young idiot," he rushed on, "and i suppose i hadn't the proper start-off. at least i like to think there's some excuse for me. my father and mother died when i was in knickerbockers, and i grew up doing very much as i pleased. i--made a bad job of it. before i was twenty-one i was expelled from college and i had worked up a pretty black reputation. then i gambled and lost a lot of money i didn't have, and it began to look as if about the only safe place for me was the family vault. "i made two efforts to get there. the first time a wise old doctor stopped me and never told any one about it. the second time one of my chums took a hand in the game. i don't know why they did it. i don't suppose either my pal or the doctor thought i was worth saving. but they talked to me like dutch uncles, and my chum kept at it till i gave him my word that i'd never attempt anything of the sort again." "you were just an unhappy boy," she said, as if thinking aloud, "with all life before you and many friends to back you up." "and you," he suggested, "are just an unhappy girl with all life before you. i don't know anything about your friends, but i'll wager you've got a lot of them." she shook her head. "not one," she said, slowly. "i mean, not one i dare to call on, now." "i like that! you've got me to call on, right here." this time she really smiled at him. it was a pathetic little smile, but both lips and eyes took part in it. he waited, but she said no more. he began to fear that his confidence had been given to no purpose. evidently she had no intention of making a confession in return. he resumed his attack from a new angle. "you've been disappointed in something or some one," he said. "oh," as she made a gesture, "don't think i'm belittling it! i know it was something big. but the finish you chose wasn't meant to be, or it would have come off. you see that, don't you? the very sun in its course took pains to show you to me in time to stop it. that means something, miss mayo." she seemed slightly startled. "it is miss mayo, isn't it? that's the name the elevator boy gave me, yesterday." "it will do." she spoke absently, already on the trail of another thought. suddenly she caught it. "then you brought the basket, or sent it?" she cried. "it was _you!_ how dared you!" she had half risen from her chair. bending across the table, he gently pushed her back into it. "sit down," he said, imperturbably. she hesitated, and he repeated the command, this time almost curtly. under the new tone she obeyed. "i'm going to tell you something," he went on. "i've exhausted my slender resources of experience and tact. i don't know what any one else would do in this situation; but i do know what i'm going to do myself. and, what is a lot more important, i know what you're going to do." she laughed, and he winced at the sound. "that's easy," she said. "i'm going to finish the act you interrupted." "oh, no, you're not!" her lips set. "do you imagine you can prevent me?" "i know i can." his quiet assurance impressed her. "how?" she asked, half mockingly. "very easily. i can take you from this restaurant to the nearest police station, and have you locked up for attempted suicide. you know, it's a crime here." the word they had both avoided was out at last. although he had spoken it very softly, its echoes seemed to fill the big room. she shrank back and stared at him, her hands clutching the sides of her chair. "you wouldn't dare!" "wouldn't i? i'll do it in exactly fifteen minutes, unless you give me your word that you will never make another attempt of the kind." he took his watch out of his pocket and laid it on the table between them. "it's exactly quarter-past twelve," he said. "at half-past--" "oh!--and i thought you were kind!" there was horror in the brown eyes now and an antagonism that hurt him. "would it be kinder to let you go back to that studio and--" she interrupted. "how dare you interfere in my affairs! who gave you the right?" "fate gave me the right. i'm its chosen specialist on the job, and you may take my word for it, my dear girl, the job's going to be done, and done up brown." he lit a fresh cigarette. "it will be mighty unpleasant for you," he went on, thoughtfully. "there's the publicity, you know. of course, all the newspapers will have your pictures--" "oh!" "and a lot of romantic stories--" "oh--you--you--" "but of course you can avoid all that," he reminded her, "by giving me your promise." she choked back her rising fury, and made an obvious effort at self-control. "if i agree to these terms of yours," she asked, between her teeth, "may i be sure that you will leave me in peace and that i shall not see you again?" he looked at her reproachfully. "dear me, no! why, you'll have to see me every day. i've got to look after you for a while." at her expression his tone changed. "you see," he said, with smiling seriousness, "you have shown that just for the present you can't be trusted to guide your own actions. so i'm going to 'stick around,' and guide them for a few days, until i am sure you are yourself again!" "this--" again she choked on the words--"this is intolerable!" "oh, i don't think so. you can see for yourself that i mean well, and that i'm going to be a harmless sort of watch-dog. also, you can depend on me to go off duty as soon as it's safe. but for the present you're going to have a guardian; and it's up to you to decide whether that guardian shall be laurence devon, very much at your service, or the police force of the city of new york." she had her chin in her hands now, in her characteristic pose, and was regarding him without resentment. when she finally spoke, it was without resentment, too, but coldly, as one states an unpalatable fact. "you," she said, "are a fool." laurie flushed, then smiled. "that is not a new theory," he admitted. "two hours ago," she said, "i warned you that it would be dangerous for you to interfere in my affairs. did i not?" "you did." "i warn you again. it may be a matter of life or death. put your watch in your pocket, pay your bill, and take me home. then go away and forget me." laurie glanced at the watch. "we have used up eight minutes since i gave you your choice," he reminded her. "you are like a child," she muttered, "spinning his top over a powder-magazine." laurie frowned a little. "too melodramatic," he murmured. "i tell you," she said fiercely, "you are acting like a fool! if you interfere with me you will be drawn into all sorts of trouble, perhaps into tragedy, perhaps even into disgrace." "you're forgetting the net," he reminded her, "the nice net you mentioned this morning, with room for two. also--" again he looked at the watch--"you're overlooking the value of time. see how fast these little hands are moving. the nearest police station is only two blocks away. unless you give me that promise, you will be in it in--" he made a calculation--"in just about four minutes." she seemed to come to a decision. "listen to me," she said, rapidly. "i cannot be frank with you--" "i've noticed that," laurie interpolated, "with regret." she ignored the interruption. "but i can tell you this much. i am not alone in my--trouble. others are involved. they are--desperate. it is because of them that i--you understand?" laurie shook his head. he did not understand, at all; but vague and unpleasant memories of newspaper stories about espionage and foreign spies suddenly filtered through his mind. "it sounds an awful mess," he said frankly. "if it's got anything to do with german propaganda--" she interrupted with a gesture of impatience. "no, no!" she cried. "i am not a german or a propagandist, or a pacifist or a spy. that much, at least, i can tell you." "then that's all right!" laurie glanced at his watch again. "if you had been a german spy," he added, "with a little round knob of hair on the back of your head and bombs in every pocket, i couldn't have had much to do with you, i really couldn't. but as you and your companions are not involved in that kind of thing, i am forced to remind you that you'll be headed toward the station in just one minute." "i hate you!" she said between her teeth. he shook his head at her. "oh, no, you don't!" he said kindly. "but i see plainly that you're a self-willed young person. association with me, and the study of my poise, will do a lot for you. by the way, you have only thirty seconds left." "do you want to be killed?" she hissed the words at him. "good gracious, no!" laurie spoke absently, his eyes on the watch. "twenty seconds," he ended. "do you want to be maimed or crippled, or--or kidnapped?" he looked up in surprise. "i don't know why you imagine i have such lurid tastes," he said, discontentedly. "of course i don't want any of those things. my nature is a quiet one, and already i'm dreading the excitement of taking you to the station. but now i must ask you to put on your gloves and button up your coat for our little journey." "the journey you make with me," she said, with deep meaning, "may be a long and hard one." he stood up. "i wouldn't miss it for the world," he told her. "but we'll have to postpone it. our journey to the station comes first." she sat still, looking at him. "i know your type now," she said suddenly. "you live in your little groove, and you think that nothing happens in the world except what you see under your nose." "something awfully unpleasant is going to happen under my nose right now," announced her companion, disconsolately. "come along, please. it's time to start." she stood up, faced him for a second, and then dropped back into her chair with a gesture of finality. her expression had changed back to the lethargy of her first moments in the restaurant. "very well," she said. "have it your way." she added significantly, "this may be the last time you have your way about anything!" "you have a depressing outlook," grumbled laurie, contentedly sitting down again. "it isn't playing the game to spoil my triumph with such predictions as that, especially as i'm going to have my way about a lot of things right now. i have your word," he added. "yes." "good! now i'll give you my program. first of all, i'm going to be a brother to you; and i don't think," he ended thoughtfully, "that i've ever offered to be a brother to any girl before." "you're a nice boy," she said abruptly. he smiled at her. "a nice boy, though a fool. i hoped you would notice that. you'll be dazzled by my virtues before you're through with me." he went on conversationally: "the reason i've never offered to be a brother to any girl before is that i've got a perfectly good sister of my own. her one fault is that she's always bossed me. i warn you from the start of our relations that i'm going to be the boss. it will be the first time i've ever bossed any one, and i'm looking forward to it a lot." the faintest suggestion of a smile touched her short upper lip. above it, her red-brown eyes had softened again. she drew a deep breath. "it's strange," she said. "you've let me in for all sorts of things you don't realize. and yet, somehow, i feel, for the time at least, as if i had been lying under the weight of the world and some one had lifted the wretched thing off me." "can't you, by a supreme effort of the imagination, fancy that i lifted it off?" suggested laurie, mildly. this time she really smiled. "i can," she conceded. "and without any effort at all," she added somberly, "i can fancy us both under it again." he shook his head. "that won't do!" he declared. "the lid is off. you've just admitted it. you feel better for having it off. so do i. as your big brother, and self-appointed counselor, i choose this opportunity to tell you what you're going to do." she pursed her lips at him. it was the gesture of a rebellious child. her entire manner had changed so suddenly that laurie felt a bewilderment almost equal to his satisfaction in it. for the first time throughout the interview he experienced the thrill she had given him in the mirror. "yes?" she prompted. "in the first place--" he hesitated. the ground that stretched between them now was firmer, but still uncertain. one false step might lose him much of what he had gained. "there's the question of your future," he went on, in a brisk, matter-of-fact tone. "i spent two months last year looking for a job in new york. i was about down to my last cent before i found it. it occurred to me that, perhaps, you--" he was beginning to flounder. "that i am out of work?" she finished, calmly. "you are right." laurie beamed at her. surely his way was clear now! "i had a streak of luck last year," he resumed. "i collaborated on a play that people were foolish enough to like. ever since that, money has poured in on me in the most vulgar way. i clink when i walk. dollars ooze from my pockets when i make a gesture. last week, at the bank, the cashier begged me to take some of my money away and do something with it. he said it was burdening the institution. so, as your adopted brother, i'm going to start a bank-account for you," he ended, simply. "indeed you are not!" "indeed i am!" "i agreed to live. i did not agree to--what is it you americans say?--to sponge!" he ignored all but one phrase of the reply. "what do you mean by that?" he demanded with quickened interest. "aren't you an american?" she bit her lip. "n-o--not wholly." "what, then?" she hesitated. "i can't tell you that just yet," she said at last. "oh-h!" laurie pursed his lips in a noiseless whistle. the girl's voice was musically english, and though her accent was that of london, up till now she had spoken as colloquially as any american. indeed, her speech was much like his sister's. he was puzzled. "why didn't you tell me this before?" "that i am not wholly american?" she was smiling at him ironically, but he remained serious. "yes. and--oh, a lot of things! of course you know i am all at sea about you." the familiar shadow fell over her face. "when one is within an hour or two of the next world," she asked indifferently, "why should one tell anybody anything?" "how long have you been in america?" "all my life, off and on." this at least was reassuring. he imagined he saw a gleam of light. the girl had declared that she was not a spy, nor involved in war propaganda; but it was quite possible, he reasoned, that she was enmeshed in some little web of politics, of vast importance to her and her group, of very little importance to any one else. "i suppose," he suggested cheerfully, "that net you've said so much about is a political net?" they had been speaking throughout in low tones, inaudible at any other table. their nearest fellow diners were two middle-aged women at least thirty feet away. but she started violently under his words. she made a quick gesture of caution, and, turning half-around, swept the room with a frightened glance. laurie, his cigarette forgotten in his fingers, watched her curiously, taking in her evident tension, her slowly returning poise, and at last the little breath of relief with which she turned back to him. "i wish i could tell you all you want to know," she said, "but--i can't. that's all there is to it. so please let us change the subject." his assurance returned. "you're not a crowned head or an escaped princess or anything of that kind, are you?" he asked politely. this time she really laughed, a soft, low gurgle of laughter, joyous and contagious. "no." "then let's get back to our bank-account. we have plenty of time to run over to the fifth avenue branch of the corn exchange bank before the closing-hour. what color of check-book do you prefer?" "i told you," she declared with sudden seriousness, "that my bargain did not include sponging." for the first time in the somewhat taxing interview her companion's good humor deserted him. "my dear girl," he said, almost impatiently, "don't beat the devil around the bush! you've got to live till we can find the right work for you, and that may take some time. you have intelligence enough to see that i'm neither a gay lothario nor a don juan. in your present state of mind you're not fit to decide anything. make up your mind, once for all, that i'm going to decide for you. it will save us both some trouble." he stopped. he had discovered that she was not listening to him. she was sitting absolutely still, her head a little turned. her lips were slightly parted, and her eyes, wide and staring, were fixed on some one across the room. laurie's eyes followed hers. they focused on a man sitting alone at a little table. it was clear that he had just entered, for a waiter stood by his side, and the new-comer was giving judicious attention to the bill of fare. he was a harmless-looking person, of medium height and rather more than medium stoutness, carelessly dressed in a blue-serge suit. his indifference to dress was further betrayed by the fact that his ready-made black four-in-hand tie had slipped the mooring of a white bone stud, leaving that useful adjunct of the toilet open to the eyes of the world. his face was round, smooth-shaven, and rather pale. he had dark brown hair, surprisingly sleek, and projecting, slightly veiled gray eyes, which blinked near-sightedly at the menu. altogether he was a seemingly worthy person, to whom the casual observer would hardly have given a second glance. while the two pairs of eyes across the room stared at him, he confided his order to the waiter. it seemed a brief order, for the brow of the latter clouded as he wrote it down and detachedly strolled off. the new-comer leaned back in his chair, and, as he did so, glanced around the room. his projecting eyes, moving indifferently from table to table, suddenly rested, fixed, on the girl. they showed interest but no surprise. he bowed with a half-smile--an odd smile, bland, tolerant, and understanding. then, disregarding her lack of response, he fixed his eyes on the wall facing him and waited patiently for his luncheon to be served. laurie's attention returned to the girl. she was facing him again, but her eyes looked past him as if he were not there. "he has found me, even here," she muttered. "of course he would. he always does." laurie looked at her. "do you mean," he asked crisply, "that that chap across the room is following you around?" she looked at him, as if abruptly recalled to the fact of his presence. her eyes dropped. "yes," she muttered, dully. "i may escape him for a time, but he always learns where i am. he will catch me when he chooses, and roll me about under his paws for a while, and then--perhaps--let me go again." "that sounds like a certain phase of domestic life," commented laurie. "is he by any chance your husband?" her eyes held a rising anger. "he is not," she said. "i am not married." laurie dropped his dead cigarette into the ash tray, and rose with a sigh. "it's all very confusing," he admitted, "and a digression from the main issue. but i'm afraid i shall have to go to the exertion of reasoning with him." she started up, but before she could protest or restrain him, he had left her and crossed the room to the stranger's table. chapter v mr. herbert ransome shaw the man in the shabby blue-serge suit detached his absent gaze from the opposite wall, and looked up quickly when laurie stopped at his side. he was clearly surprised, but courteous. he half rose from his chair, but the new-comer waved him back and dropped easily into the vacant seat opposite him. he was smiling. the man in blue serge was not. he looked puzzled, though vaguely responsive. a third person, watching the two, might almost have thought the episode the casual reunion of men who frequently lunched together. laurie leaned forward in his chair, rested one elbow on the table, and, opening his cigarette-case, extended it to the stranger. the latter rejected it with a slight bow. "thank you, but not before lunch," he said, quietly. his voice and manner were those of an educated man. the quality of his tone was slightly harsh. laurie lit a cigarette, blew out the match, and looked straight into the stranger's projecting gray eyes. he had acted impulsively. now that he was here, he was anxious to put the job over concisely, firmly, but, above all, neatly. there must be nothing done that would attract the attention of the few persons in the big room. "i came over here," he said casually, "to mention to you that you are annoying the lady i am with. i want to mention also that the annoyance must stop." the glance of the stranger held. laurie observed with interest that the veiled look of the projecting eyes had changed a little. the change did not add to the stranger's charm. "before i answer you, tell me one thing," he said, formally. "by what right do you act as the lady's protector?" laurie hesitated an instant. the question was embarrassing. "has she authorized you to act?" "in a way, but--" "how long have you known her? how well do you know her?" command of the interview was slipping from the younger man. he resolutely resumed it. "look here," he said, firmly, "i came to this table to tell you something, but i will decide what that is to be. i am not here to answer questions. it is enough for you to know that circumstances have given me the right to protect the lady from annoyance. i want to make it clear to you that i shall exercise that right. hereafter you are to let her alone. do you understand? absolutely alone. you are not to follow her, not to enter places where she is, not to bow to her, nor to be where she can see you," he recklessly ended. the stranger looked at him through the light veil which seemed again to have fallen over the projecting eyes. "i should really like to know," he said, "when and where you met her. i saw you starting off together in the taxicab, but i am not quite sure whether your first encounter occurred this morning." "and you won't be." laurie stood up. "i've warned you," he said curtly. "i don't know how well you understand our laws in this country, but i fancy you know enough of them to realize that you cannot shadow a lady without getting into trouble." "she admitted that?" the stranger appeared to experience a tepid glow of emotion. "she must know you better than i thought," he added reflectively. "doris is not the type to pour her confidence into every new ear," he mused, seeming to forget the other's presence in his interest in this revelation. "have i made myself quite clear?" laurie was staring at him with a mingling of resentment and interest. the other nodded. "you have, my young friend," he said, with sudden seriousness, "and now i, too, will be clear. in return for one warning, i will give you another. keep out of matters that do not concern you." laurie grinned at him. "you forget that i have made this matter my concern," he said, lightly. "try to remember that." the other man rose. his manner had changed to a sort of impatient weariness. "get her out of here," he said abruptly. "you are beginning to irritate me, you two. take her home, and then keep away from her, unless you are looking for trouble." he delivered the last words so clearly and menacingly that the waiter who had appeared with his luncheon heard them and fell back a step. looking into the veiled eyes, laurie also felt a sense of recoil. the fellow was positively venomous. there was something serpentlike in the dull but fixed look of those goggling eyes, in the forward thrust of the smooth brown head. "i've said my say," he retorted. "if i ever catch you around that studio, or in any way annoying the lady, i'll thrash you within an inch of your life; and then i'll turn what's left of you over to the authorities. understand?" he nodded and strolled back to miss mayo's table. for an instant the other man stood looking after him, as if tempted to follow. then, with a shrug, he dropped into his chair and began the luncheon the waiter had placed before him. laurie found the girl standing by the table, ready for the street, her coat fastened, her gloves buttoned. "oh, how could you!" she gasped. "what did he say?" laurie summoned the waiter with a gesture and asked for his account. "sit down a minute," he suggested, "and tell me who he is." "not here," she urged. "i couldn't breathe here. hurry, please. let us get away!" she was so obviously in earnest that he yielded. he paid the bill, which the waiter had ready, accepted that appreciative servitor's help with his overcoat, and escorted his guest from the room. "but, for heaven's sake, don't run!" he laughed. "do you want the creature to think we're flying before him?" she flushed and moderated her pace. side by side, and quite deliberately, they left the restaurant, while the stranger watched them with his dull, fixed gaze. he seemed to have recovered his temper, but it was also plain that the little encounter had given him something to think about. when he resumed his luncheon he ate slowly and with an air of deep abstraction, as if working out some grave problem. "what's his name?" asked laurie, as he helped miss mayo into a waiting taxicab. she looked startled. indeed, his most casual questions seemed to startle her and put her, in a way, on her guard. "shaw," she answered, unwillingly. "is it spelled p-s-h-a-w?" laurie asked the question with polite interest. then, realizing that in her preoccupation she did not follow this flight of his mercurial spirits, he sobered. "it's a perfectly good name," he conceded, "but there must be more of it. what's the rest?" "he calls himself herbert ransome shaw." laurie made a mental note of the name. "i shall call him bertie," he firmly announced, "to show you how unimportant he really is. by the way,"--a sudden memory struck him--"he told me your name--doris." he added the name so simply that he seemed to be calling her by it. a faint shadow of her elusive smile touched her lips. "i like it--doris," laurie repeated, dreamily. "i am so glad," she murmured. he ignored the irony in her tone. "i suppose you have several more, like our friend bertie, but you needn't tell them to me. if i had to use them every time i spoke to you, it might check my inspiration. doris will do very nicely. doris, doris!" "are you making a song of it?" "yes, a hymn." she looked at him curiously. "you're a queer boy. i can't quite make you out. one minute you're serious, and the next--" "if you're puzzled over me, picture my mental turmoil over you." "oh--me?" with a gesture she consigned herself to the uttermost ends of the universe. the taxicab had stopped. they had reached the studio building without observing the fact. the expression on the features of the chauffeur suggested that if they wanted to sit still all day they could do it, but that it would not be his personal choice. doris held out her hand. "good-by," she said gently. "and thank you. i'm really more--appreciative--than i seem." laurie's look expressed more surprise than he had ever really experienced over anything. "but we haven't settled matters!" he cried. "we're going to the bank--" "we are not." she spoke with sharp decision. then, relenting at the expression of his face, she touched the heavy gold-and-amber chain around her neck. "i can pawn this," she said briefly. "it didn't seem worth while before, but as i've got to go on, i promise you i will do it. i will do it to-day," she added hurriedly, "this afternoon, if you wish. it is valuable. i can get enough on it to keep me for a month." "till we find that job for you," he suggested, brightening. she agreed, with a momentary flash of her wonderful smile. "and you will let me drop in this evening and take you to dinner?" "no, thank you. but--" again she relented--"you may come in for an hour at eight." "i believe you _are_ a crowned head," murmured laurie, discontentedly. "that's just the way they do in books. when i come i suppose i must speak only when i'm spoken to. and when you suddenly stand up at nine, i'll know the audience is over." she laughed softly, her red-brown eyes shining at him. her laughter was different from any other laughter he had ever heard. "good-by," she repeated. he helped her out of the cab and escorted her into the studio building, where he rang the elevator bell and waited, hat in hand, until the car came down. when it arrived, sam was in it. before it stopped he had recognized the waiting pair through the open ironwork of the door. to laurie, the elevator and sam's jaw seemed to drop in unison. the next instant the black boy had resumed his habitual expression of indifference to all human interests. dead-eyed, he stared past the two young things. dead-eared, he ignored their moving lips. but there was fellowship in the jocund youth of all three. in an instant when laurie stepped back into the hall as the car shot upward, the eyes of negro and white man flashed a question and an answer: in sam's: "you done took her out an' fed her?" in laurie's: "you bet your boots i did!" chapter vi laurie solves a problem laurie walked across the square to his own rooms. a sudden gloom had fallen upon him. he saw himself sitting in his study, gazing remotely at his shoes, until it was time to dress for the evening and his formal call on doris. the prospect was not attractive. he hoped bangs would be at home. if so, perhaps he could goad him into one of the rages in which bangs was so picturesque; but he was not sure of even this mild diversion. rodney had been wonderfully sweet-tempered the past three days, though preoccupied, as if in the early stages of creative art. laurie half suspected that he had begun work on his play. the suspicion aroused conflicting emotions of relief and half-jealous regret. why couldn't the fellow wait till they could go at it together? he ignored the fact that already the fellow had waited six weeks. bangs was not at home. the square, flat-topped mahogany desk at which the two young men worked together blinked up at laurie with the undimmed luster of a fine piece of furniture on which the polisher alone had labored that morning. without taking the trouble to remove his hat and coat, laurie dropped into a chair and tried to think things out. but the process of thinking eluded him, or, rather, his mind shied at it as a skittish horse might shy if confronted on a dark road with shapes vaguely familiar yet mysterious. frankly, he couldn't make head or tail of this mess doris seemed to be in. his memory reminded him that such "messes" existed. he had heard and read of all sorts of plots and counter-plots, in which all types of humans figured. his imagination underscored the memory. but, someway, doris--he loved to repeat the name even to himself--someway doris was not the type that figured in such plots. also, there were other things hard to understand. she had let herself starve for four days, though she wore around her neck a chain that she admitted represented a month's support. and this fellow, herbert ransome shaw--where the devil did he come in? a fellow with a name like that and with snaky eyes like his was capable of anything. and yet-- young devon had the intolerance of american youth for the things outside his personal experience. the sort of thing doris was hinting at didn't happen here; that was all there was to it. what _was_ happening seemed pretty clear. the girl was, or fancied herself, in the power of an unscrupulous scamp who was using that power for some purpose of his own. if that was it--and this thing, laurie handsomely admitted, really did happen sometimes--it ought to be fairly easy for an athletic chap of twenty-four to put an end to it. he recalled the look in shaw's projecting eyes, the snakelike forward thrust of his sleek head; and an intense desire seized him to get his hands on the fellow's throat and choke him till his eyes stuck out twice as far as they did now. if that were duty, then duty would be a delight. having reached this edifying point in his reflections, he rose. why delay? perhaps he could find the chap somewhere. perhaps the waiter at the restaurant where they had lunched knew where he lived. but, no, of course not. it was not the kind of restaurant his sort patronized. shaw had simply followed him and doris there; that was all there was to it. he, laurie, would have to wait for another encounter. meantime he might run around to the club and box for an hour. he had been getting a bit out of condition this month. a bout with mcdonald, the club trainer, would do him good. or, by jove, he'd go and see louise ordway! he had promised his new brother-in-law, bob warren, to keep an eye on bob's sister while warren and barbara were in japan, and laurie had kept the promise with religious fidelity and very real pleasure. he immensely liked and admired mrs. ordway, who seemed, strangely, to be always at home of late. he had formed the habit of running in several times a week. louise not only talked, but, as laurie expressed it, "she said things." he had spent with her many of the afternoons and evenings bangs checked up to the cabarets. he glanced at his watch. for an hour he had been impersonating a gentleman engaged in profound meditation, with the sole result that he had decided to go to see louise. it was quite possible he could enlist her interest in doris. now, that was an inspiration! perhaps mrs. ordway would understand doris. every woman, he vaguely believed, understood all other women. he smoothed his hair, straightened his tie, and hurried off. he found mrs. ordway reclining on a _chaise longue_ before an open fire, in the boudoir in which his sister barbara had spent so many hours of the past year, playing the invalid to sleep. she wore a superb mandarin coat, of soft and ravishing tints, and her love for rich colors was reflected in the autumnal tones of her room and even in the vari-colored flames of her driftwood fire. to louise these colors were as definite as mellow trumpet-tones. she had responded to them all her life. she was responding to them still, now that she lay dying among them. something in their superb arrogance called forth an answering note from her own arrogant soul. she greeted her brother's young brother-in-law with the almost disdainful smile she now turned on everything, but which was softened a little for him. ignorant of the malady that was eating her life away, as indeed all her friends were ignorant of it, save barbara and her doctors, laurie delighted in the picture she made. he showed his delight as he dropped into a chair by her side. they fell at once into the casual banter that characterized their intercourse. "i wonder why i ever leave here?" he mused aloud, as the clock struck six. he had been studying with a slight shock the changes that had taken place in the few days since he had seen her. for the first time the suspicion crossed his mind that she might be seriously ill. throughout their talk he had observed things, trifles, perhaps, but significant, which, if they had occurred before, had escaped him. susanne, mrs. ordway's maid, though modestly in the background, was rarely out of sight; and a white-capped nurse, till now an occasional and illusive vision in the halls, blew in and out of the sick-room like a breeze, bringing liquids in glasses, which the patient obediently swallowed. laurie, his attention once caught, took it all in. but his face gave no hint of his new knowledge, and the eyes of louise still met his with the challenge they turned on every one these days--a challenge that definitely forbade either understanding or sympathy. "the real problem is why you ever come." she spoke lightly, but looked at him with genuine affection. laurie was one of her favorites, her prime favorite, indeed, next to bob and barbara. he smiled at her with tender significance. "you know why i come." "i do," she agreed, "perfectly. i know you're quite capable of flirting with me, too, if i'd let you, you absurd boy. laurie,"--for a moment or two she was almost serious--"why don't you fall in love?" "and this from you?" "don't be foolish. you know i like your ties," she interpolated kindly. "but, really, isn't there some one?" laurie turned his profile to her, pulled a lock of hair over his brow, clasped his hands between his knees, and posed esthetically. "do you know," he sighed, "i begin to think that, just possibly, perhaps, there's a slight chance--that there is!" "be serious. tell me about her." "well, she's a girl." he produced this confidence with ponderous solemnity. "she lives across the square from me," he added. "things brighten," commented louise, drily. "go on." "she's mysterious. i don't know who she is, or anything about her. but i know that she's in trouble." "of course she is! i have never known a mysterious maiden that wasn't," commented the woman of the world. "what's her particular variety of trouble?" laurie reflected. "that's hard to say," he brought out at last. "but it appears to be mixed up with an offensive person in a crumpled blue suit who answers to the name of herbert ransome shaw. have you ever heard of him?" louise wrinkled her fastidious nose. "never, i'm happy to say. but he doesn't sound attractive. however, tell me all about them. there seems a good chance that they may get you into trouble." "that's what she said." "it's the one gleam of intelligence i see in the situation," commented his candid friend. "is she pretty?" "as lovely in her way as you are. think you could help her any?" wheedled laurie. "i doubt it. i'm too selfish to be bothered with girls who are in trouble. i'll tell you who _can_ help her--sonya orleneff." "of course!" laurie beamed at her. "wonder why i didn't think of that." "probably because it was so obvious. sonya is in town, as it happens, stopping at the warwick. she has brought the infant samuel to new york to have his adenoids cut out. samuel made a devastating visit here this morning. he's getting as fat as a little pig, and when he walks he puffs like a worn-out automobile going up a steep grade. he came up my stairs on 'low,' and i'm sure they heard him on the avenue. i almost offered him a glass of gasolene. but he is a lamb," she added reflectively. oddly enough, samuel, late of new york's tenements, was another of her favorites. laurie was following his own thoughts. sonya was in town! then, however complicated his problem, it was already as good as solved. "my dinner will be up soon," suggested louise. "are you dining with me?" he glanced at his watch, reproachfully shook his head at it, and rose. "three hours of me are all you can have this time. but i'll probably drop around about dawn to-morrow." "nice boy!" her hot hand caught his and held it. "laurie, if--if--i should send for you suddenly sometime--you'd come and--stand by?" all the gaiety was wiped from his face. his brilliant black eyes, oddly softened, looked into her haughty blue ones with sudden understanding. "you bet i will! any time, anything! you'll remember that? send for me as if i were bob. perhaps you've forgotten it," he added, more lightly, "but i happen to be your younger brother." for a moment her face twisted. the mask of her arrogance fell from it. "bob didn't know," she said. "if he had felt the least suspicion he wouldn't have gone so far, or for so long. i thought i had three or four months--" laurie bent and kissed her cheek. "i'm coming in every day," he said, and abruptly left the room. in the lower hall he stopped to take in the full real realization of what he had discovered. louise, superb, arrogant, beautiful louise, was really ill, desperately ill. a feeling of remorse mingled with his sense of shock. he had believed her a sort of nervous hypochondriac. he had so resented her excessive demands on barbara that it was only since he had seen much of her in this last month that he had been able whole-heartedly to like and admire her. as he stood silent, he became conscious of another presence--an august, impressive one, familiar in the past but veiled now, as it were, in a midst of human emotion. it was jepson, the butler. he coughed humbly. "hexcuse me, sir," he faltered. "but mrs. hordway h'ain't quite so well lately, sir. 'ave you hobserved that?" laurie nodded. "i noticed it to-day," he admitted. "she's losin' strength very fast, sir. hall of us 'as seen it. cook says she don't eat nothink. and susanne and the nurse says it's 'ard work to get 'er from the bed to 'er chair--" laurie checked these revelations. "has the doctor been here to-day?" "yessir, two of 'em 'ave been 'ere. doctor speyer comes hevery day. this morning 'e brought doctor hames again. hit's very hupsetting, sir, with 'er brother away and hall." the man was genuinely anxious. laurie tried to reassure him. "she may be better in a day or two," he said, more buoyantly than he felt. "but i'll come in every day. and here's my telephone number. if anything goes wrong, call me up immediately. leave a message if i'm not there." "yessir. thank you, sir." jepson was pathetically grateful and relieved. he had the english servant's characteristic need of sanction and authority. when laurie reached his rooms, he called sonya on the telephone. like jepson, he was feeling rather overwhelmed by his responsibilities. it was a relief to hear sonya's deep, colorful voice. "didn't know you were here till just now," he told her. "i'm coming to see you in the morning. i want to talk to you about a lot of things." "including mrs. ordway?" suggested sonya. "yes. you saw her to-day. you noticed--" "of course. samuel is to be operated on to-morrow. i'll send him back to devon house with his mother in a few days, as soon as he can safely travel, and i shall stay right here." "that's splendid of you!" "it's what barbara and mr. warren would wish. and mrs. ordway, too, i think, though she would never suggest it." "i'm sure it is." laurie hung up the receiver with a nervous hand. to a youth of twenty-four it is a somewhat overpowering experience to discover that destiny is especially busy over the affairs of two women for whom he has assumed a definite responsibility. as he turned from the instrument its bell again compelled his attention. he took up the receiver, and the voice of a girl came to his ear. a week or two ago he had rather liked that voice and its owner, a gay, irresponsible, good-hearted little creature who pranced in the front row of an up-town pony ballet. now he listened to it with keen distaste. "hello, laurie," it twittered. "is that you? this is billie. listen. i gotta plan. a bunch of us is goin' out to gedney to supper to-night. we're goin' to leave right after the show. are you on?" laurie got rid of the fair billie. he did it courteously but very firmly. a rather unusual degree of firmness was necessary, for miss billie was not used to having her invitations refused. she accepted the phenomenon with acute unwillingness and very lingeringly. bangs was not at home, to divert his chum's mind with his robust conversation. as he dressed for his call on doris, the sharp contrasts of life struck laurie with the peculiar force with which they hit the young and the inexperienced. but were they really contrasts? on the one side were louise, dying, and doris, seemingly eager to die. on the other were billie and her friends--foolish little butterflies, enjoying their brief hour in the secret garden of life, eternally chattering about "good times," playing they were happy, perhaps even thinking they were happy, but infinitely more tragic figures than louise and doris. yet a week ago he had thought they amused him! pondering on these and other large problems, he absently removed the bloom from three fresh white ties. chapter vii griggs gets an order at eight o'clock laurie found doris sitting under the shade of a reading-lamp in her studio, deep in the pages of a sophisticated french novel and radiating an almost oppressive atmosphere of well-being. subconsciously, he resented this. his mood was keyed to tragedy. but he returned her half-serious, half-mocking smile with one as enigmatic, shook hands with grave formality, and surveyed with mild interest a modest heap of bank-notes of small denominations that lay on the table, catching the room's high lights. following his glance, doris nodded complacently. "i left them there for you to see," she remarked. "did the kind gentleman under the three balls give you all that?" "he did. count it." laurie frowned. "don't be so arrogant about your wealth. it's fleeting. any copy-book will tell you so." she opened a small drawer in the table, swept the bills into it, and casually closed it. laurie stared. "are you going to leave it there? just like that?" she looked patient. "why not?" "i begin to understand why you are sometimes financially cramped." he took the bills, smoothed them out flat, rolled back the rug to the edge of the table, laid the money under it, and carefully replaced the rug. "that's the place to put it," he observed, with calm satisfaction. "no one connected with a studio ever lifts a rug. bangs and i used to throw our money under the furniture, and pick it up as we needed it; but others sometimes reached it first. this way is better. how lovely you look!" he added. as he spoke he comfortably seated himself on the other side of the reading-lamp, and moved the lamp to a point where it would not obstruct his view of her. she did look lovely. she had put on an evening gown, very simply made, but rich in the oriental coloring she loved. she was like louise in that. laurie's thoughts swung to the latter's sick-room, and his brilliant young face grew somber. the girl lounging in the big chair observed the sudden change in his expression. she pushed a box of cigarettes toward him. "smoke if you like," she said, indifferently. "all my friends do." he caught the phrase. then she had friends! "including herbert ransome shaw?" he asked, as he lit a match. "don't include him among my friends! but--he was here this afternoon." "he was!" in his rising interest laurie nearly let the match go out. "what did he want?" "to warn me to have nothing to do with you." "i like his infernal cheek!" laurie lit the cigarette and puffed at it savagely. then, rising, he drew his chair forward and sat down facing her. "see here," he said quietly, "you'd better tell me the whole story. i can't help you much if i'm kept in the dark. but if you'll let me into things--and before i forget it," he interrupted himself to interject, "i want to bring a friend of mine to call on you. she will be a tower of strength. she's a russian, and one of the best women i know." she listened with a slight smile. "what's her name?" "miss orleneff, sonya orleneff, a great pal of my sister's and an all-round good sort. i'd like to bring her in to-morrow afternoon. will five be convenient?" "no." she spoke now with the curtness of the morning. "in no circumstances," she added, decisively. "but--why?" he was dazed. if ever a knight errant worked under greater difficulties than these, laurie told himself, he'd like to know the poor chap's name. "i have no wish to meet miss orleneff." "but she's an ideal person for you to know, experienced, sympathetic, and understanding. she did a lot for my sister last year. i must tell you all about that sometime. she could do more for you--" "mr. devon!" the finality of her tone brought him up short. "we must understand each other." "i should like nothing better." he, too, was suddenly formal. "this morning you projected yourself into my life." "literally," he cordially agreed. "i am grateful to you for what you did and what you wish to do. but i will not meet any more strangers. i will not meet miss orleneff, or any one else. is that clear?" "oh, perfectly!" laurie sighed. "of course you're a crowned head," he mused aloud. "i had forgotten. would you like my head on a charger, or anything like that?" she studied him thoughtfully. "almost from the first," she said, "and except for an occasional minute or two, you have refused to be serious. that interests me. why is it? aren't you willing to realize that there are real troubles in the world, terrible troubles, that the bravest go down under?" "of course." he was serious now. he had begun to realize that fully. "it's my unfortunate manner, i suppose," he defended himself. "i've never taken anything seriously for very long. it's hard to form the habit, all of a sudden." "you will have to take me seriously." he made a large gesture of acceptance. "all right," he promised. "that brings us back to where we were. tell me the truth. if there's anything in it that really menaces you, you'll find me serious enough." before answering, she rose and opened the studio door, on which, he observed with approval, a strong new lock and an inside bolt had already been placed. he saw her peer up and down the hall. then she closed and bolted the door, and returned to her chair. the precaution brought before him a mental vision of herbert ransome shaw prowling about the dim corridors. he spoke incredulously. [illustration: "there is someone outside that door!" she whispered] "are you really afraid of that chap?" "i have good reason to be," she said quietly. she sat down in her chair again, rested her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, in the pose already so familiar to him, and added quietly, "he is the source of all my present trouble." she stopped and turned her head to listen. "do you hear anything moving in the hall?" she asked, almost in a whisper. "no. shall i look?" she shook her head. "don't unbolt the door." "you're nervous. i'm sure there's nothing there. please go on," he urged. "our little friend bertie--" seeing her expression, he stopped short. "forgive me," he said, humbly. "but the plain truth is, it's awfully hard for me to take that fellow seriously. oh, i know he's venomous," he conceded, "but i can't help feeling that he hasn't as much power over you as you think he has." he realized that she was listening, but not to him. "there _is_ some one outside that door!" she whispered. laurie leaped to the door as noiselessly as a cat, unbolted it, and flung it open. the hall was empty. he had an instantaneous impression that something as silent as a moving shadow had vanished around the staircase at the far end, but when he reached the spot he saw nothing save the descending iron spirals of successive stairways. he returned to his companion, smiling reassuringly. "it's our nerves," he said. "in a few minutes more i shall be worrying about bertie, myself." "bolt the door again," she directed. he obeyed. she went on as if there had been no interruption to their talk. "it isn't what he is," she admitted. "he himself is nothing, as you say. it's what is back of him that--that frightens me! why don't you smoke?" she interrupted herself to ask. laurie automatically selected and lit another cigarette. "i know what's going to be back of bertie pretty soon," he darkly predicted. "whoever he is, and whatever he is doing, he has a big jolt coming to him, and it's coming fast." he laid down the cigarette and turned to her with his most charming expression, a wonderfully sweet smile, half shy, wholly boyish. before this look, any one who loved laurence devon was helpless. "come," he said gently, "tell me the whole story. you know it's not curiosity that makes me ask. but how can i help you when i'm working in the dark?" as she hesitated, his brilliant eyes, so softened now, continued to hold hers. "and i want to help you," he added. "i want that privilege more than i want anything else in the world." for a long moment she sat still, as if considering his words, her eyes on her hands, folded in her lap. the strange, deep flush he had noticed once before again stained her face. at last she straightened up with a quick movement, throwing back her shoulders as if to take on again some burden they had almost cast off. "i am sorry to seem so mysterious," she said, "and so unresponsive. i will tell you this much, and it is more than i ought to say. in the situation we are in i am in his power, horribly so. he can crush me at any time he chooses." "then why doesn't he?" the gentleness of her caller's voice softened the brusqueness of his words. "because--" she stopped again. for the first time she had become embarrassed and self-conscious. she made her climax in a rush: "lately he insists that he has fallen in love with me!" laurie uttered an ejaculation. it was not a pretty one, but it nicely fitted the emergency. "he has hoped that to save myself, and others, i will marry him, the contemptible, crawling snake!" the listener was impressed by her comparison. certainly there was something ophidian about shaw. he himself had noticed it. "then, for the time being, you're really safe?" he suggested. "no. his patience is exhausted. he is beginning to realize that i'd rather die." "the police can stop all this nonsense." but laurie spoke without his customary authority. "don't imagine that. the police know nothing about this matter, and they never will." a sudden thought struck her and she rose almost with a spring. he rose, too, staring at her in bewilderment. she caught his shoulders and held them tightly, in a grip wholly free from self-consciousness. "if you warn the police," she said swiftly; "if you draw them into this, you will ruin everything. you will do me a harm that could never be undone. give me your word that you won't. please, _please_!" she was almost shaking him now. under the clasp of her hands on his shoulders laurie paled a little, but his black eyes held hers steadily. "of course i promise," he said, slowly, "as you make such a point of it." she removed her hands and stepped back. "please go now." "so soon? why, i've only just come!" "i know--but i'm tired." there was no mistaking the sincerity of this. it was a poignant outcry. clearly, she was at the breaking-point. he took both her hands. "this whole experience gives me the oddest feeling," he told her gently. "in one way, i seem to be dreaming it. under it all there's a conviction that i'm on the track of the mystery; that everything will be cleared up, for us both, in another minute or two. it's merely an instinct. i can't explain it. but one thing i know. sooner or later--sooner, i hope--i shall be able to work it out for you." she seemed suddenly to remember that he was holding her hands. flushing, she gently withdrew them. then she turned, and with a brusque gesture walked away from him. "i'm sorry i got you into this!" she cried. "don't worry about me." he smiled at her from the door he was holding open. "may i come and take you to lunch to-morrow?" "not to-morrow. the next day, perhaps." "we've got to look for that job, you know." "with all this?" she indicated with the toe of her slipper a significant spot on the rug. laurie regarded the slipper with approval. it was a beautiful slipper, on a charming foot. it so diverted his mind from the main issue of the conversation that he was in the elevator and half-way down to the ground floor before he recalled that issue. he was not disturbed. doris had enough to go on with; and certainly he himself had sufficient scope for thought in the revelations she had just made. as he walked down the outer steps of the studio building and emerged on the sidewalk, a figure detached itself from the shadow of a low iron fence and stealthily followed him. it was a short figure, overcoated out of recognition. it carried its hands in its pockets, and its head was thrust forward in a peculiar way. it kept a dozen feet behind him, until he reached the pretentious entrance of the apartment building where he dwelt. here, in the glaring light of two huge electric globes, conveniently held aloft for him by a pair of bronze warriors, laurie turned suddenly, warned by the inner sense that tells us we are watched. the figure behind ducked modestly into the background, but not until he had recognized the round face and projecting eyes of herbert ransome shaw. laurie checked a passionate impulse to hurl himself upon that lurking and unpleasant shape. slowly but surely he was learning self-control. martin, the elevator operator, and griggs, the night hall man, were already bidding him good evening and regarding him with friendly and interested eyes. to see him suddenly fall upon and beat a shabby stranger would surprise and pain them, besides unpleasantly stirring up the neighborhood. a better opportunity would present itself, or could be made. in the meantime, however, he must convey to herbert ransome shaw some idea of the utter contempt in which he held him. taking griggs confidentially by the arm, laurie pointed out the skulking shadow. "see that?" he asked in ringing tones. griggs was a goliath in proportions and deliberate in his movements. he took his time to discover the object young devon indicated. in the shadow the object stirred restlessly. "yessir," griggs then said, uncertainly. "it's--it's a man, sir." "is it?" asked laurie with interest, and still in loud, clear tones. "i'm afraid you're mistaken. but whatever it is, _step_ on it!" he entered the elevator after this crisp instruction, and was wafted up to his rooms. the hall man moved hesitatingly down the building's three steps to the sidewalk. one never knew exactly what young devon was getting at. still, if he really wanted griggs to step on anything-- griggs stopped. a slight sensation of disappointment swept over him. he was a conscientious man who desired to do his duty. but there was absolutely nothing for him to step on, except the snow-covered and otherwise inoffensive pavement. chapter viii samuel plays a new game the next morning laurie awoke from troubled dreams with a vague feeling that life was getting a rise out of him, a feeling that the absent morning greeting of rodney bangs did not help to dissipate. without realizing it, young devon had rather sunned himself in the adulation of his chum. when this adulation was removed, he missed it; and for the present, at least, there was no question that adulation was lacking. not that bangs failed in any of the outward forms of friendship, but his manner had changed. he was increasingly preoccupied. when laurie spoke, bangs had the effect of coming to him from a long distance, and even of having one foot extended, as it were, for the return journey. the two young men breakfasted together, for the first time in several days; and over their coffee and cigarettes laurie confided to his friend his new anxiety about mrs. ordway. bangs at once became human. indeed, he showed a degree of solicitude that surprised his friend. it was suddenly clear that rodney was vastly interested in louise. he had even ventured to call on her, though laurie did not yet know this; for the first call was made, as it happened, on the afternoon of the day when the two young men had indulged in their first serious quarrel. bangs, usually the most modest and self-conscious of youths, had abruptly lost his shyness under the urge of a need to talk about his chum to some one who would understand. and louise had understood, quite surprisingly. recalling the long talk he and she had had, the help she had given him, the plans they had made, rodney grew very serious. "it's lucky sonya's in town," he said, when this further fact had been revealed. "let's go over to the hotel and see her right after breakfast. perhaps we ought to cable to warren. sonya will know." he spoke with such studied carelessness that laurie flashed a sudden look at him. under it bangs flushed to the roots of his burnished pompadour. "well, well," murmured laurie, "this _is_ interesting! odd i didn't notice it before." whatever "it" was, he gave his whole attention to it now. leaning forward, he ostentatiously studied bangs, with an expression at once indulgent and amazed. "a flush on his cheek, too," he mused aloud. "shut up!" bangs clenched his teeth, while the flush deepened. "easily irritated; respiration slightly irregular, all the familiar symptoms." "for god's sake, laurie, don't be an ass!" begged bangs. "all the familiar symptoms--of a heavy cold," murmured laurie, sympathetically. "a hot bath and a dose of quinine might help at this stage. but if it gets worse--" laurie reflected, anxiously shaking his head--"if it gets worse i'll send for sonya," he finished brightly. he rose, dodged the roll rodney hurled at him, and strolled out of the room, opening the door again to add an afterthought that suddenly occurred to him. "don't risk your life by going to the hotel, old man," he added, kindly. "take your quinine, and i will call on sonya." "she'll tell us whether or not to cable for warren," repeated bangs, with great dignity. but sonya, when she came into her hotel sitting-room an hour later, did not immediately solve this problem. for the moment her mind was wholly on the infant samuel, who was to have his adenoids cut out that morning, and who had been encouraged to look forward to the experience as a new delight. while they were expressing fitting interest, samuel himself entered the room, alone, but with all the effect of a juvenile procession. by the left leg he dragged his most cherished possession, a battered and dim-featured rag doll. hospitably greeting the two young men, he solemnly presented the doll to bangs. "what's this?" asked rodney, with a friendly impulse to adapt his conversation to the young. "hullen," affirmed samuel, "hullen, r. j." "what does that mean?" bangs appealed to sonya. "it's the doll's name. he gave it to her himself. 'hullen,' i suppose, means helen, and mr. warren's initials, you know, are r. j. evidently samuel liked the sound of them." samuel retrieved hullen r. j. "hullen r. j. go hos'tl wiv sammy," he further announced. "she will," corroborated sonya. "he never stirs without her, and she sleeps in his bed every night." laurie turned a shocked gaze on samuel, and sonya laughed, then gulped. "i'm horribly nervous this morning," she admitted. "i wish it were over. you see, a certain cherub isn't going to like matters at all after they really begin at the hos'tl. and his mother will be more of a burden than a help." bangs had an inspiration. "suppose i go with you," he suggested. "then if you need a strong man to hold the cherub--" "two strong men," corrected laurie. "do you imagine that i'm going to desert samuel in his hour of need? besides, i've got to keep an eye on bangs," he added sweetly, and was rewarded by a glare from that overwrought young man. "noticed anything odd about bangs lately?" laurie asked sonya. she turned on rodney the dark gaze of her serene eyes. "why, no." "you will," laurie predicted, with a mournful shake of the head. "watch him closely, and call on me if there are alarming symptoms that you don't understand." bangs rushed into confused speech. "he thinks i've got a cold," he gulped. "his nonsense, of course. nothing in the world the matter with me. er--how soon do we start?" laurie, helpless with laughter, rolled the ecstatic samuel on the floor. samuel's voice took on an added note of jubilation. sonya, his mother, hullen r. j., "lawwie" and "misser bangs" all going with him to the hos'tl--it was almost too much pleasure! samuel became slightly intoxicated. "he wants to sing," remarked laurie, with masculine understanding of a fellow heart. "all right, old man," he encouraged. "how about that beautiful hymn i taught you at bab's wedding?" with considerable help samuel recalled the ditty: "hey, hey, ve gangsall here, whalahaloo we care, whalahaloo we care, now--_wow_--wow--wow--_wow_!" "laurie!" sonya spoke with sudden austerity. "it's a relief from his mental strain," laurie explained. "any doctor will tell you that." * * * * * in the hos'tl, however, things assumed a different aspect. still firmly holding hullen r. j. by the leg, and keeping a steadfast eye on the surgeon, samuel took in his immediate surroundings with a dawning suspicion in his soul. having two men throw lights on his face and look down his throat had lost its novelty, though sonya had assured him that wonderful views were to be seen there which he alone could reveal. also, the men seemed hurried, and didn't want to look at hullen r. j.'s throat, though samuel warmly recommended this variety in the entertainment. in short, the situation had become sinister. the smiles around him were dreadful-looking things, all except laurie's. with an appalling howl samuel detached himself from the surgeon's grasp and fled to laurie, who picked him up and held him firmly and comfortably in his lap until a lady in white came with something nice for samuel to smell. the next thing samuel knew was that he was in bed in a strange room. he gulped and discovered that his throat was sore. he sat up, distended his mouth for a yell, and then very slowly closed it. from every corner of the room familiar figures were hastening to his side. the lady in white, sonya, and his mother all reached him at the same moment. on the pillow beside him hullen r. j. awaited the honor of his attention like a perfect lady. no howls from her, as sonya immediately pointed out. as she thus soothed, sonya was kissing him. the lady in white was offering him something pleasant to drink. his mother was patting his back. for a long instant samuel took in the gratifying fact of these activities. then he assorted his features, grabbed hullen r. j., exchanged his yell for a large smile, and permitted himself to be waited on. deep in his masculine consciousness he had realized that his world was normal again. bangs and laurie walked up fifth avenue together, stopping at a florist's to purchase the man's entire supply of roses for mrs. ordway. bangs also discovered some masses of poinsettia and chrysanthemums that, as he said, "looked like her." laden with these spoils, they took a taxicab to the ordway house, where they found jepson exuding an atmosphere of reassurance. yessir, mrs. hordway seemed better. she 'ad a more restful night, han' susanne said was quite bright this morning. hof course she'd see mr. devon, hand prob'bly mr. bangs, halso. jepson would harsk at once. jepson moved ponderously away to do so, while rodney, opening his big box in the hall, drew out the poinsettia and chrysanthemums and proceeded to arrange them in a gorgeous armful. bangs had unexpected taste in color and arrangement, as epstein's stage-directors had discovered in the past. laurie watched him with polite interest. "making a picture of yourself, aren't you?" he asked. "going into the sick-room with your little hands full of flowers?" but even as he scoffed he was unwrapping his own flowers. bangs was right. the act of handing a pasteboard box to a sick friend lacked esthetic value. jepson returned with a cordial message. mrs. ordway would be charmed to see both young men, but she received only one visitor at a time. would mr. bangs come up now? and perhaps mr. devon would drop in again during the afternoon or evening. rodney grasped his floral offerings and mounted the stairs two steps at a time. he was excited and his brown eyes showed it. it was most awfully good of mrs. ordway to let him come up in this informal way. standing by the _chaise longue_ where she lay, he told her so, his auburn head shining among the flowers he carried, like a particularly large chrysanthemum. then, selecting some empty vases, he sat down on the floor beside her and began to arrange his flowers, while she watched him, at first with surprise, then with growing admiration. rodney had no social airs and graces, no parlor tricks. if he had been formally sitting on a chair, holding his hat, he would have been a self-conscious and unhappy young man. as it was, with hands and eyes busy, and wholly at his ease, he talked his exuberant best. "how about laurie's romance?" louise asked at once. bangs told her about the vision in the mirror. as he did so, luncheon was served, and he was casually invited to share it. susanne, moving shuttle-like between the table in the sick-room and the dumb-waiter in the upper hall, presently confided to a young footman a surprising piece of news, which he in turn confided to the incredulous jepson. young mr. bangs, who was lunching with mrs. ordway, must be as amusing as young mr. devon himself. he had actually made the mistress laugh both times he came. she was laughing now, as susanne had not heard her laugh for weeks. to be sure, this was one of her good days. but it wasn't easy to amuse mrs. ordway at any time. jepson summed up the situation in an oracular utterance: "henny one that's a friend of mr. devon's his hall right." when rodney was leaving, jepson's mistress expressed the same thought to her guest in a different way. "come often," she said. "you have given me a new interest. i don't think you can quite realize what that means to me." when sonya arrived at five that afternoon, she found jepson still exuding reassurance. with two doctors within call, a nurse in the house, and mr. devon and miss orleneff to telephone to at a moment's notice, "nothink much could 'appen." so reasoned jepson. he beamed approvingly on sonya, informed her that mr. devon was in the sick-room now, and waved her through the hall with an effect of benediction. she found laurie just leaving, and they had a moment's chat on the upper landing. mrs. ordway, he told her, was rather restless this afternoon, but she seemed better than she had been yesterday. however, he didn't like her looks at all, and he fancied the nurse was disturbed. suppose sonya sounded louise about cabling for warren? surely warren would want to know, laurie thought. for the moment laurie's striking good looks were slightly dimmed. he was hollow-eyed, almost haggard. things were coming just a bit too fast for him. the habit of carrying the burden of others had been taken on too suddenly. under the strain of it, his untrained mental muscles ached. it was the irony of fate that sonya, looking at him with the clear brown eyes that were so much softer than bangs's, and so much less beautiful than doris's, should misinterpret his appearance, his emotion, and his reaction from the high spirits of the morning. he was again going the pace, she decided; and, mingled with her pity for him, rose the scorn of a strong soul that was the absolute master of the body in which it dwelt. his newly aroused perception carried some hint of this scorn to the boy, covered though it was by the friendliness of sonya's manner. the knowledge added to his wretchedness. he had a childish desire to explain, but he conquered it and hurried away. some day, if not now, sonya would understand. what he himself did not understand was the long stride he had taken in the moment when he felt and resented her unspoken criticism. heretofore his attitude had been one of expressed and sincere indifference to the opinions others held of him. he wanted them to like him, but he didn't care a hang whether or not they approved of him. now, suddenly, he wanted sonya's respect as well as her liking. the discovery added to his mental confusion. if sonya, when she entered the sick-room, was shocked by the change in the appearance of her new friend, she showed no sign of it. sitting down beside the _chaise longue_, she entered briskly upon a description of the recent experiences of samuel. when she left the hospital the house surgeon was obediently endeavoring to look down the throat of hullen r. j., and every nurse on samuel's floor was scuttering in and out of his room. nevertheless the infant, though graciously accepting these attentions, had demanded and received sonya's personal assurance that the particular game of the morning was not to be repeated. there was an unpleasant element in that game which grown-ups might not notice but which he, samuel, had caught on to. louise laughed and expressed a hope that samuel would now be able to breathe without disturbing his neighbors. sonya came to the real purpose of her visit. "he and his mother are going back to devon house saturday," she said, "but i've got to stay in new york for a few months, on account of my literary galumphings. i wondered if you--if it would be convenient for you--to put me up. i hate hotels and--" louise lay silent for a moment. then she reached out and took sonya's hand. "yes, you unskilful prevaricator," she said. "you may come--and see me through." sonya held the hand tightly in her own. "there's one thing more," she went on, hesitatingly. "laurie and mr. bangs and i wondered if perhaps you wouldn't feel more comfortable if mr. warren came home. you know he himself would want to--" louise closed her eyes. "yes," she said, "bob would want to, if he knew." she was silent for so long that sonya began to think she was not to have the answer to her question. perhaps mrs. ordway was leaving the decision to her. but to leave to others decisions that concerned herself was not louise ordway's habit. instead, she was fighting a battle in which the lifelong devotion of a supremely self-centered nature was struggling with a new-born unselfishness. though new-born, it was strong, as the invalid's next words showed. "if i were calling him back from anything but his honeymoon," she said at last, "i'd do it. but he's utterly happy. his letters show that, in every line. i want him to stay so, as long as he can. i want his honeymoon to be long drawn out and perfect." her manner changed. "i have an idea that perhaps, after all, i'll be here when he gets back," she added more lightly. "life still has its interests. but, if i happen not to be here, tell him why i didn't cable." "i will tell him," sonya promised. neither of them referred to the subject again. chapter ix an invitation that evening laurie walked across the square to doris's studio with a decision in his stride which definitely expressed his mental attitude. he had come to the conclusion that something must be done. what this something would be was still hazy in his mind, but the first step at least seemed clear. doris must move. he was so convinced of the urgency of this step that he brought up the subject almost before the greetings of guest and hostess were over. tossing his hat and coat on a convenient chair, he stood facing doris, his hands in his pockets, his black eyes somber. "we've got to get you out of this, you know," he abruptly announced. her eyes, which had brightened at his entrance, grew as somber as his own. without replying, she turned, walked across the room to the window, and stood looking down into the street. "is he there?" she asked at last, and without moving her head. "shaw? great scott, no! at least i didn't see him. i suppose he takes a few hours off now and then, during the twenty-four; doesn't he?" "oh, yes, he comes and goes, sometimes secretly, sometimes openly. i did not see him at all to-day until late this afternoon. then he took up his post across the street just opposite this window, and stood there for almost an hour." laurie ground his teeth. "what does he expect to gain by that performance?" "several things, i suppose. for one, he wants to get on my nerves; and he does," she added somberly, and still without turning. laurie made a vague tour around the room and brought up by her side. "you know," he confessed, "i haven't really taken this thing in yet. even now, this minute, it doesn't seem possible to me that shaw could do you any real harm." she nodded. "i know. why should it? even to me it is like a nightmare and i keep hoping to wake up. there are hours, even days, when i convince myself that it isn't real." she stopped. "it must be very hard for any one else to understand," she ended, when he did not speak. "nevertheless," admitted laurie, "i can't forget it. i can't think of anything else." she took this as naturally as she had taken his first remark. "it's going to be very hard for you. i was wrong to draw you into it. i am realizing that more and more, every minute." "you couldn't help yourself," he cheerfully reminded her. "now that i am in it, as i've warned you before, i intend to run things. it seems to me that the obvious course for you is to move. after you're safely hidden somewhere, i think i can teach herbert ransome shaw a lesson that won't react on you." she shook her head. "if i moved, how long do you think it would take him to find me?" "weeks, perhaps months." again she shook her head. "i moved here a few days ago. he appeared exactly forty-eight hours later. if i moved from here it would only mean going through the game of hare and hounds again." "but--" he began. she interrupted him. "i've reached the point where i can't endure that any more." for the first time her voice broke. "can't you imagine what that sort of thing would be? to get up in the morning and wonder if this is the day i'll see him under my window? to go to bed at night and ask myself if he is lurking in the shadows below, or across the street, or perhaps outside my very door? to know that sooner or later he will be there, that his coming is as inevitable as death itself--" she broke off. "i sometimes think i'd rather see a boa-constrictor crawling into my room than see shaw down on the sidewalk," she ended. "and yet--i know you can understand this--there's a queer kind of relief in the knowledge that at last, and finally, he has got me." she whirled to face laurie and threw out her hands. there was nothing theatrical in the gesture, merely an effect of entire finality. "we have come to the end of things," she finished. "since you would not have them end my way, they must end his way. whatever happens, i shall not run and hide any more." for a moment silence hung like a substance between them. then the visitor resolutely shook off the effect of her words. "i promise you i will get to the bottom of this," he quietly told her. "in the meantime, will you try to forget it, for a little while? you know you said you could do that, occasionally." he was clearing the table as he spoke. now he proceeded to unpack a basket he had sent over an hour before by griggs, and which, he observed, had not been opened. dropping back into her big chair, she watched him with an odd look. if he had seen this look it would have sorely puzzled him, for it held not only interest but an element of apprehension, even of fear. "in the past two days," she said, after an interval, "you have sent me five baskets of food, four baskets of fruit, six boxes of candy, and three boxes of flowers. what do you suppose becomes of them all?" "i know what becomes of the flowers." he cast an appreciative glance around the transformed room. "and i hope," he mildly added, "that you eat the food." she broke into her rare laugh, soft, deep-throated, and contagious. under it his spirits rose dizzyingly. "you are feeding half the people in this building," she said, "not to mention sam and his home circle. sam has absorbed roast chicken, cold partridge, quail, and sweetbreads till he is getting critical. he asked me this morning if i shouldn't like ham and eggs for a change!" laurie felt slightly aggrieved. "do you mean to say that you're not eating any of the stuff yourself?" he demanded. "oh, i eat three meals a day. but i don't keep boarders, you know; so i give the rest to sam to distribute. he feeds several dozen art students, i infer, and staggers home every night under the burden of what's left." "there won't be anything left this night." she had risen now and was helping to set the little table. laurie looked at her with shining eyes. one of her rapid changes of mood had taken place, and she was entering into the spirit of the impromptu supper as cheerfully as if it were a new game and she a child. she had become a wholly different personality from the tragic-eyed girl who less than ten minutes ago had somberly announced that she was making her last stand in life. again, as often before, laurie felt overwhelmed by the rush of conflicting emotions she aroused. "shall we have this big bowl of roses in the center, or the four little bowls at the corners?" she asked absorbedly. as she spoke, she studied the flowers with her head on one side. for the moment, it was clear, the question she had asked was the most vital in the world. "the little ones," decided the guest. "the big one might shut off some of you from my devouring eyes." he was mixing ingredients in a chafing-dish as he spoke, and he wore the trying air of smug complacency that invariably accompanies that simple process. "no," he objected, as she tried to help him, "i will do the brain-work. your part is to be feminine and rush briskly back and forth, offering me things i don't want. and at the last moment," he added gloomily, "you may tell me that there isn't a lemon in the place." he looked about with the hopelessness of a great artist facing the failure of his chef-d'oeuvre. "i forgot the lemons." she went across the room to a small closet. even in the strain of the moment he observed the extraordinary grace and swiftness of her movements. she was very slender, very lithe, and she moved like a flash of light. "fancy my being caught without a lemon!" she scoffed, as she returned with the fruit. "your brain-work stops abruptly sometimes, doesn't it?" she handed him the lemons with a little gesture expressing amusement, triumph, and a dash of coquetry. laurie's eyes glowed as he looked at her. for the second time, in her actual presence, a sharp thrill shot through him. oh, if she were always like this!--gay, happy, without that incredible, unbelievable background of tragedy and mystery! he turned his mind resolutely from the intruding thought. this hour at least was hers and his. it should be prolonged to the last moment. what he longed for was to hear her talk, but that way, he knew, lay disaster to the little supper in swift-returning memory. if she began to talk, the forbidden topic, now dormant, would uncoil its hideous length and hiss. he must hold her attention to other things. he plunged at random into chatter. for the first time he told her about bangs, his chum, and about epstein, their manager; about their plays and their experiences in rehearsals and on the road. being very young and slightly spoiled, he experienced some chagrin in the discovery that she seemed alike ignorant of the men and the plays. worse yet, she seemed not even aware that she should have known who bangs and epstein were. she did not recall having heard the title of "the black pearl." she was not only unaware that "the man above" had broken all box-office records; she seemed unconscious that it had ever been written. observing his artless surprise, she gravely explained. "i have been interested in other things," she reminded him. the forbidden topic was stirring, stretching. to quiet it, laurie leaped into the comedy scenes of "the man above." they delighted her. her soft, delicious laughter moved him to give her bits from "the black pearl," and, following these, the big scenes from the latter play. this last effort followed the supper; and laurie, now in his highest spirits, added to his effects by the use of a brilliant afghan, and by much raising and lowering of the light of the reading-lamp. he was a fine mimic. he became by turns the star, the leading lady, the comedian, and the "heavy" of the big play. it was only when he had stopped for a moment's rest, and doris demanded a description of the leading lady's gowns, now represented by the afghan, that his ingenuity failed. "they're so beautiful that most people think i made them," he said, serenely. "but i didn't, really, so i can't give you any details, except that they're very close-fitting around the feet." he was folding up the afghan as he spoke, and he stopped in the act, leaving one end dangling on the floor. from the street below the sound of a whistle came up to him, sharp and penetrating, repeating over and over the same musical phrase, the opening notes of the fifth symphony. at first he thought the notes were whistled by some casual passer-by. then, glancing at the girl's face, he knew better. the sharp, recurrent phrase was a signal. he finished folding the afghan, and carefully replaced it on the divan from which he had borrowed it. as he did so, he prattled on. he had suddenly decided not to hear that signal. doris, sitting transfixed and staring at him, slowly became convinced that he had not heard it. he glanced at his watch. "a shocking hour!" he ejaculated. "ten o'clock. if i go now, may i come back for breakfast?" "you may not." she made an effort to speak lightly. "to take you to luncheon, then, at one?" "no, please." he shook his head at her. "this is not the atmosphere of hospitality i am used to, but i shall come anyway. i'll be here at one. in the meantime, i suddenly realize that we are not using all of our opportunities. we must change that." he looked around as he spoke, and, finding what he sought, picked it up. it was a small scarf, a narrow bit of roman silk carrying a vivid stripe. he held this before her. "something may happen some day, and you may want me in a hurry," he said. "i have observed with regret that you have no telephone in this room, but we can get on without one. my mirror reflects your window, you know," he added a little self-consciously. "if you need me, hang up this scarf. just drape it over this big window-catch. if i ever see it, i'll come prancing across the square like a knight to your rescue." "thank you." she gave him her hand and the enigmatic smile that always subtly but intensely annoyed him. there was something in that smile which he did not understand, but he suspected that it held an element of amused understanding. so might doris, years hence, smile at her little son. "she thinks i'm a reed," laurie reflected as he waited in the outer hall for the elevator. "i don't blame her. i've been a perfectly good reed ever since i met her friend bertie." his thoughts, thus drawn to shaw, dwelt on that ophidian personality. when the elevator arrived he was glad to recognize the familiar face of sam. "yaas, sah," that youth affably explained, with a radiant exhibition of teeth, "it's henry's night _off_, so i has to be _on_." they were alone in the car. laurie, lighting a cigarette, asked a casual question. "there's a plump person in blue serge who hangs around here a good deal," he remarked, indifferently. "does he live in the building?" "the one wid eyes what sticks out?" "that's the one." sam's jaw set. "no, sah, dat party don' live yere. an' ef he don' stop hangin' 'round yere, somethin's gwine t' happen to dat man," he robustly asserted. "what's he after?" "i dunno. i only seen him twicet. las' time he was sneakin' fum de top flo'. but i cert'n'y don' like dat man's looks!" nothing more was to be learned from sam. laurie thoughtfully walked out into the square. he had taken not more than a dozen steps when a voice, strange yet unpleasantly familiar, accosted him. "good-evening, mr. devon," it said. laurie turned sharply. herbert ransome shaw was walking at his side, which was as it should be. it was to meet and talk with herbert ransome shaw that he had so abruptly ended his call. "look here," he said at once, "i want a few words with you." "exactly." shaw spoke with suave affability. "it is to have a few words that i am here." "where can we go?" shaw appeared to reflect. "do you mind coming to my rooms?" laurie hesitated. "i live quite near, and my quarters, though plain, are comfortable." anger surged up in the young man beside him. there was something almost insulting in shaw's manner as he uttered the harmless words, and in the reassuring yet doubtful intonation of his voice. "confound him!" laurie told himself. "the hound is actually hinting that i'm afraid to go!" aloud, he said brusquely, "all right." "you have five minutes to spare? that's capital!" shaw was clearly both surprised and pleased. he strode forward with short steps, rapid yet noiseless, and laurie adapted his longer stride to his companion's. he, too, was content. now, at last, he reflected, he was through with mysteries, and was coming to a grip with something tangible. chapter x the lair of shaw the walk was not the brief excursion herbert ransome shaw had promised. it was fifteen minutes before he stopped in front of a tall building, which looked like an out-of-date storehouse, and thrust a latch-key into a dingy door. the bolt was old and rusty. shaw fumbled with it for half a minute before it yielded. then it grudgingly slipped back, and laurie followed his guide into a dark hall, which was cold and damp. "they don't heat this building." the voice of shaw came out of the darkness. he had closed the door and was standing by laurie's side, fumbling in his pocket for something which proved to be a match-box. "they don't light it, either," he explained, unnecessarily, as the blaze of his match made a momentary break in the gloom. "but it's quite comfortable in my room," he added reassuringly. "i have an open fire there." as he spoke he led the way down the long hall with his noiseless, gliding steps. laurie, following close behind him, reflected that the place was exactly the sort the ophidian shaw would choose for a lair, a long black hole, ending in--what? the match had gone out and he could see nothing. he kept close to his guide. he almost expected to hear the creature's scales rattle as it slid along. but snakes like warmth, and this place--laurie shivered in the chill and dampness of it. the next instant shaw pushed open a door and, standing back, waved his guest into a lighted room. on first inspection it was a wholly reassuring room, originally intended for an office and now turned into a combination of office and living-apartment. a big reading-lamp with an amber shade, standing on a flat writing-desk, made a pleasant point of illumination. real logs, large and well seasoned, burned with an agreeable crackle in the old-fashioned fireplace. before this stood two easy-chairs, comfortably shabby; and at the arm of one of them a small table held a decanter, glasses, a siphon, and a box of cigars. as he took in these familiar details, devon's features unconsciously relaxed. he was very young, and rather cold, and the quick reaction from the emotions he had experienced in the outer hall was a relief. also, shaw's manner was as reassuring as his homely room. he dropped the visitor's coat and hat on a worn leather couch, which seemingly served him as a bed, and waved a hospitable hand toward an easy-chair. simultaneously, he casually indicated a figure bending over a table on the opposite side of the room. "my secretary," he murmured. the figure at the table rose and bowed, then sat down again and continued its apparent occupation of sorting squares of paper into a long, narrow box. in the one glance laurie gave it, as he returned the other's bow with a casual nod, he decided that the "secretary" was arranging a card-catalogue. but why the dickens should shaw have a secretary? on the other hand, why shouldn't he? laurie began to feel rather foolish. for a few moments, in that hall, he had actually been on the point of taking shaw seriously; and an aftermath of this frame of mind had led him to turn a suspicious regard on a harmless youth whose occupation was as harmless as he himself looked. laurie mentally classified the "secretary" as a big but meek blond person, who changed his collars and cuffs every wednesday and sunday, and took a long walk in the country on sunday afternoons. however, the fellow had pursuing eyes. evidently his work did not need his whole attention, for his pale blue eyes kept returning to the guest. once laurie met them straight, and coolly stared them down. after this they pursued him more stealthily. he soon forgot them and their owner. despite shaw's hospitable gestures, laurie was still standing. he had chosen a place by the mantel, with one elbow resting upon it; and from this point of vantage his black eyes slowly swept the room, taking in now all its details--a type-writer, a letter-file, a waste-paper basket that needed emptying, a man's worn bedroom slipper coyly projecting from under the leather couch, a litter of newspapers. it was all so reassuringly ordinary that he grinned to himself. whatever hold this little worm had on doris--shaw had even ceased to be a snake at this point in laurie's reflections--would be loosed after to-night; and then she could forget the episode that had troubled her, whatever it was. at precisely this point in his meditations laurie's eyes, having completed a tour of the room and returned to the fireplace, made two discoveries. the first was that the room had no windows. the second, and startling one, was that it contained doris's photograph. the photograph stood on the mantel, in a heavy silver frame. it was a large print and a good one. the girl's eyes looked straight into his. her wonderful upper lip was curved in the half-smile that was so familiar and so baffling. "well," the smile asked, "what do you think of it all, now that you are here? still a bit confusing, isn't it? for you didn't expect to find _me_ here, seemingly so much at home; did you?" in the instant when his eyes had found the photograph, laurie had been about to light the inevitable cigarette. the discovery arrested his hand and held him for an instant, motionless. then, with fingers that trembled, he completed the interrupted action, threw the match into the fire, and with blind eyes stared down into the flames. in that instant he dared not look at shaw. he was shaken by an emotion that left him breathless and almost trembling. what was doris's photograph doing in this man's room? in the momentary amazement and fury that overwhelmed him at the discovery, he told himself that it would not have been much worse to find her actual presence here. all this had taken but a moment. shaw, hospitably busy with his decanter and siphon, had used the interval to fill two glasses, and was now offering one to his guest. "no, thanks." laurie spoke with abrupt decision. "no?" shaw looked pained. then he smiled a wide smile, and laurie, seeing it and the man's pointed teeth, mentally changed him again from the worm to the serpent. he understood shaw's mental process. the fellow thought he was afraid to drink the mixture. but what did it matter what the fellow thought? "perhaps, then, you will have a cigar, and sit down comfortably for our chat?" shaw himself set the example by dropping into one of the easy-chairs and lighting a fat perfecto. his smooth brown head rested in what seemed an accustomed hollow of the chair back. his wide, thin lips were pursed in sybaritic enjoyment of his cigar. he stretched himself in the warmth of the fire, sleek, torpid, and loathsome. "mr. shaw." "y-e-s." still standing, with his elbow braced against the mantel, the visitor tossed his cigarette into the fire and looked down into his host's projecting eyes. it appeared that shaw roused himself with difficulty from the gorged comfort of the moment. there was a perceptible interval before he gave his guest his whole attention. then he straightened in his chair, and the projecting eyes took on their veiled but watchful look. "yes," he repeated, more briskly. in the brief interval laurie had planned his little campaign. he would address this creature as man to man; for perhaps, after all, there was more of the man in him than he revealed. "i am going to ask you to be frank with me." "yes?" shaw let it go at that. "when we met on the street it appeared that you were as anxious as i am for this interview. will you tell me at once why you brought me here, and what you wish to say?" "willingly." shaw flicked the ash off his cigar, and kept his eyes on its lighted end as he went on: "i brought you here because i want you out of the way." "why?" "because, my temperamental young friend, you are a nuisance. you are interfering with my plans. i can't be bothered with you." the sudden spark that in the old days would have warned devon's friends of an impending outburst appeared now in his black eyes, but he kept his temper. "would you mind confiding these plans to me?" he suggested. "they would interest me, profoundly." shaw shook his sleek brown head. "oh, i couldn't do that," he said, with an indulgent smile. "but i have a proposition to make to you. perhaps you will listen to it, instead." "i'll listen to it," laurie promised. "it is short and to the point. give me your word that you will stop meddling in miss mayo's affairs, which are also my affairs," he added parenthetically, "and that you will never make an effort to see her again. as soon as you have given me this promise, i will escort you to the front door and bid you an eternal farewell, with great pleasure." "i'm looking forward to that pleasure, myself," confessed the visitor. "but before we throw ourselves into the delights of it, suppose you outline the other side of your proposition. i suppose it _has_ another side." shaw frowned at his cigar. "it doesn't sound pretty," he confessed, with regret. "i'll judge of that. let's have it." "well,"--shaw sighed, dropped the cigar into the tray at his elbow, and sat up to face the young man with an entire change of manner--"the rest of it," he said, calmly, "is this. unless you make that promise we can't have the farewell scene we are both looking forward to so eagerly." "you mean--" laurie was staring at him incredulously--"you mean you don't intend to let me leave here?" shaw shrugged deprecating shoulders. "oh, surely! but not immediately." his guest turned and addressed the fire. "i never listened to such nonsense in my life," he gravely assured it. shaw nodded. "it does seem a little melodramatic," he conceded. "i tried to think of something better, something less brusque, as it were. but the time was so short; i really had no choice." "what do you mean by that?" laurie had again turned to face him. "exactly what i say. think it over. then let me have your decision." laurie moved closer to him. "get up," he commanded. shaw looked surprised. "i am very comfortable here." "_get up!_" the words came out between the young man's clenched teeth. shaw again shrugged deprecating shoulders. then, with another of his wide, sharp-toothed grins, he rose and faced his visitor. at the desk across the room the big blond secretary rose, also, and fixed his pale blue eyes on his employer. "now," said laurie, "tell me what the devil you are driving at, and what all this mystery means." "what an impulsive, high-strung chap you are!" shaw was still grinning his wide grin. "you won't tell me?" "of course i won't! i've told you enough now to satisfy any reasonable person. besides, you said you had something to say to me." he was deliberately goading the younger man, and laurie saw it. he saw, too, over shaw's shoulder, the tense, waiting figure of the secretary. he advanced another step. "yes," he said, "i've got three things to say to you. one is that you're a contemptible, low-lived, blackmailing hound. the second is that before i get through with you i'm going to choke the truth out of your fat throat. and the third is that i'll see you in hell before i give you any such promise as you ask. now, i'm going." he walked over to the couch and picked up his hat and coat. the secretary unostentatiously insinuated himself into the center of the room. shaw alone remained immovable and unmoved. even as laurie turned with the garments in his hands, shaw smiled his wide smile and encircled the room with a sweeping gesture of one arm. "go, then, by all means, my young friend," he cried jovially, "but _how_?" laurie's eyes followed the gesture. he had already observed the absence of windows. now, for the first time, with a sudden intake of breath, he discovered a second lack. seemingly, there was no exit from the room. of course there was a door somewhere, but it was cleverly concealed, perhaps behind some revolving piece of furniture; or possibly it was opened by a hidden spring. wherever it was, it could be found. in the meantime, his manoeuver had given him what he wanted--more space in which to fight two men. with a sudden movement shaw picked up the silver-framed photograph, and ostentatiously blew the dust off it. this done, he held it out and looked at it admiringly. "you will stay here, but you will not be alone," he promised, with his wide, sharp-toothed grin. "this will keep you company. see how the charming lady smiles at the prospect--" he dropped the picture, which fell with a crash on the tiled flooring around the fireplace. the glass broke and splintered. shaw gasped and gurgled under the strangling hold of the powerful fingers on his throat. lamp and table were overturned in the struggle that carried the three men half a dozen times across the room and back. laurie, fighting two opponents with desperate fury, could still see their forms and shaw's bulging eyes in the firelight. then he himself gasped and choked. something wet and sweet was pressed against his face. he heard an excited whisper: "hold on! be careful there. not too much of that!" a moment more and he had slipped over the edge of the world and was dropping through black space. chapter xi a bit of bright ribbon when laurie opened his eyes blackness was still around him, a blackness without a point of light. but as his mind slowly cleared, the picture he saw in his last conscious moment flashed across his mental vision--the dim, firelit room, the struggling, straining figures of shaw and the blond secretary. he heard again the hissed caution, "not too much of that!" he sat up, dizzily. there _had_ been "too much of that." he felt faint and mildly nauseated. his hands, groping in the darkness, came in contact with a brick floor; or was it the tiling around the fireplace? he did not know. he decided to sit quite still for a moment, until he could pull himself together. his body felt stiff and sore. there must have been a dandy fight in that dingy old room, he reflected with satisfaction. perhaps the other two men were lying somewhere near him in the darkness. perhaps they, too, were knocked out. he hoped they were. but no, of course not. again he remembered the hurried caution, "not too much of that." he decided to light a match and see where he was, and he fumbled in his pockets with the first instinct of panic he had known. if those brutes had taken his match-box! but they hadn't. he opened it carefully, still with a lingering suggestion of the panic. if he had been a hero of romance, he reasoned, with a dawning grin, that box would have held exactly one match; and he would have had to light that one very slowly and carefully. then, at the last instant, the feeble flicker would have gone out, leaving it up to him to invent some method of manufacturing light. as it was, however, his fat match-box was comfortably filled, and his cigarette-case, which he eagerly opened and examined by touch, held three, no, four cigarettes. that was luck! his spirits rose, singing. now for a light! he lit a match, held it up, looked around him, and felt himself grow suddenly limp with surprise. he had expected, of course, to find himself in shaw's room. instead, he was in a cellar, which resembled that room only in the interesting detail that it appeared to have no exit. with this discovery, his match went out. he lit another, and examined his new environment as carefully as he could in the brief interval of illumination it afforded. the cellar was a perfectly good one, as cellars go. it was a small, square, hollow cube in the earth, not damp, not especially cold, and not evil-smelling. its walls were brick. so was its floor, which was covered with clean straw, a discovery that made its present occupant suddenly cautious in handling his matches. he had no wish to be burned alive in this underground trap. the place was apparently used as a sort of store-room. there was an old trunk in it, and some broken-down pieces of furniture. the second match burned out. affluent though he was in matches, it was no part of the young man's plan to burn his entire supply at one sitting, as it were. for half an hour he crouched in the darkness, pondering. then, as an answer to certain persistent questions that came up in his mind, he lit a third match. he greatly desired to know where lay the outlet to that cellar, and in this third illumination he decided that he had found it. there must be some sort of a trap-door at the top, through which he had been dropped or lowered. those wide seams in the whitewashed ceiling must mean the cracks due to a set-in door. undoubtedly that door had been bolted. also, even assuming that it was not fastened, the ceiling was fully eight feet above him. there was no ladder, there were no stairs. his third match burned out. in the instant of its last flicker he saw something white lying on the straw beside him. he promptly lit another match, and with rising excitement picked up the sheet of paper and read the three-line communication scrawled in pencil upon it: out to-morrow. flash-light, candles, cigarettes, and matches in box at your left. blankets in corner. be good. the recipient of this interesting document read it twice. then, having secured the box at his left--a discarded collar box, judging by its shape and labels--he drew forth the flash-light, the cigarettes, the matches, and the candles it contained. lighting one of the candles, he stuck it securely on a projecting ledge of the wall. by its wan light, aided by the electric flash, he took a full though still dazed inventory of his surroundings. the ophidian shaw had puzzled him again. he had handled shaw very roughly for a time. he could still feel--and he recalled the sensation with great pleasure--the thick, slippery neck of the creature, and the way it had squirmed when he got his fingers into it. yet the serpent evidently bore no malice. or--a searing thought struck laurie--having things his own way, he could afford to be generous. in other words, he was now perfecting his plans, while he, laurie, was out of the way. the promise of release to-morrow could mean, of course, only one thing--that those plans, whatever they were, would be carried out by then. and yet--and yet-- the boy put his head between his hands and groaned. what was happening to doris? surely nothing could happen that night! or could it? and what would it be? only a fool would doubt shaw's power and venom after such an experience as laurie had just had, and yet--even now the skeptical interrogation-point reared itself in the young man's mind. one fact alone was clear. he must get out of this. but how? flash-light in hand, he made the short tour of the cellar, examining and tapping every inch of the wall, the masonry, and the floor-work. could he pile up the furniture and so reach the door in the ceiling? he could not. the articles consisted of the small, battered trunk, a legless, broken-springed cot, and a clock whose internal organs had been removed. piled one on the other, they would not have borne a child's weight. laurie decided that he was directly under shaw's room. perhaps the creature was there now. perhaps he would consent to a parley. but shouts and whistles, and a rain of small objects thrown up against the trap-door produced no response. he began to experience the sensations of a trapped animal. so vivid were these, and so overpowering, as he measured his helplessness against the girl's possible need of him, that he used all his will power in overcoming them. resolutely he reminded himself that he must keep cool and steady. he would leave nothing undone that could be done. he would shout at intervals. perhaps sooner or later some night-watchman would hear him. he would reach that trap-door if the achievement were humanly possible. but first, last, and all the time he would keep cool. when he had exhausted every resource his imagination suggested, he sat in the straw, smoking and brooding, his mind incessantly seeking some way out of his plight. at intervals he shouted, pounded, and whistled. he walked the floor, and reëxamined it and the cellar walls. he looked at his watch. it was three o'clock in the morning. he was exhausted, and his body still ached rackingly. very slowly he resigned himself to the inevitable. morning would soon come. he must sleep till then, to be in condition for the day. he found shaw's blankets, threw himself on the straw, and fell into a slumber full of disturbing dreams. in the most vivid of these he was a little boy, at school; and on the desk before him a coiled boa-constrictor, with shaw's wide and sharp-toothed grin, ordered him to copy on his slate an excellent photograph of doris. he awoke with a start, and in the next instant was on his feet. he had heard a sound, and now he saw a light falling from above. he looked up. a generous square opening appeared in the ceiling, and leading down from it was the gratifying vision of a small ladder. up the ladder laurie sprang with the swiftness of light itself. subconsciously he realized that if he was to catch the person who had opened that door and dropped that ladder, he must be exceedingly brisk about it. but quick as he was, he was still too slow. with a grip on each side of the opening, and a strong swing, he lifted himself into the room above. as he had expected, it held no occupant. what he had not expected, and what held him staring now, was that it held not one stick of furniture. bare as a bone, bleak as a skeleton, it had the effect of grinning at him with shaw's wide white grin. his first conscious reflection was the natural one that it was not shaw's room. he had been carried to another building. this room had a window, which, of course, might have been concealed behind the letter-files. yet, bare as it was, it looked familiar. there was the fireplace, with its charred logs. there, yes, there were the splinters of the glass that had protected doris's photograph. and, final convincing evidence, there, forgotten in a corner, was the worn bedroom slipper he had noticed under the couch the night before. with eyes still bewildered, still incredulous, he stared around the empty room. before him yawned an open door, showing an uninviting vista of dingy hall. he stepped across its threshold, and looked down the winding passage of the night before. but why hadn't he seen the door? he moved back into the empty room. a glance explained the little mystery. the room had been freshly papered, door and all. the surface of the door had been made level with the wall. when it was closed there was no apparent break in the pattern of the wall-paper. if there had been a chair in the room, young mr. devon would have sat down at this point. his body wanted to sit down. in fact, it almost insisted upon doing so. but just as he was relaxing in utter bewilderment, he received another gentle shock. above the old-fashioned mantel was a narrow, set-in mirror, and in this mirror laurie caught a glimpse of the features of a disheveled young ruffian, staring fixedly at him. he had time to stiffen perceptibly over this vision before he realized that the disheveled ruffian was himself, a coatless, collarless self, with shirt torn open, cuffs torn off, hair on end, features battered and dirty, and bits of straw clinging to what was left of his clothing. for a long moment laurie gazed at the figure in the glass, and as he gazed his mingled emotions shook down into connected thought. yes, there _had_ been a dandy fight in this room last night, and he had the satisfaction of knowing that his two opponents must have come out of it as disheveled as himself. he had "had them going." beyond doubt he could have handled them both but for their infernal chloroform. again he recalled, with pleasure, the feeling of shaw's thick, slippery neck as it choked and writhed under the grip of his fingers. incidentally he had landed two blows on the secretary's jaw, sending him first into a corner and the next time to the floor. it was soon after the second blow that the episode of the chloroform occurred. straightening up, he began the hurried and elemental toilet which was all the conditions permitted. he removed the pieces of straw from his clothing, smoothed his hair, straightened his garments to conceal as much of the damage to them as possible, and gratefully put on his coat, which lay neatly folded on the floor, with his silk hat resting smugly upon it. it required some courage to go out into the clear light of a january morning in patent-leather pumps and wearing a silk hat. he would find some one around the place from whom he could borrow a hat and get the information he needed about the late tenants of this extraordinary office. he looked at his watch. it was half-past seven. he had slept later than he had realized. he had slept while doris was in peril. the reminder both appalled and steadied him. with a last look around the dismantled room, he closed its door behind him and went out into the winding hall. he hurried up and down its length, poking his head into empty store-rooms and dusty offices, but finding no sign of life. at last a cheerful whistle in the lower regions drew him down a flight of stairs to what appeared to be an underground store-room. here a bulky, overalled individual, looming large in the semi-darkness, stopped in his labor of pushing about some boxes, and regarded laurie with surprise. "are you the watchman?" asked the latter, briskly. "i am, that." "were you here last night?" "i was." "was any one else here?" "divil a wan." "did you hear any noise during the night?" "divil a bit." "were you asleep?" "i was," admitted the watchman, simply. his voice was hibernian, and rich with tolerant good humor. "i want to make a trade with you." the new-comer held out his silk hat. "will you give me your hat, or any old hat you've got around the place, for this?" "i will," said the watchman calmly. though good-humored, he seemed a man of few words. "and who might you be?" he added. "i came in last night with mr. shaw, and i spent the night here. when i woke up," added laurie drily, "i found that my host had moved." the watchman sadly shook his head. "you're a young lad," he said, with friendly sympathy. "'tis a pity you've got into these habits." laurie grinned at him. he had discovered that his money, like his watch, was safe in his pockets. taking out a bill, he showed it to his companion. "do you like the looks of that?" he inquired. "i do," admitted the watchman, warmly. "tell me all you know about shaw, and take it for your trouble." "i will," promptly agreed the other, "but 'tis not much you'll get for your money, for 'tis little enough i know. the man you're talkin' about, i suppose, is the fat fella with eyes you could hang yer hat on, that had the back room on the ground floor." "that's the one." "then all i know is, he moved in three days ago, and he moved out two hours ago. what he did between-times i don't know. but he paid for the room for a month in advance, so nobody's mournin' his loss." "didn't he say why he was going, or where?" "divil a word did he say. he was in a hurry, that lad. he had a gang of three men with him, and they had the place empty in ten minutes. i lent 'em a hand, an' he give me a dollar, and that's the last i saw of him." a sudden thought struck the watchman. "where was you all the time?" he asked with interest. "in the cellar." the watchman nodded, understandingly. "you're too young for that sort of thing, me boy. now, i'm no teetotaler meself," he went on argumentatively. "a glass once in a while is all right, if a man knows whin to stop. but--" "how about that hat?" interrupted the restive victim of this homily. "have you got one handy?" "i have." the watchman disappeared into a shadowy corner and returned with a battered derby. "an' a fine grand hat it is!" he earnestly assured the new owner, as he handed it over. laurie took the hat and put it on his head, where, being too small for him, it perched at a rakish angle. he dropped the bank-note into his own silk hat, and handed them to his companion, who accepted them without visible emotion. evidently, brief though his stay in the building had been, herbert ransome shaw had accustomed its watchman to surprises. laurie's last glimpse of the man as he hurried away showed him, with extreme efficiency and the swift simultaneous use of two well-trained hands, putting the silk hat on his head and the bill in his pocket. laurie rushed through the early east side streets. he was not often abroad at this hour, and even in his anxiety it surprised him to discover how many were abroad so early in the morning. the streets seemed full of pretty girls, hastening to factories and offices, and of briskly stepping men and women, representing types that also would ordinarily catch the attention of the young playwright. but now he had neither thought nor eyes for them. his urgent needs were first the assurance that doris was safe, and next the privacy of his own rooms, a bath, and a change of clothing. obviously, he could not present himself to doris in the sketchy ensemble he presented now; or could he? he decided that he could, and must. to remain in his present state of suspense a moment longer than he need do was unthinkable. in a surprisingly short time he was in the studio building, facing the man sam had called henry, a yawning night elevator man who regarded him and his questions with a pessimism partly due to the lack of sleep and fatigue. these combined influences led him to make short work of getting rid of this unkempt and unseasonable caller. "no, sah," he said. "miss mayo don' receive no callers at dis yere hour. no, sah, sam don' come on tell eight o'clock. no, sah, i cain't take no messages to no ladies what ain't out dey beds yit. i got to perteck dese yere folks, i has," he ended austerely. the caller peeled a bill from his ever-ready roll, and the face of the building's guardian angel changed and softened. "p'raps i could jes' knock on miss mayo's do'," he suggested after a thought-filled interval. "that's all i want," agreed laurie. "knock at her door and ask her if mr. devon may call at nine and take her out to breakfast. tell her he has something very important to say to her." "yaas, sah." the guardian was all humility. he accepted the bill, and almost simultaneously the elevator rose out of sight. the interval before its return was surprisingly short, but too long for the nerves of the caller. laurie, pacing the lower hall, filled it with apprehensions and visions which drove the blood from his heart. he could have embraced henry when the latter appeared, wearing an expansively reassuring grin. "miss mayo she say, 'yaas,'" he briefly reported. under the force of the nervous reaction he experienced, laurie actually caught the man's arm. "she's there?" he jerked out. "you're sure of it?" "yaas, sah." henry spoke soothingly. by this time he had made a diagnosis of the caller's condition which agreed with that of the night-watchman laurie had just interviewed. "she say, 'yaas,'" he repeated. "i done say what you tol' me, and she say, 'tell de genman, yaas,' jes' like dat." "all right." laurie nodded and strode off. for the first time he was breathing naturally and freely. she was there. she was safe. in a little more than an hour he would see her. in the meantime his urgent needs were a bath and a change of clothing. as soon as he was dressed he would go back to the studio building and keep watch in the corridors until she was ready. then, after breakfast, he would personally conduct her to the security of louise ordway's home. louise need not see her, if she did not feel up to it, but she would surely give her asylum after hearing laurie's experiences of the night. that was his plan. it seemed a good one. he did not admit even to himself that under the air of sang-froid he wore as a garment, every instinct in him was crying out for the sound of doris's voice. also, as he hurried along, he was conscious that a definite change was taking place in his attitude toward herbert ransome shaw. slowly, reluctantly, but fully, he had now accepted the fact that "bertie" represented a force that must be reckoned with. he inserted the latch-key into the door of his apartment with an inward prayer that bangs would not be visible, and for a moment he hoped it had been granted. but when he entered their common dressing-room he found his chum there, in the last stages of his usual careful toilet. he greeted laurie without surprise or comment, in the detached, absent manner he had assumed of late, and laurie hurried into the bath-room and turned on the hot water, glad of the excuse to escape even a tête-à-tête. that greeting of bangs's added the final notes to the minor symphony life was playing for him this morning. as he lay back in the hot water, relaxing his stiff, bruised body, the thought came that possibly he and rodney were really approaching the final breaking-point. bangs was not ordinarily a patient chap. he was too impetuous and high-strung for that. but he had been wonderfully patient with this friend of his heart. if it were true that the friendship was dying under the strain put upon it, and laurie knew how possible this was, and how swift and intense were bangs's reactions, life henceforth, however full it might be, would lack an element that had been singularly vital and comforting. he tried to think of what future days would be without bangs's exuberant personality to fill them with work and color; but he could not picture them; and as the effort merely added to the gloom that enveloped him, he abandoned it and again gave himself up to thoughts of doris. as he hurried into his clothes a strong temptation came to him to tell bangs the whole story. then bangs would understand everything, and he, laurie, would have the benefit of rodney's advice and help in untying doris's tangle. doris! again she swam into the foreground of his consciousness with a vividness that made his senses tingle. he was sitting on a low chair, lacing his shoes, and his fingers shook as he finished the task. he dressed with almost frantic haste, urged on by a fear that, despite his efforts, was shaping itself into a mental panic. then, hair-brushes in hand, he faced his familiar mirror, and recoiled with an exclamation. doris was not there, but her window was, and hanging from its center catch was something bright that caught his eye and instantaneous recognition. it was a small roman scarf, with a narrow, vivid stripe. chapter xii doris takes a journey within five minutes he was in the studio building across the square, frantically punching the elevator bell. outwardly he showed no signs of the anxiety that racked him, but presented to sam, when that appreciative youth stopped his elevator at the ground floor, the sartorial perfection which sam always vastly admired and sometimes dreamed of imitating. but for such perfection sam had no eyes to-day. at this early hour--it was not much more than half-past eight--he had brought down only two passengers, and no one but laurie was waiting for the upward journey. when the two tenants of the building had walked far enough toward its front entrance to be out of ear-shot, sam grasped laurie's arm and almost dragged him into the car. as he did so, he hissed four words. "she gone, mist' devon!" "gone! where? when?" laurie had not expected this. he realized now that he should have done so. his failure to take in the possibility of her going was part of his infernal optimism, of his inability even now to take her situation at its face-value. sam was answering his questions: "'bout eight, jes' after henry went and i come on. an aut'mobile stop in front de do', an' dat man wid de eyes he come in. i try stop him fum takin' de car, but he push me on one side an' order me up, like he was wilson hisself. so i took him to de top flo'. but when we got dere an' he went to miss mayo's do', i jes' kep' de car right dere an' watch him." "good boy! what happened?" "he knock an' nuffin' happen. den he call out, 'doris, doris,' jes' like dat, an' she come an' talk to him; but she didn't open de do'." "could you hear what else he said?" "no, sah. after dat he whisper to her, hissin' like a snake." laurie set his teeth. even sam felt the ophidian in shaw. "go on," he ordered. "den i reckon miss mayo she put on a coat, an' dat man wait. i t'ought he was gwine leave, an' i sho' was glad. but he stood dere, waitin' an' grinnin' nuff to split his haid." laurie recognized the grin. "'bout two-three minutes she come out," sam went on. "she had a big fur coat an' a veil on. she look awful pale, an' when dey got in de el'vator she didn' say a word. dey wasn' nobody else in de car, an' it seem lak i couldn't let her go off no-how, widout sayin' somethin'. so i say, 'you gwine away, miss mayo?' de man he look at me mighty cold an' hard, an' she only nod." "didn't she speak at all?" "no, sah. she ain't say a word. she jes' stood stiff an' still, an' he took her out to de car, an' dey bofe got in." "was it a limousine, a closed car?" "yaas, sah." "did the man himself drive it?" "no, sah. he sat inside wid miss mayo. the man what drove it was younger." "what did he look like?" "i couldn't see much o' him. he had a big coat on, an' a cap. but his hair was yallah." laurie recognized the secretary. "which way did they go?" "east." they were standing on the top landing by this time, and laurie strode forward. "i'll take a look around her rooms. perhaps she left some message." sam accompanied him, and though he had not desired this continued companionship, laurie found a certain solace in it. in his humble way this black boy was doris's friend. he was doing his small part now to help her, if, as he evidently suspected, there was something sinister in her departure. entering the familiar studio, laurie looked around it with a pang. unlike the quarters of shaw, it remained unchanged. the room, facing north as it did, looked a little cold in the early light, but it was still stamped with the impress of its former occupant. the flowers he had given her only yesterday hung their heads in modest welcome, and half a dozen eye-flashes revealed half a dozen homely little details that were full of reassurance. here, open and face down on the reading-table, was a book she might have dropped that minute. there was the long mirror before which she brushed her wonderful hair and, yes, the silver-backed brushes with which she brushed it. on the writing-table were a pencil and a torn sheet of paper, as if she had just dashed off a hurried note. in short, everything in the room suggested that the owner, whose presence still hung about it, might return at any instant. and yet, there in the window, where he had half jokingly told her to place it, hung the brilliant symbol of danger which he himself had selected. he walked over and took it from the latch. in doing this, he discovered that only half the scarf hung there, and that one end was jagged, as if roughly and hastily cut off. he put the scarf into his pocket. as he did so, his pulses leaped. pinned to its folds was a bit of paper, so small and soft that even the inquisitive eye of sam, following his every motion, failed to detect it. laurie turned to the black boy. "we'd better get out of here," he suggested, trying to speak carelessly and leading the way as he spoke. "miss mayo may be back at any moment." sam's eyes bulged till they rivaled shaw's. "you don' t'ink she gone?" he stammered. "why should we think she has gone?" laurie tried to grin at him. "perhaps she's merely taking an automobile ride, or an early train for a day in the country. certainly nothing here looks as if she had gone away for good. people usually pack, don't they?" sam dropped his eyes. his face, human till now, took on its familiar, sphinxlike look. he followed "mist' devon" into the elevator in silence, and started the car on its downward journey. but as his passenger was about to depart with a nod, sam presented him with a reflection to take away with him. "she didn' _look_ lak no lady what was goin' on no excu'sion," he muttered, darkly. laurie rushed back to his rooms with pounding heart and on the way opened and read at a glance his first note from doris. it was written in pencil, seemingly on a scrap of paper torn from the pad he had seen on her desk. long island, i _think_. an old house, on the sound, somewhere near sea cliff. remember your promise. _no police._ that was all there was to it. there was no address, no signature, no date. the writing, though hurried, was clear, beautiful, and full of character. in his rooms, he telephoned the garage for his car, and read and reread the little note. then, still holding it in his hand, he thought it over. two things were horribly clear. shaw's "plan" had matured. he had taken doris away. and--this was the staggering phase of the episode--she seemed to have gone willingly. at least she had made no protest, though a mere word, even a look of appeal from her, would have enlisted sam's help, and no doubt stopped the whole proceeding. why hadn't she uttered that word? the answer to this, too, seemed fairly clear. doris had become a fatalist. she had ceased to hide or fight. she was letting things go "his way," as she had declared she would do. down that dark avenue she had called "his way" laurie dared not even glance. his mind was too busy making its agile twists in and out of the tangle. granting, then, that she had gone doggedly to meet the ultimate issue of the experience, whatever that might be, she had nevertheless appealed to him, laurie, for help. why? and why did she know approximately where she was to be taken? why? why? why? again and again the question had recurred to him, and this time it dug itself in. despite his love for her (and he fully realized that this was what it was), despite his own experience of the night before, he had hardly been able to accept the fact that she was, must be, in actual physical danger. when, now, the breath of this realization blew over him, it checked his heart-beats and chilled his very soul. in the next instant something in him, alert, watchful, and suspicious, addressed him like an inner voice. "shaw will threaten," this voice said. "he will fight, and he will even chloroform. but when it comes to a show-down, to the need of definite, final action of any kind, he simply won't be there. he is venomous, he'd _like_ to bite, but he has no fangs, and he knows it." the vision of shaw's face, when he had choked him during the struggle of last night, again recurred to laurie. he knew now the meaning of the look in those projecting eyes. it was fear. though he had carried off the rest of the interview with entire assurance, during that fight the creature had been terror-stricken. "he'll have reason for fear the next time i get hold of him," laurie reflected, grimly. but that fear was of him, not of doris. what might not doris be undergoing, even now? he went to the little safe in the wall of his bedroom, and took from it all the ready money he found there. oh, if only rodney were at home! but mr. bangs had gone out, the hall man said. he also informed mr. devon that his car was at the door. the need of consulting rodney increased in urgency as the difficulties multiplied. laurie telephoned to bangs's favorite restaurant, to epstein's office, to sonya's hotel. at the restaurant he was suavely assured that mr. bangs was not in the place. at the office the voice of an injured office boy informed him that there wasn't never nobody there till half-past nine. over the hotel wire sonya's colorful tones held enough surprise to remind laurie that he could hardly hope that even rodney's budding romance would drive him to the side of the lady so early in the morning. he hung up the receiver with a groan of disgust, and busied himself packing a small bag and selecting a greatcoat for his journey. also, he went to a drawer and took out the little pistol he had taken away from doris in the tragic moment of their first meeting. holding it in his hand, he hesitated. heretofore, throughout his short but varied life, young devon had depended upon his well-trained fists to protect him from the violence of others. but when those others were the kind who went in for chloroform--and this time there was doris to think of. he dropped the revolver into his pocket, and shot into the elevator and out on the ground floor with the expedition to which the operator was now becoming accustomed. his car was a two-seated "racer," of slender and beautiful lines. as he took his place at the wheel, the machine pulsated like a living thing, panting with a passionate desire to be off. laurie's wild young heart felt the same longing, but his year in new york had taught him respect for its traffic laws and this was no time to take chances. carefully, almost sedately, he made his way to third avenue, then up to the queensboro bridge, and across that mighty runway to long island. here his stock of patience, slender at the best, was exhausted. with a deep breath he "let her out" to a singing speed of sixty miles an hour. a cloud had obscured the sun, quite appropriately, he subconsciously felt, and there were flakes of snow in the air. as he sped through the gray atmosphere, the familiar little towns he knew seemed to come forward to meet him, like rapidly projected pictures on a screen. flushing, bayside, little neck, manhasset, roslyn, glenhead, one by one they floated past. he made the run of twenty-two miles in something under thirty minutes, to the severe disapproval of several policemen, who shouted urgent invitations to him to slow down. one of these was so persistent that laurie prepared to obey; but just as the heavy hand of the law was about to fall, its representative recognized young devon, and waved him on with a forgiving grin. this was not the first time laurie had "burned up" that stretch of roadway. at the sea cliff station he slowed up; then, on a sudden impulse, stopped his car at the platform with sharp precision and entered the tiny waiting-room. from the ticket window a pretty girl looked out on him with the expression of sudden interest feminine eyes usually took on when this young man was directly in their line of vision. with uncovered curly head deferentially bent, he addressed her. had she happened to notice a dark limousine go by an hour or so before, say around half-past eight or nine o'clock? the girl shook her head. she had not come on duty until nine, and even if such a car had passed she would hardly have observed it, owing to the frequency of the phenomenon and her own exacting responsibilities. laurie admitted that these responsibilities would claim all the attention of any mind. but was there any one around who might have seen the car, any one, say, who made a specialty of lounging on the platform and watching the pulsations of the town's life in this its throbbing center? no, the girl explained, there were no station loafers around now. the summer was the time for them. then perhaps she could tell him if there were any nice old houses for rent near sea cliff, nice old houses, say, overlooking the sound, and a little out of the town? laurie's newly acquired will power was proving its strength. with every frantic impulse in him crying for action, for knowledge, for relief from the intolerable tension he was under, he presented to the girl the suave appearance of a youth at peace with himself and the hour. the abrupt transitions of the gentleman's interest seemed to surprise the lady. she looked at him with a suspicion which perished under the expression in his brilliant eyes. what he meant, laurie soberly explained, was the kind of house that might appeal to a casual tourist who was passing through, and who had dropped into the station and there had suddenly realized the extreme beauty of sea cliff. the girl laughed. she was a nice girl, he decided, and he smiled back at her; for now she was becoming helpful. yes, there was the varick place, a mile out and right on the water's edge. and there was the old kiehl place, also on the sound. these were close together and both for rent, she had heard. also, there was a house in the opposite direction, and on the water's edge. she did not know the name of that house, but she had observed a "to let" sign on it last sunday, when she was out driving. those were all the houses she knew of. she gave him explicit instructions for reaching all three, and the interview ended in an atmosphere of mutual regard and regret. indeed, the lady even left her ticket office to follow the gentleman to the door and watch the departure of his chariot. laurie raced in turn to the varick place and the kiehl place. shaw, he suspected, had probably rented some such place, just as he had rented the east side office. but a very cursory inspection of the two old houses convinced him that they were tenantless. no smoke came from their chimneys, no sign of life surrounded them; also, he was sure, they were not sufficiently remote from other houses to suit the mysterious shaw. the third house on his list was more promising in appearance, for it stood austerely remote from its neighbors. but on its soggy lawn two soiled children and a dog played in care-free abandon, and from the side of the house came the piercing whistle of an underling cheerily engaged in sawing wood and shouting cautions to the children. quite plainly, the closed-up, shuttered place was in charge of a caretaker, whose offspring were in temporary possession of its grounds. laurie inspected other houses, dozens of them. he made his way into strange, new roads. nowhere was there the slightest clue leading to the house he sought. it was one o'clock in the afternoon when, with an exclamation of actual anguish, he swung his car around for the return journey to the station. for the first time the hopelessness of his mission came home to him. there must be a few hundred houses on the sound near sea cliff. how was he to find the right one? perhaps that girl had thought of some other places, or could direct him to the best local real-estate agents. perhaps he should have gone to them in the first place. he felt dazed, incapable of clear thought. as the car swerved his eye was caught by something bright lying farther up the road, in the direction from which he had just turned. for an instant he disregarded it. then, on second thought, he stopped the machine, jumped out, and ran back. there, at the right, by the wayside, lay a tiny jagged strip of silk that seemed to blush as he stared down at it. slowly he bent, picked it up, and, spreading it across his palm, regarded it with eyes that unexpectedly were wet. it was a two-inch bit of the roman scarf, hacked off, evidently, by the same hurried scissors that had severed the end in his pocket. he realized now what that cutting had meant. with her hare-and-hounds' experience in mind, doris had cut off other strips, perhaps half a dozen or more, and had undoubtedly dropped them as a trail for him to pick up. possibly he had already unseeingly passed several. but that did not matter. he was on the right track now. the house was on this road, but farther up. he leaped into the car again and started back. he drove very slowly, forcing the reluctant racer to crawl along, and sweeping every inch of the roadside with a careful scrutiny, but he had gone more than a mile before he found the second scent. this was another bit of the vivid silk, dropped on a country road that turned off the main road at a sharp angle. with a heartfelt exclamation of thanksgiving, he turned into this bypath. it was narrow, shallow-rutted, and apparently little used. it might stop anywhere, it might lead nowhere. it wound through a field, a meadow, a bit of deep wood, through which he saw the gleam of water. then, quite suddenly, it again widened into a real road, merging into an avenue of trees that led in turn to the entrance of a big dark-gray house, in a somber setting of cedars. laurie stopped his car and thoughtfully nodded to himself. this was the place. he felt that he would have recognized it even without that guiding flame of ribbon. it was so absolutely the kind of place shaw's melodramatic instincts would lead him to choose. there was the look about it that clings to houses long untenanted, a look not wholly due to its unkempt grounds and the heavy boards over its windows. it had been without life for a long, long time, but somewhere in it, he knew, life was stirring now. from a side chimney a thin line of smoke curled upward. on the second floor, shutters, newly unbolted, creaked rustily in the january wind. and, yes, there it was; outside of one of the unshuttered windows, as if dropped there by a bird, hung a vivid bit of ribbon. rather precipitately laurie backed his car to a point where he could turn it, and then raced back to the main road. his primitive impulse had been to drive up to the entrance, pound the door until some one responded, and then fiercely demand the privilege of seeing miss mayo. but that, he knew, would never do. he must get rid of the car, come back on foot, get into the house in some manner, and from that point meet events as they occurred. facing this prospect, he experienced an incredible combination of emotions--relief and panic, recklessness and caution, fear and elation. he had found her. for the time being, he frantically assured his trembling inner self, she was safe. the rest was up to him, and he felt equal to it. he was intensely stimulated; for now, at last, in his ears roared the rushing tides of life. chapter xiii the house in the cedars less than half a mile back, along the main road, laurie found a country garage, in which he left his car. it was in charge of a silent but intelligent person, a somewhat unkempt and haggard middle-aged man, who agreed to keep the machine out of sight, to have it ready at any moment of the day or night, and to accept a handsome addition to his regular charge in return for his discretion. he was only mildly interested in his new patron, for he had classified him without effort. one of them college boys, this young fella was, and up to some lark. just what form that lark might take was not a problem which stirred henry burke's sluggish imagination. less than twenty hours before his seventh had been born; and his wife was delicate and milk was seventeen cents a quart, and the garage business was not what it had been. to the victim of these obsessing reflections the appearance of a handsome youth who dropped five-dollar bills around as if they were seed potatoes was in the nature of a miracle and an overwhelming relief. his mind centered on the five-dollar bills, and his lively interest in them assured laurie of burke's presence in the garage at any hour when more bills might possibly be dropped. while he was lingeringly lighting a cigarette, laurie asked a few questions. who owned the big house back there in the cedar grove, on the bluff overlooking the sound? burke didn't know. all he knew, and freely told, was that it had been empty ever since he himself had come to the neighborhood, 'most two years ago. was it occupied now? no, and burke was sure of that. only two days before he himself had driven past it and had noted its continued closed-up, deserted appearance. it was a queer place, anyhow, he added; one couldn't get to it from the main road, but had to follow a blind path, which he himself had blundered into by chance, when he was thinking about something else. he had heard, he now recalled, that it was owned by some new yorker who didn't like noise. laurie strolled out of the garage with a well-assumed air of indifference to the perplexities of life, but his heart was racked by them. as he hesitated near the entrance, uncertain which way to turn, he saw that behind the garage there was a tool shed, and following the side path which led to this, he found in the rear of the shed a workman's bench, evidently little used in these cold january days. tacitly, it invited the discoverer to solitude and meditation, and laurie gratefully dropped upon it, glad of the opportunity to escape burke's eye and uninterruptedly think things out. but the daisied path of calm reflection was not for him then. theoretically, of course, his plan would be to wait until night and then, sheltered by the darkness, to approach the house, like a hero of melodrama, and in some way secure entrance. but even as this ready-made campaign presented itself, a dozen objections to it reared up in his mind. the first, of course, was the delay. it was not yet two o'clock in the afternoon, and darkness would not fall until five, even unwisely assuming that it would be safe to approach the place as soon as darkness came. in three hours all sorts of things might happen; and the prospect of marking time during that interval, while his unbridled imagination ran away with him, was one laurie could not face. on the other hand, what could he do in broad daylight? if he were seen, as he almost certainly would be, shaw, careless now, perhaps, in his fancied security, would take precautions which might make impossible the night's work of rescue. that, of course, assuming that shaw was still at the house among the cedars. was he? laurie pondered that problem. undoubtedly he had personally taken doris there, he and the secretary. but the chances seemed about even that, having done this, he would leave her, for the day at least, either in charge of the secretary or of some caretaker. in that case--in that case-- the young man sprang to his feet. he would waste no more time in speculation. he would _know_, and at once, who was in that house with doris. he swung back to the garage with determination in his manner, and entered the place so unexpectedly that burke, who had fancied him a mile away, started at the sight of him. then, with a contented smile, he stilled his nerves and kept his eyes on the bill the visitor held before him. "see here," said the latter, "i want to do a tramp act." "sure you do!" burke promptly acquiesced. "can you find me some ragged trousers and an old coat and cap? the worse they look, the better i'll like it. and while you're about it, get me some worn-out shoes or boots. how soon can you have them here?" "i--i dunno." burke was looking somewhat overwhelmed. "you're pretty big," he mentioned. "nothin' o' mine 'd fit you." "great scott!" exploded the other. "i don't want 'em to _fit_! i'm not going to a pink tea in them." "but you want to get 'em _on_, don't you?" burke demanded, with some coldness. "i do." "well, look at yerself; young fella, and then look at me." laurie obeyed the latter part of the injunction. the father of seven was at least five inches shorter than he, and his legs and shoulders were small in proportion. no coat or trousers he wore could possibly go on the young hercules before him. "oh, well," urged the latter, impatiently, "get some, somewhere. here. take a run into town. use my car if you like. or go to some one you know who's about my size. only, mum's the word." five-dollar bills were in the air, fluttering before the eyes of the garage-owner like leaves in vallambrosa. he clutched them avidly. "and hurry up," added his impatient patron. "let's see you back here in five minutes." "who'll look after the garage? not that any one's likely to stop," the proprietor gloomily admitted. "i'll look after it. come, get a move on!" "oh, all right! but i can't be back in no five minutes, nor in thirty minutes, neither. i gotta go over to nick swanson's. he's about your size." "all right, all right! go to it." the impatient youth was fairly shooing him out of his own garage, but with the sweet memory of those five-dollar bills to sustain him, burke was patient, even good-humored. one thing he could say about them college lads: they was usually ready to pay well for their nonsense. with a forgiving grin he hurried off. left alone, laurie removed his coat and cap, searched the garage successfully for grease, oil, waste, and shoe-blacking, and then, establishing himself in front of a broken mirror in burke's alleged office, removed his collar and effected a startling transformation in the appearance of his head, face, hands, and shirt. beginning in his college days, and continuing throughout his more recent theatrical experiences, the art of make-up had increasingly interested him. the people in his plays owed something to his developing skill, and even one of the leading ladies had humbly taken suggestions from him. but never in any stage dressing-room had young mr. devon secured a more extraordinary change than the one he produced now, with the simple aids at hand. when burke returned he found his garage in charge of an unwashed, unkempt, unprepossessing young ruffian whom he stared at for a full minute before he accepted him as the man he had left there. the ragged trousers, the spotted "reefer" buttoned high around the neck, the dirty cap pulled over the eyes, and the wholly disreputable broken shoes burke had brought with him completed the transformation of an immaculate young gentleman into a blear-eyed follower of the open road. clad in these garments, laurie took a few preliminary shuffles around the garage, while the owner, watching him, slapped his thigh in approval. so great was his interest in the "act," indeed, that when the impersonator left the garage and started off, burke showed a strong desire to follow him and see the finish of the performance, a desire that recalled for a fleeting instant the determined personality of the young gentleman hidden under the tramp disguise. at the last moment before leaving, laurie took from his pocket the tiny revolver he had brought with him, and holding it in his palm, studied it in silence. should he take it, or shouldn't he? he hesitated. then habit mastered caution. he dropped it among the discarded heap of clothes, and picked up in its stead a small screw-driver, which he put into his ragged pocket. that particular tool looked as if it might be useful. lounging up the country road, with his cold, bare, dirty hands in the pockets of the borrowed reefer, he looked about with assurance. he believed that in this unexpected guise, he could meet even shaw and get away with it; but he meant to be very careful and take no unnecessary chances. he cut across half a dozen fields, climbed half a dozen fences, was fiercely barked at by a dozen dogs, more or less, and finally reaching the grounds of the house in the cedars, approached it from the rear in exactly the half-sneaking, half-cocky manner in which the average tramp would have drawn near a shuttered house from one of whose chimneys smoke was rising. it was a manner that nicely blended the hope of a hand-out with the fear of a rebuff. once he fancied he saw something moving among the trees. he ducked back and remained quiet for some time. then, reassured by the continued silence, he emerged, sauntered to the back entrance, and after a brief preliminary study of the shuttered windows, assailed the door with a pair of grimy knuckles. he had expected a long delay, possibly no response at all. but the door opened as promptly as if some one had been standing there awaiting his signal, and on its threshold a forbidding-looking woman, haglike as to hair and features but cleanly dressed, stood regarding him with strong disapproval. in the kitchen range back of her a coal fire was burning. a tea-kettle bubbled domestically on its top, and cheek by jowl with this a big-bellied coffee-pot exhaled a delicious aroma. the entire tableau was so different from anything laurie had expected that for an instant he stared at the woman, speechless and almost open-mouthed. then the smell of the coffee gave him his cue. he suddenly remembered that he had eaten nothing that day, and the fact gave a thrill of sincerity to the professional whine in which he made his request. "say, lady," he begged urgently, "i'm down an' out. gimme a cup o' cawfee, will yuh?" her impulse, he saw clearly, had been to close the door in his face. already her hand was automatically responding to it. but he whipped off his dirty cap and, shivering on the door-step, looked at her with laurie's eyes, whose beauty no amount of disguise could wholly conceal. there was real appeal in them now. much, indeed almost everything, depended on what this creature would do in the next minute. she hesitated. "i ain't had a mouthful since yesterday," croaked the visitor, pleadingly and truthfully. "well, wait there a minute. i'll bring you a cup of coffee." she turned from the door and started to close it, evidently expecting him to remain outside, but he promptly followed her in, and her face, hardening into quick anger, softened a little as she saw him cowering over the big hot stove and warming his dirty hands. in silence she filled a cup with coffee, cut a thick slice from a loaf of bread, buttered it, and set the collation on the kitchen table. "hurry up and eat that," she muttered, "and then clear out. if any one saw you here, i'd get into trouble." laurie grunted acquiescence and wolfed the food. he had not sat down, and now, as he ate, his black eyes swept the room while he planned his next move. drying on a stout cord back of the stove were several dish-towels. they gave him his first suggestion. his second came when he observed that his hostess, evidently reassured by his haste, had turned her back to him, and, bending a little, was examining the oven. noiselessly setting down the cup and the bread, he crept behind her, and, seizing her in one powerful arm, covered her mouth with his free hand. he could not wholly stifle the smothered shriek she gave. for the next moment he had his hands full. despite her wrinkles and her gray hair, she was a strong woman, and she fought with a violence and a false strength due to overwhelming fury and terror. it was so difficult to control her without hurting her that all his strength was taxed. but at last he brought her slowly down into a chair under the row of dish-towels, and seizing two of these useful articles, as well as the cord that held them, securely bound and gagged her. as he did so he dropped his rôle and looked soberly into her furious eyes. "look here," he told her. "i'm not going to hurt you; be sure of that. but i've got something to say, and i want you to stop struggling and listen to it." under his quiet tones some of the frenzy died out of the eyes staring up at him. "i'm here to get miss mayo," he went on. "she's in the house, isn't she? if she is, nod." there was a long moment of hesitation. at last the head nodded. "is there any one else in the house?" the head shook negatively. "is there no one here but you and miss mayo?" laurie could hardly take in this good luck, but again the head shook negatively. "where is she? upstairs?" the head nodded. he stepped back from the bound figure. "all right," he said cheerfully. "now i'm going to unbind you and let you take me up to her. as a precaution, i shall leave the bandage on your mouth and hands. but, being a sensible woman, of course you realize that you have absolutely nothing to fear, unless you give us trouble. if you try to do that, i shall have to lock you into a closet for a few hours." as he spoke he was unfastening the cord. "lead on," he invited, buoyantly. there was an instant when he thought the struggle with her would begin all over. he saw her draw herself together as if to spring. but she was evidently exhausted by her previous contest. she was also subdued. she rose heavily, and, taking her time to it, slowly led the way out of the kitchen and along a hall to the front of the house. "no tricks, remember," warned laurie, keeping close behind her. "play fair, and i'll give you a year's salary when i take miss mayo out of this." she turned now and looked at him, and there was venom in the glance. violently and negatively, she shook her head. "don't you want the money?" he interrupted, deeply interested in this phenomenon. "i'm glad to have met you," he politely added. "you're an unexpected and a brand-new type to me." she was walking forward again, with no sign now that she heard his voice. reaching a wide colonial staircase that led to the second floor, she started the ascent, but so slowly that the young man behind her uttered another warning. "no tricks, remember," he repeated, cheerfully. "i'm afraid you're planning to start something. i believe you're capable of falling backward, and bowling me over like a ten-pin. but don't you do it. a dark, musty closet is no place for a kind-hearted, sensible woman to spend twenty-four hours in." she ignored that, too, but now she moved more quickly, and her companion, close at her heels, found himself in an upper hall, approaching a door at the front of the house. before this door his guide now planted herself, with much of the effect of a corner-stone settling into place. keeping a careful eye on her, he stretched out a long arm and tapped at the panel. there was no answer. he tapped again. still no answer. he glanced at the enforcedly silent woman beside him, and something in her eyes, a gleam of triumph or sardonic amusement, or both, was tinder to his hot spirit. "have you led me to the wrong door?" he asked. he spoke very quietly, but the tone impressed the woman. the gleam faded from her eyes. hastily she shook her head. "if you have--" he nodded at her thoughtfully. then he raised his voice. "doris," he called. "doris!" he heard a movement inside the room, an odd little cry, half exclamation, half sob, and hurried steps approaching. the next minute her voice came to him, in breathless words, with a tremor running through them. "is it you?" she gasped. "oh, is it you?" "yes, open the door." "i can't. it's locked." he stared at the unyielding wood before him. "you mean they've locked you in?" "yes. of course." it would be, of course, laurie reflected. that was shaw's melodramatic method. "we'll change all that, in a minute." he stepped back from the door. "what are you going to do?" the voice inside was anxious. "break it down, if necessary. breaking down doors to get to you is my specialty. you haven't forgotten that, i hope." he turned to the woman beside him. "have you the key to this?" she shook her head. "if you have, you may as well hand it over," he suggested. "i shall certainly break down the door if you don't; and it's a perfectly good door, with a nice polish on it." he saw her hesitate. then, sullenly, she nodded. "you have it, after all?" he spoke with the natural relief of an indolent young man spared an arduous job. again she nodded. "where is it?" she could make no movement with her bound hands, but with an eye-flash she indicated the side of her gown. "in your pocket? good. i'll get it." he got it, as he spoke. holding it in his hand, he again addressed his reluctant companion. "when i unlock the door, you will go in first, and walk over to the nearest corner and stand there with your back to the room. also, here's my last warning: i should be very sorry to do anything that would hurt or inconvenience you. if you behave yourself i will soon take off that gag. if you don't, i shall certainly lock you up. in either case, you can't accomplish anything. so take your choice." he unlocked the door, and the deliberate figure preceded him into the room. in the next instant he saw nothing in the world but the eyes of doris, fixed on his. then he knew that he was holding her hands, and listening to her astonished gasp as she took in his appearance. "my disguise," he explained. "i couldn't ride up as publicly as young lochinvar, though i wanted to. so i got this outfit." he turned around for her inspection, deliberately giving her and himself time to pull up under the strain of the meeting. at the first glimpse of her all his assurance had returned. he was excited, triumphant. but as he again met her eyes, something in their expression subdued him. "it took longer to get here than i expected, but of course you knew i was on the way," he said. her response was unexpected. dropping into a low chair, she buried her face in her hands and burst into a passion of tears. aghast, he stared at her, while from the corner the hag stared at them both. laurie dropped on his knees beside doris and seized her hands, his heart shaking under a new fear. "they've been frightening you," he muttered, and was surprised by the intensity of his terror and anger as he spoke. "don't cry. they'll pay for it." she shook her head. "it isn't that," she sobbed at last. "then what is it?" "i've brought you here. and i--i think it was a horrible thing to do. i--i can't forgive myself." laurie groped vaguely amidst sensations of relief and the mental confusion with which, someway, she always filled him. "you're--all right, aren't you? and you expected me, didn't you?" "yes, but--oh, don't make me talk! let me cry." she was crying as she spoke, rackingly, and every sob tore his heart. again, as so often before, he felt dazed and helpless before the puzzle she presented. yet, as always, there seemed nothing to do but obey her, since she, and not he, invariably held the key to the strange situations in which she placed him. her tears made him feel desperate, yet he dared not continue to hold her hands, and he did not know what to say. rising, but keeping his position beside her, he waited for her to grow calmer, and as he waited he subconsciously took in the room. it was a big front chamber, furnished as a sitting-room. its broad windows, with their cushioned window-seats, faced east. besides the window, it had two exits, the door by which he had entered, and another door, half open, apparently leading into a bedroom. its comfortable easy-chairs were covered with gay chintz, its curtains were of the same material, its reading-table held books and newspapers, and in its big open fireplace fat logs were blazing. shaw "did" his prisoners well. laurie remembered the cigarettes, matches, and blankets so thoughtfully provided for himself. like shaw's own room, the chamber breathed simple comfort. it was impossible to take in the thought of anything sinister in connection with it until one observed the gagged woman in the corner, and remembered the locked door. "well, princess," he said at last, still trying to speak lightly, "this isn't much of a donjon tower, is it?" her sobs, hysterical and due to overwrought nerves, had given place to occasional sharp catches of the breath, like those uttered by a little child whose "crying-spell" is almost over. she did not speak, but she put out her hand to him, and he took it and held it closely, conscious of a deep thrill as the small palm touched his. "i want to talk to you," he said gently, "but i'd feel a lot more comfortable if our chaperon were a little more remote. can we put her into this inner room?" doris nodded, and he waved the woman across the threshold of the bedroom. she would be safe there. he had observed that the windows of the inner room were still barred and shuttered. seemingly, in all the big house, this up-stairs sitting-room alone had opened its heart to the sun. "are you really alone in the house?" he asked. "yes, i think so; i'm almost sure of it." "then there's no mad rush about leaving?" "no--i--i think not." he observed her hesitation but ignored it. he drew two big chairs close to the open fire, and, leading doris to one, seated her in it, and took the other himself, turning it to face hers. as he did so, she recoiled. "you look so dreadful!" she explained with a shudder. "i suppose i do. but forget that and tell me something. when did shaw leave?" "within half an hour of the time he brought me here." "when is he coming back?" "to-night, i think." "and he's left you here alone, with no one around but this woman?" laurie asked, incredulously. here was another situation hard to understand. "his secretary is somewhere around, a wretched jackal that does what he's told." "oh!" this was news. "where is he?" "out in the garage. he has a room there. i heard him say he had no sleep last night, and that he expected to get some to-day." laurie rose. "i'll take a look around and see where he is," he suggested. "we can't have him catching on to my little visit and telephoning to shaw, you know." as he spoke he was walking toward the door that led into the hall, and now he confidently put out his hand and turned the knob. his expression changed. he gave the knob a violent twist, then, setting his shoulder against the jamb, tried to wrench the door open. it did not yield. doris, watching him wide-eyed, was the first to speak. "locked?" she whispered. "locked," corroborated laurie. he nodded thoughtfully. several things, small in themselves, which had puzzled him, were clearing up. among others, the housekeeper's persistent efforts to gain time were now explained. shaw had not been so careless as he had seemed. the meek blond secretary with the pursuing eyes and the chloroforming habit was certainly in the house. chapter xiv laurie checks a revelation laurie shook his head. "that was rather stupid of him," he remarked, mildly. "it's almost as easy to force open a locked door from the inside as from the outside." "i know." doris was again breathless. "but in the meantime he's telephoning to shaw." "i don't think so." laurie, his hands in his pockets, was making a characteristic turn around the room. "what has he to gain by telephoning? shaw's coming back anyway in a few hours; and in the meantime the secretary has got me safely pocketed, or thinks he has. i have an idea he'll stand pat. you see, he doesn't know about my talent for opening locked doors." he strolled back to the door as he spoke and examined the lock. then, appreciatively, he drew from his pocket the screw-driver he had thoughtfully brought from the garage. "i fancied this might be useful. it will take me just about four minutes to open that door," he announced. "so get on your things and be ready to start in a hurry." "do you imagine that we can get away now, in broad daylight?" she seemed dazed by the suggestion. "why not? you want to get out of here, don't you?" "yes--i--of course i do!" "you don't seem very sure of it." laurie was smiling down at her with his hands still in his pockets, but there was an expression in his eyes she had never seen there before, an expression keen, cold, almost but not quite suspicious. "yes, but--you don't understand. shaw has other men on watch, two of them." "where?" "in the grounds. one in the front and the other in the back." the new-comer mentally digested this unwelcome information. "if we wait till it's dark," said the girl, "we'll have a better chance." "unless shaw gets back in the meantime." he was still watching her with that new look in his eyes. then, briskly, he returned to his interest in the doorlock. "in any case," he casually remarked, "we don't want to be jailed here." she said no more, but sat watching him as he worked, deftly and silently. in little more than the time he had predicted he opened the door and held it wide. "any time you would like to pass out," he invited, then checked himself and vanished in the dimness of the hall. the girl left behind heard the sounds of running feet, of a sharp scuffle, of a few words spoken in a high, excited voice. then laurie reëntered the room, pushing the secretary before him. at present the youth looked anything but meek. his blond hair was on end, his tie was under one ear, his pale eyes were bright with anger, and he moved spasmodically, propelled by jerks from behind. "i don't like this young man," said laurie, conversationally. "i never have. so i'm going to put him where for a few hours he can't annoy us. is there a good roomy closet on this floor? if there is, kindly lead us to it." "say, hold on!" cried the blond youth, in outraged tones. "i'm sick of this." "shut up." laurie shook him gently. "and cheer up. you're going to have a change. lead on, please." thus urged, and further impelled, the secretary obediently led the way to a closet at the far end of the upper hall. it was fairly commodious, and full of garments hanging on pegs and smelling oppressively of camphor. it afforded an electric-light fixture, and laurie, switching on the light, emphasized this advantage to the reluctant new occupant, who unwisely put up a brief and losing fight on its threshold. "you may read if you like," laurie affably suggested, when this had been suppressed. "i'll bring you some magazines. you may even smoke. mr. shaw and i always treat our prisoners with the utmost courtesy. you don't smoke? excellent! safer for the closet, and a fine stand for a worthy young man to take. now, i'll get the magazines for you." he did so, and the blond secretary accepted them with a black scowl. "i'm afraid," observed laurie regretfully, "he has an ungrateful nature." he locked the door on the infuriated youth, pocketed the key, and faced doris, who had followed the brief procession. the little encounter had restored his poise. "what next?" he asked, placidly. her reply was in the nature of a shock. "i'd like to have you wash up." he raised his eyebrows. "and spoil my admirable disguise? however, if you insist, i suppose i can get most of the effect again with ashes, if i have to. where's a bath-room?" she indicated a door, and returned to her room. he made his ablutions slowly and very thoughtfully. there were elements in this new twist of the situation which did not tally with any of his former hypotheses. doris, too, was doing some thinking on her own account. when he returned to the sitting-room she wore the air of one who has pondered deeply and has come to a conclusion. "what do your friends call you?" she abruptly asked. "all kinds of things," admitted the young man. "i wouldn't dare to repeat some of them." under the thoughtful regard of her red-brown eyes his manner changed. "my sister calls me laurie," he added soberly. "may i?" "by all means, if you'll promise _not_ to be a sister to me." "then--laurie--" "i like that," he interrupted. "so do i. laurie--i--i'm going to tell you something." he waited, watching her; and under the renewed friendliness of his black eyes she stopped and flushed, her own eyes dropping before his. as if to gain time she changed her position in the chair where she sat, and leaned forward, an elbow on its arm, her chin in one hand, her gaze on the fire. his perception sharpened to the knowledge that something important was coming, and that it was something she was afraid to tell. she had keyed herself up to it, but the slightest false move on his part might check the revelation. therefore, though every impulse in him responded to her first intimate use of his name, he dropped negligently into the chair facing hers, tenderly embraced his knees with both arms, and answered with just the right accent of casual interest and interrogation. "yes?" he said. "please smoke." again she was playing for time. "and--and don't look at me," she added, almost harshly. "i--i think i can get it out better if you don't." his answer was to swing his chair around beside hers, facing the blazing logs, and to take out his case and light a cigarette. "i'm going to tell you everything," she said in a low tone. "i'm glad of that." "i'm going to do it," she went on slowly, "for two reasons. the first is that--that you've lost faith in me." this brought his eyes around to hers in a quick glance. "you're wrong about that." she shook her head. "oh, no, i'm not. you showed it almost from the moment you came, and there was an instant when you thought that my suggestion to wait till dark to get away meant a--a sort of ambush." he made no reply to this, and she said urgently, "didn't you? come, now. confess." he reflected for a moment. "the idea did cross my mind," he admitted, at last. "but it didn't linger. for one reason, it was impossible to reconcile it with shaw's desire to keep me out of the way. that, and this, are hard to understand. but no harder to understand," he went on, "than that you should willingly come here and yet send for me, and then quite obviously delay our leaving after i get here." again her eyes dropped before his brilliant, steady glance. "i know," she muttered, almost inaudibly. "it's all--horrible. it's infinitely worse than you suspect. and that's why i'm going to tell you the truth, big as the cost may be to me." "wait a minute," he interrupted. "let's get this straight. you're telling me, aren't you, that any revelation you make now will react on you. is that it?" "yes." "you will be the chief sufferer by it?" "yes." "will it help you any to have me understand? will it straighten out the trouble you're in?" she considered her answer. "the only help it will give me will be to know that you do understand," she said at last; "to know that--that--you're not suspecting things about me." "and it will make things hard for you, otherwise, to have me know?" he persisted. "yes." this time her answer was prompt. "it will end everything i am trying to do, and destroy what i have already done." laurie threw his half-burned cigarette into the fire, as if to lend greater emphasis to his next words. "that settles it," he announced. "i won't listen to you." she turned to look at him. "but you must," she faltered. "i'm all ready to tell you. i've been working myself up to it ever since you came." "i know. i've watched the process, and i won't have another word." he lit a second cigarette, drew in a mouthful of smoke, and sent it forth again in a series of widening rings. "your conversation is extremely uninteresting," he explained; "and look at the setting we've got for something romantic and worth while. this cozy room, this roaring fire,"--he interrupted himself to glance through the nearest window--"a ripping old snow-storm outside, that's getting worse every minute, and the exhilarating sense that though we're prisoners, we've already taken two perfectly good prisoners of our own; what more could one ask to make an afternoon in the country really pleasant?" he stopped, for she was crying again, and the sight, which had taxed his strength an hour earlier, overtaxed it now. she overwhelmed him like a breaker. he rose, and going close to her, knelt beside her chair. "doris," he begged, brokenly. "don't, don't cry! i can't tell you how it makes me feel. i--i can stand anything but that." he seized her hands and tried to pull them away from her face. "look at me," he urged. "i've got all sorts of things to say to you, but i won't say them now. this isn't the time or the place. but one thing, at least, i want you to know. i _do_ trust you. i trust you absolutely. and whatever happens, whatever all this incredible tangle may mean, i shall always trust you." she wiped her eyes and looked into his, more serious in that moment than she had ever seen them. "i will stop," she promised, with a little catch in her voice. "but please don't think i'm a hysterical fool. i'm not crying because i'm frightened, but because--because--laurie, you're so splendid!" for a moment his hands tightened almost convulsively on hers. in the next instant he rose to his feet, walked to the fireplace, and with an arm on the mantel, stood partly turned away from her, looking into the fire. he dared not look at her. in that moment he was passionately calling on the new self-control which had been born during the past year; and, at his call, it again awoke in him, ready for its work. this, he had just truly said to doris, was not the time nor the place to tell her what was in his heart. only a cad would take advantage of such an opportunity. he had said enough, perhaps too much. he drew a deep breath and was himself. "i told you you'd find all sorts of unexpected virtues in me," he lightly announced; and it was the familiar laurie who smiled down at her. "there are dozens more you don't dream of. i'll reveal them to you guardedly. they're rather overwhelming." she smiled vaguely at his chatter, but it was plain that she was following her own thoughts. "the most wonderful thing about you," she said, "is that through this whole experience, you've never, for one single instant, been 'heroic.' you're not the kind to 'emote'!" "great scott!" gasped laurie, startled. "i should hope not!" he could look at her now, and he did, his heart filled with the satisfying beauty of her. she was still leaning forward a little in the low chair, with her hands unconventionally clasped around one knee, and her eyes staring into the fire. a painter, he reflected, would go mad over the picture she made; and why not? he himself was going mad over it, was even a little light-headed. she wore again the gown she had worn the first day he saw her, and the memory of that poignant hour intensified the emotion of this one. taking her in, from the superb masses of hair on her small head to the glittering buckles on her low house-shoes, laurie knew at last that whoever and whatever this girl might be, she was the one whose companionship through life his hungry heart demanded. he loved her. he would trust her, blindly if he must, but whatever happened fully and for all time. there had been a long silence after his last words, but when she spoke it was as if there had been no interval between his chatter and her response. "almost any other man would have been 'heroic,'" she went on. "almost any other man would have been excited and emotional at times, and then would have been exacting and difficult and rebellious over all the mystery, and the fact that i couldn't explain. i've set that pace myself," she confessed. "i haven't always been able to take things quietly and--and philosophically. the wonderful thing about you is that you've never been overwhelmed by any situation we've been in together. you've never even seemed to take them very seriously. and yet, when it came to a 'show-down,' as shaw says, you've been right there, always." he made no answer to this. his mind was caught and held by the phrase "as shaw says." so she and shaw had talked him over! he recalled the silver-framed photograph of her on shaw's mantel, the photograph whose presence had made him see red; and a queer little chill went down his spine at this reminder of their strange and unexplained association. then, resolutely, he again summoned his will and his faith, and became conscious that she was still speaking. "you're the kind," she said, "that in the french revolution, if you had been a victim of it, would have gone to the guillotine with a smile and a jest, and would have seen in the experience only a new adventure." at that, he shook his head. "i don't know," he said slowly, and with the seriousness he had shown her once or twice before. "death is a rather important thing. i've been thinking about it a good deal lately." "_you_ have!" in her astonishment, she straightened in her chair. "why?" "well," he hesitated, "i haven't spoken about it much, but--the truth is, i'm taking the european war more seriously than i have seemed to. i think america will swing into the fight in a month or two more; i really don't see how we can keep out any longer. and i've made up my mind to volunteer as soon as we declare war." "oh, laurie!" that was all she said, but it was enough. again he turned away from her and looked into the fire. "i want to talk to you about it sometime," he went on. "not now, of course. i'm going in for the aviation end. that's my game." "yes, it would be," she corroborated, almost inaudibly. "i've been thinking about it a lot," he repeated. there was an intense, unexpected relief in this confidence, which he had made to no one else but bangs, and to him in only a casual phrase or two. "that's one reason why it has been hard for me to get down to work on a new play, as bangs and epstein have been hounding me to do. i was afraid i couldn't keep my mind on it. all i can think of, besides you--" he hesitated, then went on rather self-consciously--"are those fellows over there and the tremendous job they're doing. i want to help. i'm going to help. but i'm not going into it with any illusions about military bands and pretty uniforms and grand-stand plays. it's the biggest job in the world to-day, and it's got to be done. but what i see in it in the meantime are blood and filth and stench and suffering and horror and a limitless, stoical endurance. and--well, i know i'm going. but i can't quite see myself coming home." save for his revelation on the morning they met, this was the longest personal confidence laurence devon had ever made to another human being except his sister barbara. at its end, as she could not speak, he watched her for a moment in silence, already half regretting what he had said. then she rose with a fiercely abrupt movement, and going to the window stood looking at the storm. he followed her and stood beside her. "laurie," she said suddenly. "yes?" "i can't stand it." "can't stand it?" he repeated her words almost absently. his eyes were on a stocky figure moving among the trees below. it kept in constant motion and, he observed with pleasure, it occasionally stamped its feet and swung its arms as if suffering from the cold. "i can't stand this situation." "then we must clear it up for you." he spoke reassuringly, his eyes still on the active figure. "is that one of our keepers, down there?" she nodded. "he has instructions to watch the front entrance and windows. there's another man watching the rear." "he didn't watch very closely," he reminded her. "see how easily i got in." he studied the moving figure. "doris," he said slowly, "i'd bet a thousand dollars against one doughnut that if i walked out of the house and up to that fellow, he'd run like a rabbit. i don't know why i think so, but i do." she shook her head. "oh, no, he wouldn't!" "what makes you think he wouldn't?" "because i heard shaw give him his orders for just that contingency." her companion took this in silence. "may i ask what they were?" he said at last. "no, i can't tell you." "i hope he hasn't a nice little bottle of chloroform in his overcoat pocket, or vitriol," murmured laurie, reflectively. "by the way," he turned to her with quickened interest, "something tells me it's long after lunch-time. is there any reason why we shouldn't eat?" she smiled. "none whatever. the ice-box contains all the things a well regulated ice-box is supposed to hold. i overheard shaw and his secretary discussing their supplies." "good! then we'll release mother fagin long enough to let her cook some of them." he strolled to the bedroom door. on a chair facing it the woman sat and gazed at him with her fierce eyes. "would you like a little exercise?" he politely inquired. there was no change of expression in the hostile face. "because if you would," he went on, "and if you'll give me your word not to cry out, give any kind of alarm or signal, or start anything whatever, i'll take that bandage off your mouth, and let you cook lunch for us and for yourself." the fierce eyes set, then wavered. he waited patiently. at last the head nodded, and he expeditiously untied the bandage. "the very best you've got, please," he instructed. "and i _hope_ you can cook. if you can't, i'll have to do it myself. i'm rather gifted that way." "i can cook," avowed the old woman, sullenly. "good work! then go on your joyous way. but if you feel an impulse to invite into your kitchen any of the gentlemen out in the grounds, or to release the secretary, restrain it. they wouldn't like it in here. they wouldn't like it at all." a strange grimace twisted the woman's sardonic features. he interpreted it rightly. "i'm glad you agree with me," he said. "now, brook-trout, please, and broiled chickens, and early strawberries and clotted cream." she looked at him with a return of the stoic expression that was her habitual one. "we ain't got any of those things," she declared. "we ain't?" her guest was pained. "what have we got?" "we got ham and eggs and lettuce and milk and coffee and squash pie." he sighed. "they will do," he said resignedly. "do you think you could have them ready in five minutes?" the luncheon was a cheerful meal, for laurie made it so. when it was finished he went to the kitchen window, opened it, and carefully arranged several hot ham sandwiches in a row. "for the birdies," he explained. "for the cold little birdies out in the grounds." he even chirped invitingly to the "birdies," but these latter, throughout his visit, showed a coy reluctance to approach the house. he caught another odd grimace on the features of the old woman, who was now washing the dishes. "we won't confine you to any one room this afternoon," he told her. "wander where your heart leads you. but remember, you're on parole. like ourselves, you must forego all communication with the glad outer world. and leave the secretary where he is, unless you want him hurt." "this storm will be a good thing for us," he mentioned to doris, when they had returned to the up-stairs sitting-room. "it will be dark soon after four, and the snow will cover our footsteps. but i'm inclined to think," he added, reflectively, "that before we start i'd better go out and truss up those two birds in the grounds." she showed an immediate apprehension. "no, no! you mustn't think of that!" she cried. "promise me you won't." he shrugged his shoulders. "as you wish, of course. but if they interfere when we're getting started, surely you'll let me rock them to sleep, won't you?" "i--i don't know. something may happen! oh, i wish you hadn't come!" she was clearly in a panic, a genuine one. it seemed equally clear that her nerves, under the recent strain put upon them, were in a bad way. all this was shaw's work, and as he realized it laurie's expression changed so suddenly that the girl cried out: "what is it? what's the matter?" he answered, still under the influence of the feeling that had shaken him. "i was just thinking of our friend bertie and of a little bill he's running up against the future. sooner or later, and i rather think it will be sooner, bertie's going to pay that bill." she did not move, but gave him a look that made him thoughtful. it was an odd, sidelong look, frightened, yet watchful. he remembered that once or twice before she had given him such a look. more than anything else that had happened, this glance chilled him. it was not thus that the woman he loved should look at him. suddenly he heard her gasp, and the next instant the silence of the room was broken by another voice, a voice of concentrated rage with a snarl running through it. "so you're here, are you?" it jerked. "by god, i'm sick of you and of your damned interference!" he turned. shaw was standing just inside the door. but he was not the sleek, familiar, torpid figure of recent encounter. he seemed mad clean through, fighting mad. his jaws were set; his sleek head and heavy shoulders were thrust forward as if he were ready to spring, and his protuberant eyes had lost their haze and held a new and unpleasant light. but, angry though he appeared, herbert ransome shaw was taking no chances in this encounter with his undesired guest. behind him shone the now smug countenance of the blond secretary, and on each side he was flanked by another man. powerful fellows these two seemed, evidently italian laborers, gazing at the scene uncomprehendingly, but ready for any work their master set them. in stupefaction, laurie stared at the tableau, while eight eyes unwinkingly stared back at him. then he nodded. "well, bertie," he said pleasantly, "you're outdoing even yourself in the size of this delegation. four to one. quite some odds." his voice changed. "you contemptible coward! why don't you take me on alone? have you got your chloroform cone?" the complexion of shaw, red with cold, darkened to an apoplectic purple. "you'll soon find out what we've got," he barked, "and what's coming to you. now, are you going to put up a fight against four, or will you go quietly?" "i think," said laurie thoughtfully, "i'd rather go quietly. but just where is it i'm going?" "you'll soon know." shaw was carrying a coil of rope, light but strong, and now he tossed it to one of the italians. "tie him up," he curtly ordered. "oh, no," said laurie, backing a step. "tut, tut! i wouldn't advise that. i really wouldn't. it would be one of those rash acts you read about." something in his voice checked the forward stride of the italian with the rope. he hesitated, glancing at shaw. with a gesture, the latter ordered the two men through the door. "wait just outside," he directed. he turned to laurie. "out you go!" he ordered brusquely. laurie hesitated, glancing at doris, but he could not meet her eye. at the window, with her back to the room, she stared out at the storm. even in that moment her attitude stunned him. also, he felt an unconquerable aversion to anything in the nature of a struggle before her. perhaps, once outside the room, he could take on those ruffians, together or in turn. without another word, he crossed the threshold into the hall. before him hurried the two italians. behind him crowded shaw and the secretary. he walked forward perhaps six strides. then, as the side railing of the stairway rose beside him, he saw his opportunity. he struck out right and left with all his strength, flooring one of the italians and sending the second helpless against the wall. in the next instant he had leaped over the slender rail of the stairway, landed half-way down the stairs, and made a jump for the front door. as he had expected, the door was locked. shaw, if he had entered that way, had not been too hurried to attend to this little detail. laurie had just time to brace his back against it when the four men were upon him. the ten minutes that followed were among the most interesting of young devon's life. he had always liked a good fight, and this episode in the great dim hall brought out all that was bloodthirsty and primitive in him. for in the room above was doris, and these men, whoever they were, stood in the way of her freedom and happiness. if he could have taken them on one by one he could have snapped their necks in turn, and he would have done so without compunction. as it was, with four leaping at him simultaneously, he called on all his reserve strength, his skill in boxing, and the strategy of his foot-ball days. his first blow sent the blond secretary to the floor, where he lay motionless. after that it was hard to distinguish where blows fell. what devon wanted and was striving to reach was the throat of shaw, but the slippery thing eluded him. he fought on with hands and feet, even drawing, against these odds, on the _savate_ he had learned in paris. blood flowed from his nose, his ear and his lip. shaw's face was bleeding, too, and soon one of the italians had joined the meek young secretary in his slumbers on the floor. then laurie felt his head agonizingly twisted backward, heard the creak of a rusty bolt, and, in the next instant, was hurled headlong through the suddenly opened door, to the snow-covered veranda. as he pulled himself up, crouching for a return spring, shaw, disheveled and breathless on the threshold, jerkily addressed him. "try it again if you like, you young devil," he panted, "but remember one thing: the next time you won't get off so easily." the door slammed, and again the bolt shot into place. laurie listened. no sound whatever came from the inner hall. the old house was again apparently dead, after its moments of fierce life. he slowly descended the steps, and, bracing himself against the nearest tree, stared at the house, still gasping from the effects of the struggle. he was out of it, but he had left doris behind. the fact sickened him. so did the ignominy of his departure. he was not even to be followed. his absence was all the gang desired. his impulse was to force the door and again face the four of them. but he realized that he could accomplish nothing against such odds, and certainly, as a prisoner in the house, trussed up with shaw's infernal rope, he would be of no use to either doris or himself. he decided to return to the garage and get his car and the weapon he had left there. then, if the four still wanted to fight, he would show them something that might take the spirit out of them. having arrived at this sane conclusion, he turned away from the silent house, and, hatless and coatless as he was, hurriedly made his way through the heavy snow-drifts toward the public road. chapter xv mr. shaw decides to talk at the garage he found burke faithful to his trust and with an alert eye out for more five-dollar bills. the proprietor temporarily lost sight of these, however, in his sudden and vivid interest in the new patron's appearance. laurie answered his questions with a word that definitely checked the further development of curiosity. then, huddling over the stove, and warming his icy, soaked feet, he curtly outlined his intentions. he was going to change back into his own clothes, he explained, and he would want his car at five o'clock sharp. this, he intimated, would give burke a little more than half an hour in which to get his mental processes started again and to have the car ready. burke whistled inaudibly. obviously the joke the lad had played had not panned out to the young man's taste. burke was sorry for that. his experience had been that with these young "rounders" generosity went hand in hand with success and its attendant exhilaration; and that when depression set in, as it obviously had done in this instance, a sudden paralysis numbed the open palm. however, even granting that this was so, he had already been largely overpaid for anything he had done or might still be expected to do. he nodded his response to the young man's instructions, and though he was not a subtle person, he succeeded in conveying at the same time a sense of his sympathy with the natural annoyance of a high-spirited practical joker whose joke had plainly miscarried. ordinarily his attitude would have amused devon, but laurie was far from his sense of humor just now. still whistling softly, burke departed, to make a final inspection of the car, leaving laurie the sole occupant of the cramped and railed-in corner that represented the private office. that young man was in the grip of a characteristic devon rage, and as he rapidly got back into his own clothing his fury mounted until the blood pounded at his temples. he dared not let himself sum up the case against shaw, though the manner in which he had been kicked out savored strongly of contempt. evidently shaw didn't care where he was, so long as he was outside of the house. neither dared he sum up the case against doris, though he could not for a moment banish from his mind the picture of her as she had stood with her back to him and his four assailants. why had she stood thus? because she was indifferent to any fate that befell him? or because she was numbed by her own misery? crowding forward with these questions was a sick fear for her, alone in that sinister house with four thugs and an old hag whose sole human quality seemed to be a sardonic sense of humor exercised at his, laurie's, expense. what might happen to her? what might be happening even now? and what assurance had he that even if he again succeeded in entering the house, a very remote possibility, he could accomplish anything against shaw and his companions? oh, if only he had waited and brought rodney with him! together, he felt, the two of them could have met and overcome a regiment of men like shaw and his secretary. a wild impulse came to him to take burke with him in his second effort, but an appraising look at that seedy individual checked it. he was convinced that burke could neither fight nor keep his mouth shut. owing to his promise to doris, police help, of course, was out of the question. no, he must go back alone. but this time there would be no semi-ignominious departure. he would either bring doris away, or he would remain there with her. and if shaw wanted trouble, he'd get it, and it would be the real thing. that afternoon, on his first visit to the cedars, his new instinct of caution had made him leave behind him the little revolver he had brought. he knew his own hot temperament too well to risk carrying it, and he had an arrogant faith in his own physical strength which, as a rule, had been justified. now, however, he retrieved the weapon, and with a sudden tightening of the lips dropped it into his overcoat pocket. when he was dressed he went out to look over his car. burke, who was evidently fascinated by the slender racer, rose from an admiring inspection of the engine as its owner approached. "she's ready any minute now," he reported. "she's had gas, oil, and air, and i've put on the chains. thought you'd want 'em, in this storm." laurie nodded and glanced out at the window. the storm had developed into a blizzard. his optimism, somewhat numbed in the past hour, reasserted itself to suggest that nature was helping him to meet the odds against him in the old house down the road. he glanced at his watch. it was not yet quite five, but certainly there was darkness enough for his purposes. he could safely take the car into the side wood road near the cedars, and leave it there among the trees until he needed it. he handed burke his final offering, the size of which wholly dispelled that philosopher's pessimistic forebodings. jumping into his car, he backed it out into the storm. "hey, there! what about these clo'es?" demanded burke, indicating with a thumb the abandoned heap of garments in the office. "eat 'em," briefly advised the occupant of the disappearing car. burke shook his head. garage men are used to hectic human types and strange happenings, but this particular type and incident were new to burke. he was also interested in the discovery that the young fella wasn't going to new york, now that his joke was played. he was going straight up the road, in the wrong direction, and driving like the devil. well, anyway, burke had made a tidy bit on that joke, whatever it was. gazing affectionately at the latest crisp bill, he thought of his wife and the seventh, and nobly decided to forgive them both. laurie, his hot head cooled by the storm that beat against him, raced through the gathering darkness. he had the road to himself. in weather like this no one was abroad who could stay at home. he turned off into the country road, already deep in snow-drifts, and swept on, through the little wood whose leafless birches now looked unfamiliar, even spectral, in the increasing gloom. save for the soft purr of his engine, his progress made no sound. he drove as far as he dared, then stopped the car off the road, in a clear space among the trees, and continued his way on foot. he must leave the car there, and take the chance of having it discovered. in the storm and darkness that chance seemed very remote. he plunged on toward the house, knee-deep, now, in the drifts that swept across the narrow road. soon the building was visible in its somber setting, and as he stared at its dim outlines his heart leaped. in the right-hand corner, on the second floor, a light showed faintly through drawn shades. the sight filled him with an overwhelming relief. until he saw it, he had not realized how great his inner panic had been. he stopped, drew a deep breath, and stood staring up at it. the rest of the house looked black and uninhabited, but somewhere within it, he was sure, shaw and the blond secretary watched and waited. to the italians he gave no thought. he was convinced that neither of them cared to come alone to close quarters with him; and this conviction was so strong that the prompt retreat of the fellow with the rope had not surprised him, either at the moment or in retrospect, though both men had fought well under shaw's eyes. if the italians were again on guard in the grounds, it would be his job to choke them off before they could warn shaw of his presence. warning shaw, he hoped, was about all they were good for. his plan, fully made, was very simple. he had no intention of risking another encounter if it could be avoided. his purpose was to get doris out of that house, back to new york, and in louise ordway's care with the least possible difficulty and delay. that done, he could take up his little affair with shaw. even against the blond secretary he felt no personal rancor. the youth with the pursuing eyes and the chloroform was merely a wretched pawn in shaw's game. in shaw's game! the phrase stuck, burning into his consciousness like the vitriol he believed the beast would use if he dared. what _was_ shaw's game? why was he so smugly sure of it? and why, oh, why, _why_, was doris seemingly numb to its danger, yet anxious for his help? for the first time he gave definite shape to a reflection that for hours had been trying to catch his attention, and from which he had restively turned. it was this: when those four men, headed by shaw, had entered that upper room, doris had not been surprised. she had expected them. moreover, she had not been really afraid. instead, she had worn a look of flaming anger and of sudden resolution. she had stepped forward as if to speak. her very lips had been parted for speech. then, shaw had looked at her, and slowly she had turned away and stood staring out at the window, her back to the room and its tableau. in short, with one glance of his veiled, protruding eyes, shaw had conquered her, and laurie himself had seen, what no one could have made him believe, her instantaneous and complete submission. it was this revelation which had added the smoke barrage of doubt to the situation, clouding his faculties and temporarily stifling his faith. in the face of this, how could he still trust? yet he had promised to trust, to believe, "whatever happened." those had been his own words, and she had wept and told him he was "wonderful"! the deep breath he had drawn ended in a sigh. he was fighting more than one storm, and in this instant he felt an indescribable weariness of soul and body. but not for a second did he hesitate in the course he had decided on. later, when doris was safe, perhaps things would clear up. for the moment there was one thing, and one alone, to be done. the trees around the house made the approach under their cover a fairly easy one. however, he moved slowly, missing no precaution. he hardly believed the zeal of the italians would keep them out in the storm, but they might have rigged up some sort of shelter, or, more probably, they might be doing sentry-work at some of those dark windows. clinging close to the trees, he skirted the house, then approached it from the rear, and slipped along the side of the building, hugging the wall. as he noiselessly moved he listened, but no sound came from inside. when he reached the front right wing he stopped, and, looking up, verified his swift impressions of the afternoon. a wide veranda swung around the front and side of this wing, supported by substantial pillars, up any one of which he knew he could climb like a cat. the roof of the veranda opened on the low french front windows of the up-stairs sitting-room. there was no question that within a few moments he himself could enter that sitting-room. the real question, and again he carefully considered it, was how, once in the room, he could get the girl out of it. _she_ could not climb railings and slide down pillars. there was a window on the rear end of the wing, above what plainly served in summer-time as a veranda dining-room. this end of the veranda was glassed in, and over it a trellis afforded a support for frozen vines that now shivered in the storm. if he could get doris out at that window, he might be able to get her down to the ground with the help of the trellis. but from what room did the window open, and how much of the upper hall would they have to traverse before reaching it? not much, he fancied. again he looked around, and listened. there was no sound or motion, save those caused by the storm. the next instant he was climbing the pillar toward the dimly lighted window. the ascent was not so easy as he had pictured it. to his chagrin, he made several unsuccessful efforts before he finally drew himself over the top of the veranda roof, and, lying flat in the snow, slowly recovered the breath exhausted by his efforts. lying thus, and stretching out an arm, he could almost touch the nearest window with his fingers, almost, but not quite. still lying flat, he dragged himself a yard farther. his head was now in line with the window, but the close-drawn shade shut out all but the suggestion of the inner light. he hesitated a moment, then, very cautiously, tapped on the frosty pane. there was no response. he tapped again, and then a third time, twice in succession and more compellingly. this time he thought he heard a movement in the room, but he was not sure. he waited a moment, then softly signaled again. there was no question now about the movement in the room. he heard it distinctly, heard it approach the window, heard it cease, then saw the curtain slowly drawn. the face of doris looked out, at first vaguely, as if she had fancied the noise some manifestation of the storm. but in the next instant she glanced down, saw him, and obviously checked an exclamation. in another moment she had opened the window, and without straightening up he had slipped across the sill. neither spoke. laurie was looking about the room, reassuringly empty, save for those two. he closed the window, drew the shade, and became conscious that she held his hand and was drawing him urgently toward the fire. at the same time she answered his unasked question. "they're all down in the kitchen, i think. listen!" she opened the door leading to the hall, and, going out, leaned over the stair-rail. "yes, they're still there," she reported when she came back. "all but one of the italians. they're eating now, and after that i _think_ they're planning to leave." "where's the hag?" "waiting on them." she spoke detachedly, almost dully. as in the morning, she was not surprised; but to-night there was in her manner a suggestion of repressed excitement which it had not held before. "have you a heavy coat?" he asked her. "yes." "get it and put it on, quick. don't waste any time." he indicated the buckled house-shoes she still wore. "and put on some real shoes, if you have them." without replying, she disappeared. he followed her into the bedroom in which, during the hours of his presence that afternoon, the hag had found uneasy asylum. he indicated a door. "where does that lead?" "into a bath-room." "there's a back window over the veranda. what room does that mean?" "a bedroom off the hall." "good!" she followed his thought. "but i don't think we can risk that. one of the italians is patrolling the hall. that's why they haven't locked the door. i caught a glimpse of him just now, coming toward the foot of the stairs." he stared at her frowningly, then, walking to the bed, stripped it with an arm-swing and seized the sheets. "then it's simply a question of lowering you from the front," he cried, curtly. "i'll lower you as far as i can, and we'll have to risk a drop of a few feet. snow's safe." as he spoke, he was hurriedly tearing and roping the sheets. "used to do this at school when i was a kid," he explained. "quite like old times. now get on the coat and shoes, please." she needed the reminder. she was staring at this visitor, who had the face of the man she knew and the voice and manner of a stranger. all trace of young devon's debonair indifference was gone. he had the cold eyes and set jaw of a determined man, busy at some task which would assuredly be done, but his air of detachment equaled her own. when she was ready, and still with his new air of businesslike concentration on the job in hand, he adjusted the linen ropes, and after a preliminary survey of the grounds, led her through the window and out on the veranda roof. here he briefly told her what to do, suiting action to words with entire efficiency, and assuming her unquestioning obedience as a matter of course. the lowering was not the simple exercise he had expected, any more than the upward climb had been. light as she was, it was clear that her unsupported weight would be a heavy drag upon a body resting insecurely on a slippery roof with nothing more substantial than snow and ice to cling to. but eventually she was down, a little shaken but unhurt, and he was beside her. "now, let's see how fast you can run," he suggested; and for the first time his whispered voice held a ring of the youth she knew. "shaw's watchers may suddenly begin to watch, or even to see something." she responded to his changed tone with an uncontrollable gasp of relief, which he attributed to excitement. "don't worry. all right now, i think," he said, with an immediate return to curtness. it steadied her as no other attitude on his part could have done. "can you drive a pierce arrow?" he asked, as they plunged ahead through the snow-drifts. "yes." "that's fine. that's great. i was afraid you couldn't." this was laurie again. he went on urgently. "if we're stopped or separated, do exactly as i say. don't lose an instant. rush to my car. it's over there, among the trees. see?--there at the right. it's turned toward the road." he indicated the spot. "get in, go to the left at the first turn, drive full speed to a garage a quarter of a mile down the main road. no matter what happens, don't stop till you reach it. go into the garage, and wait half an hour for me. if i'm not there then, drive on to new york and go to this address." he gave her a penciled slip he had prepared. "mrs. ordway is a good friend of mine. she'll take you in and look after you. will you do that?" "yes." the word was so low that he had to bend his head to catch it. his voice softened still more. "don't worry. it will be all right. only, some way, i can't believe that shaw is letting us off as easily as this." she stumbled, but he caught her. for a moment he supported her, and in that moment, under the sense of her nearness and dearness and helplessness, the hardness of the past hour disappeared. he did not understand her. perhaps he would never understand her. but whatever she was, she was all right. half leading, half carrying her, he got her to the car and into it. he had actually raised one foot to follow her when something stirred in the shadows near them, and the familiar, squat figure of shaw stepped forth. though in his sudden appearance he had followed the dramatic instinct that seemed so strong in him, he had wholly lost the effect of unleashed fury he had worn in the afternoon. he was even smiling with an affectation of good-humored tolerance. he had the air of a man who, with the game in his hands, can afford to be patient and affable. "oh, come now," he said easily, "don't leave us quite so soon! since you've come back for another visit, we've decided to keep you a while. you know, i warned you of that." laurie made a sign to doris, which she instantly obeyed. even before the indolent voice had finished speaking, she was at the wheel and the car had started. shaw, springing forward with goggling eyes and dropped jaw, found his way blocked by a man as new to him as he had been to doris, a laurence devon who all in an instant had taken on the black rage he himself had dropped. in the hands of this stranger was a revolver which neatly covered shaw's plump chest. before this apparition, shaw backed away precipitately. "stand exactly where you are." devon's voice was very quiet, but there was a quality in it which added to the icy chill of the night. "i know you're not alone, but if any of your pals shows himself, i'll shoot him dead. if you move or utter one word, or cry out, i'll kill you. do you understand?" shaw did understand. the look in his protruding eyes proved that. those eyes shifted wildly, turning this way and that, as if in search of the help which lurked among those spectral trees. he himself stood as motionless as one of them, and as he stood he moistened his thin lips with the tip of a trembling tongue. "now," said laurie, "i'm going to have the truth. i'm going to have it all, and i'm going to have it quick. if you don't tell it, i'll kill you. probably i shall kill you anyway. but first you will answer two questions. what power have you got over miss mayo? and what are you trying to do?" shaw hesitated. again his protruding eyes turned wildly to the right and left, as if in search of help. still holding the revolver in his right hand, laurie slowly reached out his left and seized the other's throat in the grip of his powerful young fingers. "keep still," he warned, as the other started to raise his hands. "you think the game isn't up, but it is. now talk, and talk quick." he tightened his grip on the thick, slippery throat. "i'm enjoying this," he rasped. "if you were anything but the snake you are, i'd give you a fighting chance. but a creature that uses chloroform and hires three thugs to help him in his dirty jobs--" he increased the pressure on the thick neck. shaw's face began to purple. his eyes bulged horribly. he choked, and with the act gave up. "hold on," he gurgled. "listen." the pressure on his throat slightly relaxed. with eyes closed, he collapsed against the nearest tree-trunk. laurie followed him, expecting some treacherous move; but all the fight seemed out of the serpent. he was clutching at his coat and collar as if not yet able to breathe. "i've had enough of this," he finally gasped out. "i'll tell you everything." even as he spoke, laurie observed that one of the clutching, clawing hands had apparently got hold of what it was seeking. * * * * * doris, feeling her way through the blackness of the storm on the unfamiliar country road, heard above the wind the sound of a sharp explosion which she thought meant a blown-out tire. she did not stop. before her, only a short distance away, was the garage to which she was hastening and where she was to wait for laurie. to go on meant to take a chance, but she had been ordered not to stop. there was a certain exhilaration in obeying that order. crouched over the wheel, with head bent, and guessing at the turns she could not see, she pressed on through the storm. chapter xvi burke makes a promise burke, dozing over the fire in his so-called office, was aroused from his dreams by the appearance of a vision. for a moment he blinked at it doubtfully. then into his eyes came a dawning intelligence, slightly tinged with reproach. burke was an unimaginative man, who did not like to be jarred out of his routine. already that day several unusual incidents had occurred; and though, like popular tales, they ended happily, they had been almost too great a stimulus to thought. now here was another, in the form of a girl, young and beautiful, and apparently blown into his presence on the wings of the wild storm that was raging. somewhat uncertainly, mr. burke arose and approached the vision, which, standing at the threshold of his sanctum, thereupon addressed him in hurried but reassuring human tones. "i've had a blow-out," the lady briefly announced. "will you put on a 'spare,' please, and take a look at the other shoes?" this service, she estimated, would take half an hour of the proprietor's time, if he moved with the customary deliberation of his class, and would, of course, make superfluous any explanation of her wait in the garage, and of her nervousness, if he happened to be sufficiently observant to notice that. it was really fortunate that the blow-out had occurred. surely within the half-hour laurie would have rejoined her. if he did not, she frankly conceded to herself, she would go mad with suspense. there was a limit to what she could endure, and that limit had been reached. thirty minutes more of patience and courage and seeming calm covered the last draft she could make on a nervous system already greatly overtaxed. burke drew his worn office chair close to the red-hot stove, and was mildly pained by the lady's failure to avail herself of the comfort thus offered. instead, she threw off her big coat, and, drawing the chair to the corner farthest from the stove, seated herself there and with hands that shook took up the local newspaper which was the live wire between burke and the outer world. her intense desire for solitude was apparent even to his dull eye. burke sighed. in his humble way he was a gallant man, and it would have been pleasant to exchange a few remarks with this visitor from another sphere. undoubtedly they would have found interests in common. this, it will be remembered, was january, , three months before america's entry into the world war, and women able to drive motors were comparatively rare. any girl who could drive a car in a storm like this, and through the drifts of country roads--mr. burke, having reluctantly removed himself from the lady's presence, was now beside her car, and at this point in his reflections he uttered an exclamation and his jaw dropped. "it's the lad's car!" he ejaculated slowly, and for a moment stood staring at it. then, still slowly, he nodded. it was the lad's car, which, only a short time before, he himself had put in perfect order for a swift run to new york. now this girl had it, but 'twas easy to see why. he had been wrong in his college-prank theory. here was something more serious and much more interesting. here was a love-affair. and, he handsomely conceded, it was going on between a pair of mates the like of which wasn't often seen. in her way the girl was as fine a looker as the boy, and that, mr. burke decided, was "going some, for them both." as his meditations continued he was cursorily glancing at the tires, looking for the one that had sustained the blow-out. he was not greatly surprised to find every tire perfect. there had been plenty of mysteries in the lad's conduct, and this was merely another trifle to add to the list. undoubtedly the lady had her reasons for insisting on a blow-out, and if she had, it was no affair of his. also, the price for changing that tire would be a dollar, and mr. burke was always willing to pick up a dollar. whistling softly but sweetly, he removed a rear shoe, replaced it with one of the "spares" on the car's rack, and solemnly retested the others. the task, as doris had expected, took him almost half an hour. when it was completed he lounged back to the lady and assured her that the car was again ready for service. the lady hesitated. there was no sign of laurie, and she dared not leave. yet on what pretext could she linger? with the manner of one who has unlimited time at her disposal, she demanded her bill, a written one, and paid it. then, checking herself on a casual journey toward the big coat, she showed a willingness to indulge in that exchange of friendly points of view for which burke's heart had longed. the exchange was not brilliant, but burke made the most of it. no, he told her, they didn't often have storms as bad as this. one, several years ago, had blocked traffic for two days, but that was very unusual. he hoped the young lady knew the roads well. it wasn't easy driving when you couldn't see your hand before your face. he hoped she wasn't nervous about getting back; for now he had discovered that she was intensely nervous about something. with a gallant effort at ease, the lady took up the theme of the storm and embroidered it in pretty colors and with much delicate fancy. when the pattern was getting somewhat confused, she suddenly asked a leading question. "which shoe blew out?" burke stared at her. he wished he knew what was expected of him. did she want the truth, or didn't she? he realized that momentarily she was becoming more excited. he had not missed her frequent glances through the window, up the road, and he knew that for the past five minutes she had been listening for something wholly unconnected with his words. in reality doris was in the grip of an almost unconquerable panic. what had happened? why didn't laurie come? burke decided to let her have the truth, or part of the truth. she'd get it anyway, if she examined the replaced "spare" on the car's rack. "there wasn't no blow-out," he stated, defensively. "there wasn't! what do you mean?" he saw that she was first surprised, then startled, then, as some sudden reflection came to her, actually appalled. "i mean that there wasn't no blow-out." "no blow-out? then--then--what did i hear?" she asked the question of burke, and, as she asked it, recoiled suddenly, as if he had struck her. "p'raps you got a back-fire," he suggested, reassuringly. "you come down the steep hill up there, didn't you?" doris pulled herself together, shrugged her shoulders, and resolutely smiled at him. she knew the difference between the sound of a blow-out and the back-firing of an irritated engine. but some abysmal instinct made her suddenly cautious, though with that same instinct her inner panic developed. _what had she heard?_ "i put on a 'spare,' anyway," burke was saying. "the rear right looked a little weak, so i changed it." he was tacitly explaining the bill he had submitted, but doris did not hear him. _what had she heard?_ insistently the question repeated itself in her mind. she turned dizzily, and went back for the coat. as she did so she heard burke's voice. "why--hel-lo!" even in that moment she observed its modulation. it had begun on a note of cheery surprise and ended on one of sharp concern. turning, she saw laurie. he had nodded to burke, and was obviously trying to speak naturally. "all ready?" he asked. the remark was addressed to them both, but he looked at neither. there was an instant of utter silence during which they took him in, burke with insistent, goggling eyes, doris with one quick glance, soul-searching and terror-filled. burke spoke first. "what you been doin' to yerself?" he gasped. the question was inevitable. laurie was hatless and disheveled. his coat was torn, and across one pallid cheek ran a deep cut, freshly bleeding. "fell," he said, tersely. he was breathing hard, as if he had been running. he had not yet looked at doris, but now he abruptly swung into the little office and emerged, bringing her coat. without a word, he held it for her. in equal silence, she slipped into it. he retrieved the cap from the pile of discarded garments still lying on the office floor, put it on, and indicated the waiting car. "get in," he commanded. she obeyed and he followed her, taking his place at the wheel. "you're hurt," she almost whispered. "shall i drive?" [illustration: "what you been doin' to yerself?" he gasped] "no--burke!" the word was like a pistol shot. "y-yessir!" burke was stammering. in his excitement he was hardly conscious that another bill had found its way into his hand, but his hand had automatically reached for and closed on it. "keep your mouth shut." "y-yessir." "keep it shut till to-morrow morning. you haven't seen anything or anybody at all to-day. understand?" "y-yessir." "after to-night you can talk about me all you like. but you're to forget absolutely that you ever saw the lady. is that clear?" "y-yessir!" "thank you. good-by." he started the car and swung it out into the storm. as it went burke saw the girl catch the boy's arm and heard something that sounded partly like a cry and partly like a sob. "laurie!" "h-ush!" the car was tearing through the storm and drifts at fifty miles an hour, and this time it was headed down the road for new york. burke's eyes followed it, as far as he could see it, which was not far. then he retreated to the "office," and, dropping heavily into his desk chair, stared unseeingly at a calendar on the wall. "that lad's been up to somethin'," he muttered. "i wonder what my dooty is." it was a long moment before he remembered to open his hand and look at the bill he was holding. as he did so his eyes widened. the bill was a large one. it amounted to much more than the combined value of the bills dropped into that willing palm during the day. briskly and efficiently it solved the little problem connected with mr. burke's "dooty." with a quick look around him, he thrust it into his pocket. "i ain't really _seen_ nothin'," he muttered, "an' i ain't sure of nothin', anyhow." * * * * * "what has happened? oh, laurie, what has happened?" for a time laurie did not answer. then she felt rather than saw his face turn toward her in the darkness. "doris." "yes." "will you do something for me?" "yes, laurie, anything." "then don't speak till we reach new york. when we get to your studio i'll tell you everything. will you do that?" "but--laurie--" "will--you--do--it?" the voice was not laurie's. it was the harsh, grating voice of a man distraught. "yes, of course." silence settled upon them like a substance, a silence broken only by the roar of the storm and the crashing of wind-swept branches of the trees that lined the road. the car's powerful search-lights threw up in ghostly shapes the covered stumps and hedges they passed and the masses of snow that beat against them. subconsciously the girl knew that this boy beside her, driving with the recklessness of a lost soul, was merely guessing at a road no one could have seen, but in that half-hour she had no thought for the hazards of the journey. her panic had grown till it filled her soul. she wanted to cry out, to shriek, but she dared not. the compelling soul in the rigid figure beside her held her silent. her nerves began to play strange tricks. she became convinced that the whole experience was a nightmare, an incredible one from which she would wake if that terrible figure so close to her, and yet so far away, would help her. but it wouldn't. perhaps it never would. the nightmare must go on and on. soon all sense of being in a normal world had left her. once, in a frantic impulse of need of human contact, she laid her hand on the arm nearest her, over the wheel. the next instant she withdrew it with a shudder. for all the response she had found she might have touched a dead man. something of the look of a dead man, too, was in the boy's face and eyes as he bent forward, motionless as a statue, his features like stone and his eyes as unhuman as polished agate, staring fixedly at the road before them. a low-bending, ice-covered branch whipped her face and she shrieked, fancying it the touch of dead fingers. several times huge shapes from the roadside seemed to spring at them, but their progress was too swift even for spectral shapes. or was it? it was on a stretch of road through the woods that the obsession in her mind took its final and most hideous form. close behind them, and ringing in their ears, she fancied she heard a cry in the voice of shaw. it was not shaw's human voice. she would not have known it in a human world. it had passed through the great change; but it was recognizable, because she, too, had passed through some great change. recognizable, too, was the sound of shaw's running feet, though she had never heard them run, and though they were running so lightly on the top of the snow. he was just behind them, she thought. if she turned she knew she would see him, not as she had known him, plump, sleek, living and loathsome, but stark, rigid, and ready for his grave, yet able to pursue; and the new, unearthly light of his bulging eyes seemed burning into her back. she groaned, but the groan brought no response from the tense figure beside her. the only sounds were the howls of the wind, the frenzied protests of the tortured trees, and the fancied hail of a dead man, coming closer and closer. chapter xvii laurie makes a confession the lights of long island city greeted them with reassuring winks through the snow. seeing these, doris drew a deep breath. she had let her nerves run away with her, she subconsciously felt. now, rising from the depths of her panic to a realization of contact with a living world, as they crossed the bridge to manhattan, seeing hurrying men and women about her, hearing the blasts of motor horns and the voices of motor drivers, she fiercely assured herself that she had been an hysterical fool. in the first moments of reaction she even experienced a sense of personal injury and almost of resentment toward her companion. he had put her through the most horrible half-hour of her life. it seemed that no service he had rendered could compensate her for such suffering. on the other hand, he _had_ brought her safely back to new york, as he had promised to do. surely, it was not for her to cavil at the manner in which he had done it. something, of course, had happened, probably a racking fight between the two men. laurie was exhausted, and was showing it; that was all. with their arrival at her studio, his manner did not change. he assisted her from the car, punctiliously escorted her to the elevator, and left her there. "i have some telephoning to do," he explained. "i shall not leave the building, and i expect to be with you again in about fifteen minutes. with your permission, i am asking my two partners to meet me in your studio, rodney bangs and jacob epstein. what i have to tell must be told to all three of you, and"--his voice caught in a queer fashion--"it is a thing i don't want to tell more than once. i think i can get them right away. they'll probably be in their rooms, dressing for dinner. may they come here?" "of course." her panic was returning. his appearance in the lighted hall was nothing short of terrifying, and not the least uncanny feature was his own utter unconsciousness of or indifference to it. "thanks. then i'll wait for them down here, and bring them up to your studio when they come." he left her with that, and henry, the night elevator man, who went on duty at six o'clock, indifferently swung the lever and started his car upward. in the studio, with her door shut against the world, doris again resolutely took herself and her nerves in hand. she summoned endless explanations of laurie's manner and appearance, explanations which, however, turn and twist them as she would, always left something unexplained. there was, she realized, a strong probability that he had forced the truth from shaw. but even the truth would not make laurie look and act like that. or would it? she tried to believe it would. anything would be better than the thing she feared. she set her teeth; then, springing from the chair into which she had dropped, she turned on the studio lights and busied herself with preparations for her visitors. she simply dared not let her thoughts run on. five minutes passed--ten--fifteen--twenty. save during the half-hour of that return journey from sea cliff, she had never known such dragging, horror-filled moments. a dozen times she fancied she heard the elevator stop at her floor, and the sound of voices and footsteps approach. a dozen times she went to her windows and wildly gazed out on the storm. as she stared, she prayed. it was the same prayer, over and over. "dear god, please don't let it be that way!" the aspiration was the nearest she dared come to putting into words the terror that shook her heart. the second fifteen minutes were almost up when she really heard the elevator stop. quick footsteps approached her door, but there were no voices. the three men, if they were coming, were coming in utter silence. before they had time to rap she had opened the door and stood back to let them enter. as they passed her she looked into their faces, and as she looked the familiar sense of panic, now immeasurably intensified, again seized her in its grip. laurie, usually the most punctilious of men, made on this occasion an omission extraordinary for him. he did not present his partners to their hostess. but not one of the three noticed that omission. rodney bangs, pale but carrying himself with a palpable effort at control, shouldered his way into the room in his characteristic fashion, as if he were meeting and hurling back a foot-ball rush. epstein, breathless and obviously greatly excited, actually stumbled over the threshold in his unseeing haste. laurie, slowly following the two, alone wore some resemblance to a normal manner. he was very serious but quite calm. he took off his coat, methodically folded it, and laid it on a near-by chair. to the brain back of each of the three pairs of eyes watching him, the same thought came. he had something appalling to tell them, and, cool as he seemed, he dared not tell it. he was playing for time. the strain of even the brief delay was too much for epstein's endurance. high-strung, his nerves on edge, almost before laurie had turned he sputtered forth questions like bullets from a machine-gun. "vell! vell!" he demanded, "vot's it all about? vot's it mean? over the telephone you say you got to see us this minute. you say you got into trouble, big trouble. vell, vot trouble? vot is it?" laurie looked at him, and something in the look almost spiked the big gun. but epstein was a man of action, and, notwithstanding his nervousness, a man of some nerve. the expression in the boy's black eyes had stunned him, but with only an instant's hesitation he finished what he had meant to say. "i guess it ain't nothing ve can't fix up," he jerked out, trying to speak with his usual assurance. "i guess ve fix it up all right." laurie shook his head. none of the thirty minutes he had spent on the ground floor had been devoted to improving his appearance. his black curly hair, usually as shining as satin, was rough, matted, dirty. across his left cheek the sinister cut still ran, raw, angry-looking, freshly irritated by the ice-laden wind. "sit down," he said, wearily. all the life had gone out of his voice. it had an uncanny effect of monotony, as if pitched on two flat notes. to those three, who knew so well the rich beauty of his speaking tones, this change in them was almost more alarming than the change in his looks. they sat down, as he had directed, but not an eye in the room moved from his face. epstein, still wearing his hat and heavy coat, had dropped into the big chair by the reading-lamp and was nervously gnawing his under lip. bangs had mechanically tossed his hat toward a corner as he came in. he took a chair as mechanically, and sat very still, his back to the window, his eyes trying vainly to meet his friend's. doris had moved to the upper corner of the couch, where she crouched, elbows on knees, chin on hands, staring at a spot on the floor. though in the group, she seemed alone, and felt alone. walking over to the mantel, laurie rested an elbow heavily upon it, and for the first time looked squarely from one to the other of his friends. as he looked, he tried to speak. they saw the effort and its failure, and understood both. with a gesture of hopelessness, he turned his back toward them, and stood with sagging muscles and eyes fixed on the empty grate. epstein's nerves snapped. "for god's sake, devon," he begged, "cut out the vaits! tell us vot you got on your chest, and tell it quick." laurie turned and once more met his eyes. under the look epstein's oblique eyes shifted. "i'm going to," laurie said quietly and still in those new, flat tones. "that's why i've brought you here. but--it's a hard job. you see,"--his voice again lost its steadiness--"i've got to hurt you--all of you--most awfully. and--and that's the hardest part of this business for me." doris, now staring up at him, told herself that she could not endure another moment of this tension. she dared not glance at either of the others, but she heard epstein's heavy breathing and the creak of rodney bangs's chair as he suddenly changed his position. again it was epstein who spoke, his voice rising on a shriller note. "vell! vell! get it out! i s'pose you done something. vot you done?" for the first time laurie's eyes met those of doris. the look was so charged with meaning that she sat up under it as if she had received a shock. yet she was not sure she understood it. did he want her to help him? she did not know. she only knew now that the thing she had feared was here, and that if she did not speak out something in her head would snap. "he killed herbert shaw," she almost whispered. for a long moment there was utter silence in the room, through which the words just spoken seemed to scurry like living things, anxious to be out and away. laurie, his eyes on the girl, showed no change in his position, though a spasm crossed his face. epstein, putting up one fat hand, feebly beat the air with it as if trying to push back something that was approaching him, something intangible but terrible. bangs alone seemed at last to have taken in the full meaning of the curt announcement. as if it had galvanized him into movement, he sprang to his feet and, head down, charged the situation. "what the devil is she talking about?" he cried out. "laurie! what does she mean?" "she told you." laurie spoke as quietly as before, but without looking up. "you--mean--it's--true?" rodney still spoke in a loud, aggressive voice, as if trying to awaken himself and the others from a nightmare. "take it in," muttered laurie. "pull yourselves up to it. i had to." an uncontrollable shudder ran over him. as if his nerve had suddenly given way, he dropped his head on his bent arm. for another interval bangs stood staring at him in a stupefaction through which a slow tremor ran. "i--i _can't_ take it in," he stammered at last. "i know. that's the way i felt." laurie spoke without raising his head. bangs, watching him, saw him shudder again, saw that his legs were giving under him, and that he was literally holding to the mantel for support. the sight steadied his own nerves. he pushed his chair forward, and with an arm across the other's shoulder, forced him down into it. "then, in god's name, why are we wasting time here?" he suddenly demanded. "your car's outside. i'll drive you--anywhere. we'll get out of the country. we'll travel at night and lie low in the daytime. pull yourself together, old man." urgently, he grasped the other's shoulder. "we've got things to do." laurie shook his head. he tried to smile. there was something horrible in the resulting grimace of his twisted mouth. "there were only two things to do," he said doggedly. "one was to tell you three. i've done that. the other was to tell the district attorney. i've done that, too." bangs recoiled, as if from a physical blow. epstein, who had slightly roused himself at the prospect of action, sank back into a stunned, goggling silence. "you've told him!" gasped rodney, when he could speak. "yes." laurie was pulling himself together. "we're friends, you know, perkins and i," he went on, more naturally. "i've seen a good deal of him lately. he will make it as easy as he can. he has taken my parole. i've got--till morning." he let them take that in. then, very simply, he added, "i have promised to be in my rooms at eight o'clock." under this, like a tree-trunk that goes down with the final stroke of the ax, rodney bangs collapsed. "my god!" he muttered. "my--god!" he fell into the nearest chair and sat there, his head in his shaking hands. as if the collapse of his friend were a call to his own strength, laurie suddenly sat up and took himself in hand. "now, listen," he said. "let's take this sensibly. we've got to thresh out the situation, and here's our last chance. i want to make one thing clear. shaw was pure vermin. there's no place for his sort in a decent world, and i have no more regret over--over exterminating him than i would have over killing a snake. later, miss mayo will tell you why." under the effect of the clear, dispassionate voice, almost natural again, epstein began to revive. "it was self-defense," he croaked, eagerly. he caught at the idea as if it were a life-line, and obviously began to drag himself out of a pit with its help. "it was self-defense," he repeated. "you vas fighting, i s'pose. that lets you out." "no," laurie dully explained, "he wasn't armed. i thought he was. i thought he was drawing some weapon. he had used chloroform on me once before. i was mistaken. but no jury will believe that, of course." his voice changed and flatted again. his young figure seemed to give in the chair, as if its muscles sagged under a new burden. for a moment he sat silent. "we may as well face all the facts," he went on, at last. "the one thing i won't endure is the horror of a trial." "but you'll get off," choked epstein. "it's self-defense--it's--it's--" "or a brain storm, or temporary insanity!" laurie interrupted. "no, old chap, that isn't good enough. no padded cell for me! and i'm not going to have my name dragged through the courts, and the case figuring in the newspapers for months. i've got a reason i think you will all admit is a good one." again his voice changed. "that would break my sister's heart," he ended brokenly. at the words bangs uttered an odd sound, half a gasp and half a groan. epstein, again in his pit of wretchedness, caught it. "now you see the job ve done!" he muttered. "now you see how ve looked after him, like she told us to!" bangs paid no attention to him. "what are you going to do?" he heavily asked laurie. "i'll tell you, on one condition--that you give me your word, all three of you, not to try in any way to interfere or to prevent it. you couldn't, anyway, so don't make the blunder of trying. you know what i'm up against. there's only one way out." he looked at them in turn. doris and epstein merely stared back, with the effect of not taking in what he was saying. but bangs recoiled. "no, by god!" he cried. "no! no!" laurie went on as if he had not spoken. "i promised perkins to be in my rooms at eight o'clock to-morrow morning," he muttered, and they had to strain their ears to catch the words. "i did _not_ promise to be--alive." this time it was doris who gasped out something that none of them heard. for a moment laurie sat silent in his chair, watching her with a strange intentness. then, in turn, his black eyes went to the faces of bangs and epstein. huddled in the big chair he occupied, the manager sat looking straight before him, his eyes set in agony, his jaw dropped. he had the aspect of a man about to have a stroke. bangs sat leaning forward, staring at the floor. the remaining color had left his face. he appeared to have wholly forgotten the presence of others in the room. he was muttering something to himself, the same thing over and over and over: "and it's all up to us. it's--all--up--to us." for an interval which none of the three ever forgot, laurie watched the tableau. then, rising briskly, he ostentatiously stretched himself, and in loud, cheerful tones answered rodney's steady babble. "yes, old chap, it's all up to you," he said. "so what do you think of this as a climax for the play?" grinning down at his pal, he waited for a reply. it did not come. epstein was still unable to speak or move. doris seemed to have heard the words without taking them in. but at last bangs rose slowly, groped his way to his chum as if through a fog, and catching him by the shoulders looked wildly into his eyes. "you mean--you mean," he stuttered at last, "that--that--this--was--all--a--hoax?" "of course it was," laurie admitted, in his gayest voice. "it was the climax of the hoax you have played on me. an hour ago shaw confessed to me how you three arranged this whole plot of miss mayo's adventure, so that i should be kept out of mischief and should think i was having an adventure myself. i thought a little excitement was due you in return. how do you like my climax, anyhow? pretty fair, i call it." he stopped short. rodney had loosened his grip on his shoulders and stumbled to a chair. now, his arm on its back and his head on his arm, his body shook with the relentless convulsion of a complete nervous collapse. epstein had produced a handkerchief and was feebly wiping his forehead. doris seemed to have ceased to breathe. laurie walked over to her, took her hands, and drew them away from her face. even yet, she seemed not to understand. "i'm sorry," he said, very gently. "i've given you three an awful jolt. but i think you will all admit that there was something coming to you. you've put me through a pretty bad week. i decided you could endure half an hour of reprisal." none of the three answered. none of the three could. but, in the incandescent moments that followed, the face of epstein brightened slowly, like a moon emerging from black clouds. bangs alone, who had best borne the situation up till now, was unable to meet the reaction. in the silence of the little studio he wept on, openly and gulpingly and unrestrainedly, as he had not wept since he was a little boy. chapter xviii a little look forward "so shaw told you!" muttered epstein a few moments later. "you bet he did!" laurie blithely corroborated. "he had to, to save his skin. but he was pretty game, i'll give him credit for that. i had to fire one shot past his head to convince him that i meant business. besides, as i've said, i thought he was reaching for something. i suppose i was a little nervous. anyway, we clenched again, and--well--i'd have killed him, i guess, if he hadn't spoken." he smiled reminiscently. all three were tactfully ignoring bangs, who had walked over to the window and by the exercise of all his will-power was now getting his nerves under control. "shaw didn't do the tale justice, he hadn't time to," laurie continued, "and i was in such a hurry to get back to miss mayo that i didn't ask for many details. but on the way to the garage it occurred to me that i had a chance for a come-back that would keep you three from feeling too smug and happy over the way i had gulped down your little plot. so i planned it, and i rather think," he added complacently, "that i put it over." "put it over!" groaned epstein. "mein gott, i should think you did put it over! you took twenty years off my life, young man; that's von sure thing." he spoke with feeling, and his appearance bore out his words. even in these moments of immense relief he looked years older than when he entered the room. "you'll revive." laurie turned to rodney, who was now facing them. "all right, old man?" "i guess so," gulped rodney. there was no self-consciousness in his manner. he had passed through blazing hell in the last twenty minutes, and he did not care who knew it. "then," urged laurie, seeking to divert him, "you may give me the details shaw had to skip. how the dickens did you happen to start this frame-up, anyhow?" "how much did shaw tell you?" rodney tried to speak naturally. "that the whole adventure was a plant you and epstein had fixed up to keep me out of mischief," laurie repeated, patiently. "he explained that you had engaged a company to put it over, headed by miss mayo, who is a friend of mrs. ordway, and who has a burning ambition to go on the stage. he said you promised her that if she made a success of it, she was to have the leading rôle in our next play. that's about all he told me." he did not look at doris as he spoke, and she observed the omission, though she dared not look at him. also, she caught the coldness of his rich young voice. she hid her face in her hands. "that's all i know," ended laurie. "but i want to know some more. whose bright little idea was this, in the first place?" "mrs. ordway's." "louise's!" unconsciously laurie's face softened. "yes. i went to see her one day," bangs explained, "and i mentioned that we couldn't get any work out of you till you'd had the adventure you were insisting on. mrs. ordway said, 'well, why don't you give him an adventure?' that," confessed rodney, "started me off." "obviously," corroborated his friend. "so it was louise's idea. poor louise! i hope she got some fun out of it." "you bet she did!" corroborated bangs, eagerly. "i kept her posted every day. she said it was more fun than a play, and that it was keeping her alive." "humph! well, go on. tell me how it started." laurie was smiling. if the little episode just ended had been, as it were, a bobolink singing to louise ordway during her final days on earth, it was not he who would find fault with the bird or with those who had set it singing. "the day we saw the caretaker in the window across the park," continued rodney, "and i realized how interested you were, it occurred to me that we'd engage that studio and put miss mayo into it. miss mayo lives in richmond, virginia, and she had been making a big hit in amateur theatricals. she wanted to get on the legitimate stage, as shaw told you; so mrs. ordway suggested that epstein and i try her out--" "never mind all that!" interrupted laurie. "perhaps later miss mayo will tell me about it herself." bangs accepted the snub without resentment. "epstein thought it was a corking idea," he went on, "especially as we expected to try out some of the scenes i have in mind for the new play. but the only one you let us really get over was the suicide scene in the first act. you balled up everything else we attempted," he ended with a sigh. laurie smiled happily. "were your elevator boys in on the secret?" he asked doris. "no, of course not." "now, what i meant to do was this--" rodney spoke briskly. he was recovering poise with extraordinary rapidity. his color was returning, his brown eyes were again full of life. and, as always when his thoughts were on his work, he was utterly oblivious to any other interest. "the second act was to be--" he stopped and stared. epstein had risen, had ponderously approached him, and had resolutely grasped him by one ear. "rodney," said the manager, with ostentatious subtlety, "you don't know it, but you got a date up-town in five minutes." his voice and manner enlightened the obtuse mr. bangs. "oh, er--yes," stammered that youth, confusedly, and reluctantly got to his feet. "wait a minute," said laurie. "before you fellows go, there's one more little matter we've got to straighten out." they turned to him, and at the expression of utter devotion on the two faces the sternness left young devon's eyes. "i was pretty mad about this business for a few minutes after shaw explained it," he went on. "you folks didn't have much mercy, you know. you fooled me to the top of my bent. but now i feel that we've at least broken even." "even! mein gott!" repeated epstein with a groan. "you've taken ten years--" "you've got back ten already," the young man blithely reminded him. "that's fine! as i say, we're even. but from this time on, one thing must be definitely understood: henceforth i'm not in leading-strings of any kind, however kindly they are put on me. if this association is to continue, there must be no more practical jokes, no more supervision, no more interference with me or my affairs. is that agreed?" "you bet it is!" corroborated epstein. again he wiped his brow. "i can't stand the pace you fellas set," he admitted. bangs nodded. "that's agreed. you're too good a boomerang for little rodney." "for my part," continued laurie, "i promise to get to work on the new play, beginning next monday." "you will!" the two men almost shouted. "i will. i've got to stand by louise for the next two or three months, and we'll write the play while i'm doing it. then, whether america enters the war this spring or not, i'm going to france. but we'll talk over all that later. are you off?" he ushered them to the door. "and it's all right, boy?" epstein asked wistfully. "you know how vell ve meant. you ain't got no hard feelings about this?" "not one." laurie wrung his hand. then, with an arm across rodney's shoulders, he gave him a bearish hug. "i'll see you a little later," he promised. rodney suddenly looked self-conscious. "perhaps then you'll give me a chance to tell you some news," he suggested, with a mixture of triumph and embarrassment. epstein's knowing grin enlightened laurie. "sonya?" he asked eagerly. "yep. great, isn't it?" laurie stared at him. "by jove, you _have_ been busy!" he conceded. "between manufacturing a frame-up for me, and winning a wife, you must have put in a fairly full week even for you." his arm tightened round his chum's shoulders. "i'm delighted, old man," he ended, seriously. "sonya is the salt of the earth. tell her she has my blessing." when he reëntered the room he found doris standing in its center, waiting for him. something in her pose reminded him of their first moments together in that familiar setting. she had carried off the original scene very well. indeed, she had carried off very well most of the scenes she had been given. "you'll be a big hit in the new play," he cheerfully remarked, as he came toward her. "laurie--" her voice trembled. "you have forgiven the others. can't you forgive me?" "there's nothing to forgive," he quietly told her. "you saw a chance and you took it. in the same conditions, i suppose any other girl would have done the same thing. it's quite all right, and i wish you the best luck in the world. we'll try to make the new play worthy of you." he held out his hand, but she shrank away from it. "you're _not_ going to forgive me!" she cried. "and--i don't blame you!" she walked away from him, and, sinking into the chair epstein had so recently vacated, sat bending forward, her elbow resting on its broad arm, her chin in her hand. it was the pose he knew so well and had loved so much. "i don't blame you," she repeated. "what i was doing was--horrible. i knew it all the time, and i tried to get out of it the second day. but they wouldn't let me." she waited, but he did not speak. "can't you understand?" she went on. "i've hated it from the start. i've hated deceiving you. you see--i--i didn't know you when i began. i thought it was just a good joke and awfully interesting. then, when i met you, and you were so stunning, always, i felt like a beast. i told them i simply couldn't go on, but they coaxed and begged, and told me what it would mean to you as well as to me-- they made a big point of that." he took his favorite position by the mantel and watched her as she talked. "don't feel that way," he said at last. "you were playing for big stakes. you were justified in everything you said and did." "i hated it," she repeated, ignoring the interruption. "and to-day, this afternoon, i tried to tell you everything. don't you remember?" "yes, i remember." he spoke as he would to a child, kindly and soothingly. "don't worry about it any more," he said. "you'll forget all this when we begin rehearsing." she sprang to her feet. "i don't want the play!" she cried passionately. "i wouldn't appear in it now under any conditions. i don't want to go on the stage. it was just a notion, an impulse. i've lost it, all of it, forever. i'm going back home, to my own people and my--own virginia, to--to try to forget all this. i'm going to-morrow." "you're excited," said laurie, soothingly. he took her hands and held them. "i've put you through a bad half-hour. you understand, of course, that i wouldn't have done it if i hadn't been made to realize that your whole thought, throughout this experiment, has been of the play, and only of the play." she drew back and looked at him. "what do you mean?" "why--" it was hard to explain, but he blundered on. "i mean that, for a little time, i was fool enough to hope that--that--some day you might care for me. for of course you know, you've known all along--that i--love you. but when i got the truth--" "you haven't got the truth." she was interrupting him, but her face had flashed into flame. "you haven't had it for one second; but you're going to get it now. i'm not going to let our lives be wrecked by any silly misunderstanding." she stopped, then rushed on. "oh, laurie, can't you see? the only truth that counts between us is that i--i--adore you! i have from the very first--almost from the day you came here--oh, it's dreadful of you to make me say all this!" she was sobbing now, in his arms. for a long moment he held her very close and in utter silence. like bangs, but in a different way, he was feeling the effects of a tremendous reaction. "you'll make a man of me, doris," he said brokenly, when he could speak. "i'm not afraid to let you risk the effort. and when i come back from france--" "when you come back from france you'll come back to your wife," she told him steadily. "if you're going, i'll marry you before you go. then i'll wait and pray, and pray and wait, till you come again. and you will come back to me," she whispered. "something makes me sure of it." "i'll come back," he promised. "now, for the first time, i am sure of that, too." four hours later mr. laurence devon, lingeringly bidding good night to the lady of his heart, was surprised by a final confidence. "laurie," said doris, holding him fast by, one button as they stood together on the threshold of the little studio, "do you know my real reason for giving up my ambition to go on the stage?" "yes. me," said young mr. devon promptly and brilliantly. "but you needn't do it. i'm not going to be the ball-and-chain type of husband." "i know. but there are reasons within the reason." she twisted the button thoughtfully. "it's because you're the real actor in the family. when i remember what you did to the three of us in that murder scene, and so quietly and naturally, without any heroics--" she broke off. "there are seven million things about you that i love," she ended, "but the one i think i love the best of all is this: even in your biggest moments, laurie darling, you never, never 'emote'!" chapter xix "what about laurie?" from the _new york sun_, january , :-- "among the patients on the hospital ship _comfort_, which arrived yesterday with nine hundred wounded soldiers on board, was captain laurence devon, of the american flying forces in france. "captain devon was seriously injured in a combat with two german planes, which occurred only forty-eight hours before the signing of the armistice. he brought down both machines and though his own plane was on fire and he was badly wounded, he succeeded in reaching the american lines. he has since been in the base hospital at c----, but is now convalescent. "captain devon is an american 'ace,' with eleven air victories officially to his credit. he was awarded the french _croix de guerre_ and the american distinguished service medal for extraordinary heroism on august , , when he went to the assistance of a french aviator who was fighting four fokker planes. in the combat the four german machines were downed and their pilots killed. the frenchman was badly hurt but eventually recovered. "captain devon is well known in american social and professional life. he is the only son of the late horace devon, of devondale, ohio, and the brother-in-law of robert j. warren, of new york. before the war he was a successful playwright. just before sailing for france last year, he married miss doris mayo, daughter of the late general frederick mayo, of richmond, virginia. on reaching his new york home to-day he will see for the first time his infant son, rodney jacob devon." * * * * * transcriber's note: inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation are as in the original. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) the dramatist; or, stop him who can! a comedy, in five acts; by frederick reynolds. as performed at the theatre royal, covent garden. printed under the authority of the managers from the prompt book. with remarks by mrs inchbald. [illustration: dramatist vapid--prologue or epilogue! i'm your man:--i'll write you both. act ii. scene ii painted by singleton. publishd by longman & co. engravd by engleheart.] london: printed for longman, hurst, rees, orme, and brown, paternoster row. edinburgh: printed by james ballantyne and co. remarks. plays of former times were written to be read, not seen. dramatic authors succeeded in their aim; their works were placed in libraries, and the theatres were deserted.--now, plays are written to be seen, not read--and present authors gain their views; for they and the managers are enriched, and the theatres crowded. to be both seen and read at the present day, is a degree of honour, which, perhaps, not one comic dramatist can wholly boast, except shakspeare. exclusive of his, scarcely any of the very best comedies of the best of former bards will now attract an audience: yet the genius of ancient writers was assisted by various tales, for plots, of which they have deprived the moderns; they had, besides, the privilege to write without either political or moral restraint. uncurbed by law or delicacy, they wrote at random; and at random wrote some pages worthy posterity--but along with these, they produced others, which disgrace the age that reprints and circulates them. it might be deemed suspicious to insinuate, that those persons, perhaps, who so vehemently exclaim against modern dramas, give up with reluctance the old prerogative of listening to wit and repartee, which would make the refined hearer of the present day blush, and the moral auditor shudder. to those who can wisely bear with the faults of their own time, nor think all that is good is gone by, the representation of the present comedy will give high entertainment; particularly in those scenes in which vapid is concerned.--reynolds could hardly mistake drawing a faithful portrait of this character, for it is said--he sat for himself. yet those, who expect to be highly delighted with "the dramatist," must bring with them to the theatre a proper acquaintance with the stage, and also of its power over certain of its votaries. if attraction, if bursts of applause, and still less equivocal approbation, bursts of laughter, constitute perfect success to a comic writer, mr reynolds, in this, as well as in other of his comedies, has been preeminently successful. in this comedy, however, and, perhaps, in one or two more he has written, there is an obstacle to his independent merit as an author--an obstacle which too many dramatic writers willingly place in their path to lasting reputation. he has written for one particular actor to support his play--lewis--more worthy to be thus considered than almost any other performer: but here his very skill gives the alarm--for lewis possesses such unaffected spirit on the stage, a kind of vivid fire, which tempers burlesque with nature, or nature with burlesque, so happily, that it cannot be hoped any other man will easily support those characters written purposely for him. be that as it may--when reynolds can no more enliven a theatre by his dramatist, this comedy will grow dull in excellent company--for congreve's "way of the world" was hissed, it is said, from a london stage, the last time it was acted, for insipidity. dramatis personÆ. lord scratch _mr quick._ harry neville _mr holman._ floriville _mr blanchard._ willoughby _mr macready._ ennui _mr munden._ peter _mr thompson._ vapid _mr lewis._ servant _mr evatt._ louisa courtney _miss brunton._ lady waitfor't _mrs webb._ letty _miss brangin._ marianne _mrs wells._ _scene,--bath._ the dramatist. act the first. scene i. _the grove.--lady waitfor't's house._ _enter marianne, and letty, from the house._ _mari._ but i tell you i will come out--i didn't come to bath to be confined, nor i won't--i hate all their company, but sweet miss courtney's. _letty._ i declare, miss marianne, you grow worse and worse every day, your country manners will be the ruin of you. _mari._ don't you talk about that, letty--it was a shame to bring me up in the country--if i had been properly taken care of, i might have done great things--i might have married the poet i danced with at the ball--but it's all over now.--i shall never get a husband, and, what's worse, my aunt did it on purpose.--she ruined me, letty, that nobody else might. _letty._ how you talk!--i hope miss courtney hasn't taught you all this? _mari._ no,--she's a dear creature,--she has taught me many things; but nothing improper, i'm sure. _letty._ pray, has she taught you why she never plays any tune but the one we heard just now? _mari._ yes--and if you'll keep it a secret, i'll tell you, letty; mr harry neville taught it her last summer,--and now she is always playing it, because it puts her in mind of the dear man;--when it is ended, don't you observe how she sighs from the bottom of her dear little heart? _letty._ why, i thought they had quarrelled? _mari._ so they have--she won't see him, and i believe my aunt, lady waitfor't, has been the occasion of it;--poor mr neville!--i wish i could assist him, for indeed, letty, i always pity any body that is crossed in love--it may be one's own case one day or other, you know. _letty._ true--and for the same reason, i suppose, you rejoice when it is successful.--i'm sure now the intended marriage of lady waitfor't and lord scratch gives you great pleasure. _mari._ what! the country gentleman who has lately come to his title? no, if you'll believe me, i don't like him at all,--he's a sour old fellow--is always abusing our sex, and thinks there is only one good woman under heaven:--now, i'm sure that's a mistake, for i know i'm a good woman, and i think, letty, you are another. _letty._ yes,--i hope so, though i confess i think your aunt is better than either of us. _mari._ more shame for you--she is a woman of sentiment, and hums you over with her flourishes about purity, and feelings.--feelings!--'faith, she ought to be ashamed of herself--no other woman would talk in that manner. _letty._ you mistake her--she is a woman of virtue, and can't help feeling for the vices and misfortunes of others. _mari._ then why can't she do as i have done, letty? keep her feelings to herself--if i had given way to them half so much as she has--oh lord! i don't know what might have been the consequence. _letty._ for shame! you never hear lady waitfor't speak ill of any body. _mari._ no,--how should she, when she talks of nobody but herself? _letty._ well, your opinion is of little weight; my lord sees her merit, and is come to bath on purpose to marry her--he thinks her a prodigy of goodness. _mari._ then, pray let him have her--every fool knows so, to be sure he does, letty, that a prodigy of goodness is a very rare thing;--but when he finds her out!--'faith, it will be a rare joke, when he finds her out. _letty._ shameful, miss marianne! do speak a little intelligibly, and remember your aunt's favourite observation. _mari._ what is it?--i have forgot. _letty._ that good sentiments are always plain. _mari._ yes,--so are good women,--bid her remember that, letty. _letty._ hush:--say no more--here she comes, and mr willoughby with her. _mari._ ay--that man is always with her of late--but come, letty, let's get out of their way--let's take a walk, and look at the beaux. _letty._ the beaux! ah, i see you long to become a woman of fashion. _mari._ no--though i hate the country, i never will become a woman of fashion--i know too well what it is to do many things one don't like, and 'faith, while there is such real pleasure in following my own inclinations, i see no reason why, merely out of fashion, i should be obliged to copy other people's. [_exit, with letty._ _enter lady waitfor't and willoughby._ _lady._ [_to servant._] when my lord returns, tell him i'm gone to lady walton's, and shall be back immediately. _will._ then your ladyship is certain harry neville is arrived. _lady._ yes--the ungrateful man arrived last night, and, as i yet mean to consult his happiness, i have written to him to come to me this evening--but i will ever oppose his union with my lord's ward, louisa courtney, because i think it will be the ruin of them both; and you know, willoughby, one cannot forget one's feelings on those occasions. _will._ certainly--ennui, the time-killer, whose only business in life is to murder the hour, is also just arrived; and my lord is resolved on his marrying louisa instantly. _lady._ true--and only because he'll make a quiet member for his brother in the west. but, for various reasons, i am determined she shall be yours--yet it must be done artfully--my circumstances are deranged, and an alliance with my lord scratch is the only hope of relief.--such are the fruits of virtue, willoughby. _will._ well--but her fortune is entirely dependent on my lord's consent, and how is that to be obtained? you know i am no favourite, and ennui is a great one. _lady._ i know it, and therefore we must incense him against ennui--let me see----can't we contrive some mode,--some little ingenious story--he is a singular character, you know, and has violent prejudices. _will._ true--and of all his prejudices, none is so violent, or entertaining, as that against authors and actors. _lady._ yes,--the stage is his aversion, and some way or other----i have it--it's an odd thought, but may do much--suppose we tell him ennui has written a play. _will._ the luckiest thought in the world! it will make him hate him directly. _lady._ well, leave it to me--i'll explain the matter to him myself,--and my life on't it proves successful. you see, willoughby, my only system is to promote happiness. _will._ it is indeed, lady waitfor't--but if this fails, may i still hope for your interest with miss courtney? _lady._ yes,--i'm determined she shall be yours, and neither neville's nor ennui's.--but come, it's late--here he is. _will._ we'll get rid of him. _enter ennui._ _lady._ mr ennui, your most obedient--we are going to the parade--have you seen your cousin neville? _ennui._ i've an idea--i've just left him. _lady._ i suppose we shall see you at lady walton's this evening?--till then, adieu. [_exeunt lady waitfor't and willoughby._ _ennui._ i've an idea, i don't like this lady waitfor't--she wishes to trick me out of my match with miss courtney, and if i could trick her in return--[_takes out his watch._] how goes the enemy?--only one o'clock!--i thought it had been that an hour ago!--heigho!--here's my patron, lord scratch. _enter lord scratch._ _lord._ what a wonderful virtue is the art of hearing!--may i die, if a listener be found any where:--zounds! am not i a peer, and don't i talk by prerogative?--and, if i mayn't talk ten times as much as another person, what's the use of my peerage? _ennui._ i've an idea--i don't comprehend you. _lord._ that fellow neville wouldn't hear a word i had to say:--abandoned young dog!--he's come to bath to invent tales against that divinity, lady waitfor't, again, i suppose--but my ward, louisa, shall be put out of his power for ever--she shall marry you to-morrow. _ennui._ in fact--i always forgot to give your lordship joy of your title, though not of your dress. _lord._ not of my dress!--ay, ay;--that's the difference--you poor devils, in humble life, are obliged to dress well, to look like gentlemen--we peers may dress as we please--[_looking at his watch._] but i shall lose my appointments--past two o'clock. _ennui._ past two o'clock!--delightful! _lord._ delightful!--what, at your old tricks? _ennui._ i'd an idea--it had been only one. _lord._ and you're delighted because it's an hour later? _ennui._ to be sure i am--my dear friend, to be sure i am--the enemy has lost a limb. _lord._ so you're happy, because you're an hour nearer the other world?--tell me now,--do you wish to die? _ennui._ no.--but i wish somebody would invent a new mode of killing time--in fact, i think i've found one--private acting. _lord._ acting!--never talk to me about the stage--i detest a theatre, and every thing that belongs to it: and if ever--but no matter--i must to lady waitfor't, and prevail on her to marry me at the same time you marry my ward.--but, remember our agreement--you are to settle your estate on louisa, and i am to bring you into parliament. _ennui._ in fact, i comprehend--i am to be a hearer and not a speaker. _lord._ speaker!--if you open your mouth, the chiltern hundreds is your portion.--look ye--you are to be led quietly to the right side--to sleep during the debate--give a nod for your vote,--and in every respect, move like a mandarin, at my command;--in short, you are to be a mandarin member.--so, fare you well till we're both married. [_exit._ _ennui._ i've an idea, here's neville.--in fact--he knows nothing of my marrying louisa, nor shall he, till after the happy day.--strange news, neville. _enter neville._ _nev._ i've heard it all. louisa is going to be married; but to whom i know not,--and my lord persists in his fatal attachment to lady waitfor't. _ennui._ in fact--why fatal? _nev._ because it is the source of every mischief.--while she maintains her power over him, i have no hope of love or fortune:--when my father died, he left his estate to my brother, relying on my lord providing for me--and now, how he deserts me!--and all owing to the artifices of an insidious woman. _ennui._ i've an idea, i comprehend her motive--she loves you. _nev._ yes, 'tis too plain--and, because i would not listen to her advances, she has ruined me in my uncle's opinion, and degraded me in louisa's;--but i will see miss courtney herself--i will hear my doom from her own mouth; and if she avoids me, i will leave her, and this country, for ever. _enter peter._ _peter._ a letter, sir. _nev._ without direction!--what can it mean? _peter._ sir, 'tis from lady waitfor't.--the servant, who brought it, said, her ladyship had reasons for not directing it, which she would explain to you when she saw you. [_exit._ _nev._ oh, the old stratagem:--as it is not directed, she may swear it was designed for another person. [_reads._ _sir_, _i have heard of your arrival at bath, and, strange as my conduct may appear, i think it a duty i owe to the virtuous part of mankind, to promote their happiness as much as i can; i have long beheld your merit, and long wished to encourage it.--i shall be at home at six this evening. yours,_ a. waitfor't. _ennui._ in fact--a very sentimental assignation, that would do as well for any other man. _nev._ if i show it to my lord, i know his bigotry is such, that he would, as usual, only suppose it a trick of my own--the more cause there is to condemn, the more he approves. _ennui._ i've an idea, he's incomprehensible.--in fact--who have we here? _nev._ as i live, vapid, the dramatic author--he is come to bath to pick up characters, i suppose. _ennui._ in fact--pick up! _nev._ yes--he has the ardor scribendi upon him so strong, that he would rather you'd ask him to write an epilogue to a new play, than offer him your whole estate--the theatre is his world, in which are included all his hopes and wishes.--in short, he is a dramatic maniac. and to such an extent does he carry his folly, that if he were not the best natured fellow in the world, every body would kick him out of doors. _ennui._ has he not a share of vanity in his composition? _nev._ oh yes--he fancies himself a great favourite with the women. _ennui._ then i've an idea--i've got a thought, by which you may revenge yourself on lady waitfor't--in fact--give him the letter--he'll certainly believe 'tis meant for himself. _nev._ my dear friend, ten thousand thanks!--we'll flatter his vanity, by persuading him she is young and beautiful, and my life on't it does wonders;--but, hush, he comes. _enter vapid._ _nev._ vapid! i rejoice to see you,--'tis a long time since we met; give me leave to introduce you to a particular friend of mine--mr ennui--mr vapid. _ennui._ i've an idea--you do me honour--mr vapid, i shall be proud to be better acquainted with you--in fact--any thing of consequence stirring in the fashionable or political world? _vapid._ some whispers about a new pantomime, sir,--nothing else. _nev._ and i'm afraid, in the present scarcity of good writers, we have little else to expect.--pray, vapid, how is the present dearth of genius to be accounted for; particularly dramatic genius? _vapid._ why, as to dramatic genius, sir, the fact is this--to give a true picture of life, a man should enter into all its scenes,--should follow nature, sir--but modern authors plunder from one another--the mere shades of shadows.--now, sir, for my part, i dive into the world--i search the heart of man;--'tis true i'm called a rake--but, upon my soul, i only game, drink, and intrigue, that i may be better able to dramatize each particular scene. _nev._ a good excuse for profligacy.--but tell me, vapid, have you got any new characters since you came to bath? _vapid._ 'faith, only two--and those not very new either. _ennui._ in fact--may we ask what they are? _vapid._ if you don't write. _nev._ no, we certainly do not. _vapid._ then i'll tell you:--the first is a charitable divine, who, in the weighty consideration how he shall best lavish his generosity, never bestows it at all:--and the other is a cautious apothecary, who, in determining which of two medicines is best for his patient, lets him die for want of assistance.--you understand me, i think, this last will do something, eh? _ennui._ i've an idea--the apothecary would cut a good figure in a comedy. _vapid._ a comedy! pshaw! i mean him for a tragedy. _ennui._ in fact--i don't comprehend, nor, possibly, the town. _vapid._ i know it--that's the very thing--hark ye, i've found out a secret--what every body understands, nobody approves; and people always applaud most where they least comprehend.--there is a refinement, sir, in appearing to understand things incomprehensible--else whence arises the pleasure at an opera, a private play, or a speech in parliament? why, 'tis the mystery in all these things--'tis the desire to find out what nobody else can--to be thought wiser than others--therefore--you take me--the apothecary is the hero of my tragedy. _nev._ 'faith, there is some reason in all this--and i'm amazed we have so many writers for the stage. _vapid._ so am i--and i think i'll write no more for an ungrateful public--you don't know any body that has a play coming out, do you? _nev._ no--why do you ask? _vapid._ he'll want an epilogue you know, that's all. _nev._ why, you won't write him one, will you? _vapid._ i! oh lord! no;--but genius ought to be encouraged, and as he's a friend of yours,--what's the name of the play? _nev._ i really don't know any body that has written one. _vapid._ yes----yes----you do. _nev._ upon my word, i do not--a cousin of mine, indeed, wrote one for his amusement, but i don't think he could ever be prevailed on to produce it on the stage. _vapid._ he prevailed on!--the manager you mean--but what did you think of it? _nev._ i never read it, but am told it is a good play--and if performed, vapid, he will be proud of your assistance. _vapid._ i speak in time, because it is material--many a dull play has been saved by a good epilogue. _nev._ true--but i had almost forgot.--why, vapid, the lady in the grove will enlarge your knowledge amazingly. _ennui._ i've an idea--she's the pattern of perfection. _nev._ the paragon of beauty! ah, vapid! i would give worlds for the coldest expression in this letter. _vapid._ that letter!--what do you mean by that letter? _nev._ and you really pretend not to know the young lady waitfor't? _vapid._ no,--i hav'n't spoke to a woman at bath,--but a sweet girl i danced with at the ball; and who she is, by the lord, i don't know. _nev._ well, but, vapid--young lady waitfor't--she loves you to distraction. _vapid._ as i hope for fame, i never heard her name before. _nev._ then she has heard yours, and admires your genius; however, read the letter, and be satisfied she loves you. [_vapid reads._ _arrived at bath--duty i owe--virtuous part of mankind--beheld your merit--wish to encourage--six this evening.--a. waitfor't--grove._ _vapid._ yes, yes, it's plain enough now--she admires my talents!--it isn't the first time, neville, this has happened.--sweet fond fool!--i'll go and prepare myself directly. _nev._ ay do, vapid,--she'll be all on fire to see you. _vapid._ all on fire! i suppose so.--write a play, neville, write a play--you see the effect of the muses and graces when they unite--you see, neville, you see----but, hold, hold--how the devil came you by this letter? _nev._ that's true enough. [_aside._] i'll tell you--i was at her party last night, and on coming out of the room she slipt it into my hand, and desired me to direct it, and give it to you--she has often spoke to me in your favour, and i did you all the good i could--however, to be sure it's no mistake, ask the servant, who admits you, if the name at the bottom is not her own hand-writing. _vapid._ oh, no!--it's no mistake,--there's no doubt of the matter.--write a play, neville, write a play--and charm the ladies, you dog!--adieu! [_exit._ _ennui._ i've an idea--if we've common fortune, this will do every thing. _nev._ no,--lady waitfor't's arts are numberless--she is so perfect a hypocrite, that i even doubt her confessing her real sentiments to her minion willoughby; and when she does a bad action, she ever pretends 'tis from a good motive. _enter vapid._ _vapid._ gad, i forgot--you'll recollect the epilogue, neville. _nev._ yes,--i'll write to my cousin to-day. _vapid._ but, not a word of the love affair to him--any where else indeed it might do one a service--but never tell an intrigue to a dramatic author. _ennui._ in fact--why not sir? _vapid._ because it may furnish a scene for a comedy--i do it myself.--indeed, i think the best part of an intrigue is the hopes of incident, or stage effect--however, i can't stay. _nev._ nay, we'll walk with you--i, in pursuit of my brother--you, of your mistress. _vapid._ ay, neville, there it is--now, do take my advice, and write a play--if any incident happens, remember, it is better to have written a damned play, than no play at all--it snatches a man from obscurity--and being particular, as this world goes, is a very great thing. _nev._ but i confess i have no desire to get into print. _vapid._ get into print!--pshaw! every body gets into print now.--kings and quacks--peers and poets--bishops and boxers--tailors and trading justices--can't go lower, you know--all get into print!--but we soar a little higher,--we have privileges peculiar to ourselves.--now, sir, i--i, for my part, can talk as i please,--say what i will, it is sure to excite mirth,--for, supposing you don't laugh at my wit, i laugh myself, neville, and that makes every body else do the same--so allons! _ennui._ i've an idea--no bad mode of routing the enemy. [_exeunt._ act the second. scene i. _an apartment in lady waitfor't's house.--two chairs._ _enter vapid and a servant._ _serv._ sir, my lady will wait on you immediately. _vapid._ hark ye, sir--is this young lady of yours very handsome? _serv._ sir? _vapid._ is your young mistress, sir, very handsome? _serv._ yes, sir.--my young mistress is thought a perfect beauty. _vapid._ charming!--what age do you reckon her? _serv._ about twenty, sir. _vapid._ the right interesting age! and fond of the drama, i suppose? _serv._ sir? _vapid._ very fond of plays, i presume? _serv._ yes, sir, very fond of plays, or any thing relating to them. _vapid._ delightful!--now am i the happiest dog alive:--yes, yes, vapid! let the town damn your plays, the women will never desert you. [_seats himself._] you needn't stay, sir. [_exit servant._] that's a good sign, that fellow isn't used to this kind of business--so much the better--practice is the destruction of love----yes, i shall indulge a beautiful woman,--gratify myself, and, perhaps, get the last scene for my unfinished comedy. _enter lady waitfor't._ _lady._ sir, your most obedient. _vapid._ ma'am. [_bowing._ _lady._ pray keep your seat, sir--i beg i mayn't disturb you. _vapid._ by no means, ma'am, give me leave--[_both sit._] who the devil have we here? [_aside._ _lady._ i am told, sir, you have business for lady waitfor't? _vapid._ yes, ma'am--being my first appearance in that character, but i could wait whole hours for so beautiful a woman. _lady._ oh, sir! _vapid._ yes--i am no stranger to her charms----sweet young creature! _lady._ nay, dear sir, not so _very_ young. _vapid._ your pardon, ma'am,--and her youth enhances her other merits.--but, oh! she has one charm that surpasses all. _lady._ has she, sir?--what may that be? _vapid._ her passion for the stage. _lady._ sir! _vapid._ yes, her passion for the stage; that, in my mind, makes her the first of her sex. _lady._ sir, she has no passion for the stage. _vapid._ yes, yes, she has. _lady._ but i protest she has not. _vapid._ but i declare and affirm it as a fact, she has a strong passion for the stage, and a violent attachment for all the people that belong to it. _lady._ sir, i don't understand you--explain. _vapid._ hark ye,--we are alone--i promise it shall go no further, and i'll let you into a secret--i know---- _lady._ well, what do you know? _vapid._ i know a certain dramatic author with whom she----he had a letter from her this morning. _lady._ what? _vapid._ yes,--an assignation--don't be alarmed--the man may be depended on--he is safe--very safe!--long in the habit of intrigue--a good person too!--a very good person indeed. _lady._ amazement! _vapid._ [_whispering her._] hark ye, he means to make her happy in less than half an hour. _lady._ [_rising._] sir, do you know who you're talking to?--do you know who i am? _vapid._ no,--how the devil should i? _lady._ then know i am lady waitfor't! _vapid._ you lady waitfor't! _lady._ yes, sir--the only lady waitfor't! _vapid._ mercy on me!--here's incident! _lady._ yes, and i am convinced you were sent here by that traitor, neville.--speak, is he not your friend? _vapid._ yes, ma'am:--i know mr neville.--here's equivoque! _lady._ this is some trick, some stratagem of his.--he gave you the letter to perplex and embarrass me. _vapid._ gave the letter! 'gad that's great.--pray, ma'am, give me leave to ask you one question--did you write to mr neville? _lady._ yes, sir,--to confess the truth, i did--but from motives---- _vapid._ stop, my dear ma'am, stop--i have it--now,--let me be clear--first, you send him a letter; is it not so? yes: then he gives it to me--very well: then i come (supposing you only twenty) mighty well!--then you turn out ninety--charming!---then comes the embarrassment: then the eclaircissement! oh! it's glorious!--give me your hand--you have atoned for every thing. _lady._ o! i owe all this to that villain, neville--i am not revengeful--but 'tis a weakness to endure such repeated provocations, and i am convinced the mind, that too frequently forgives bad actions, will at last forget good ones. _vapid._ bravo! encore, encore--it is the very best sentiment i ever heard--say it again, pray say it again--i'll take it down, and blend it with the incident, and you shall be gratified, one day or other, with seeing the whole on the stage.--"the mind that too frequently forgives bad actions will at last forget good ones." [_taking it down in his common place book._ _lady._ this madman's folly is not to be borne--if my lord too should discover him. [_vapid sits, and takes notes._] here, the consequences might be dreadful, and the scheme of ennui's play all undone.--sir, i desire you'll quit my house immediately--oh! i'll be revenged, i'm determined. [_exit._ _vapid._ what a great exit!----very well!--i've got an incident, however.--'faith, i have noble talents--to extract gold from lead has been the toil of numberless philosophers; but i extract it from a baser metal, human frailty--oh! it's a great thing to be a dramatic genius!--a very great thing indeed. [_as he is going,_ _enter lord scratch._ _vapid._ sir, your most devoted,----how d'ye do? _lord._ sir, your most obedient. _vapid._ very warm tragedy weather, sir!--but, for my part, i hate summer, and i'll tell you why,--the theatres are shut, and when i pass by their doors in an evening, it makes me melancholy--i look upon them as the tombs of departed friends that were wont to instruct and delight me--i don't know how you feel--perhaps you are not in my way? _lord._ sir! _vapid._ perhaps you don't write for the stage--if you do,--hark ye--there is a capital character in this house for a farce. _lord._ why! what is all this--who are you? _vapid._ who am i?--here's a question! in these times who can tell who he is?--for aught i know i may be great uncle to yourself, or first cousin to lady waitfor't--the very woman i was about to--but no matter--since you're so very inquisitive, do you know who you are? _lord._ look ye, sir, i am lord scratch. _vapid._ a peer! pshaw! contemptible;--when i ask a man who he is, i don't want to know what are his titles, and such nonsense; no, old scratch, i want to know what he has written, when he had the curtain up, and whether he's a true son of the drama.--harkye, don't make yourself uneasy on my account--in my next pantomime, perhaps, i'll let you know who i am, old scratch. [_exit._ _lord._ astonishing! can this be lady waitfor't's house--"very warm tragedy weather, sir!" "in my next pantomime, let you know who i am."--gad, i must go and investigate the matter immediately, and if she has wronged me, by the blood of the scratches, i'll bring the whole business before parliament, make a speech ten hours long, reduce the price of opium, and set the nation in a lethargy. [_exit._ scene ii. _a library in lady waitfor't's house.--a sofa and two chairs._ _enter vapid._ _vapid._ either this house is a labyrinth, or i, in reflecting on my incident, have forgot myself; for so it is i can't find my way out--who have we here? by the sixtieth night, my little partner! _enter marianne, with a book in her hand._ _mari._ the poet i danced with!--he little thinks how much i've thought of him since--sir. [_courtesying._ _vapid._ ma'am. [_bowing._] _mari._ i hope, sir, you caught no cold the other night? _vapid._ no, ma'am, i was much nearer a fever than a cold.--pray, ma'am, what is your study? _mari._ i have been reading "all for love."--pray, sir, do you know any thing about plays? _vapid._ know any thing about plays!--there's a question! _mari._ i know so much about them, that i once acted at a private theatre. _vapid._ did you? then you acted for your own amusement, and nobody's else: what was the play? _mari._ i can't tell! _vapid._ can't tell? _mari._ no,--nobody knew,--it's a way they have. _vapid._ then they never act a play of mine.--with all this partiality for the stage--perhaps you would be content with a dramatist for life--particularly if his morals were fine? _mari._ lord! i don't care about fine morals--i'd rather my husband had fine teeth,--and i'm told most women of fashion are of the same opinion. _vapid._ to be sure they are,--but could you really consent to run away with a poet? _mari._ 'faith--with all my heart--they never have any money, you know, and, as i have none, our distress would be complete; and, if we had any luck, our adventures would become public, and then we should get into a novel at last. _vapid._ into a prison, more probably--if she goes on in this way, i must dramatize her first,--and run away with her afterwards. [_aside._] come, are you ready? _lady w._ [_without._] tell my lord, sir, i'll wait in the library. _mari._ oh lord! my aunt, what's to be done? _vapid._ what's to be done!--why? _mari._ she mustn't find you here--she'll be the death of us, she is so violent. _vapid._ well, i'm not afraid--she's no manager. _mari._ if you have any pity for me--here--hide yourself for a moment behind this sofa, and i'll get her out of the room directly. _vapid._ behind the sofa! here's an incident! _mari._ nay--pray--she's here! come--quick!--quick!-- [_vapid gets behind the sofa, marianne sits on it, takes out her work bag, and begins singing----_ _mari._ toll de roll, &c. _enter lady waitfor't._ _lady._ marianne, how came you here? i desire you'll leave the room directly. _mari._ leave the room, aunt? _lady._ yes, leave the room immediately--what are you looking at? _mari._ nothing, aunt, nothing--lord! lord! what will become of poor, poor mr poet? [_exit._ _lady._ so--here's my lord--now to mention ennui's play, and if it does but prejudice him against him, willoughby marries louisa, and neville is in my own power. _enter lord scratch._ _lord._ that curst pantomime ruffian! nobody knows any thing about him--perhaps my lady has got a sudden touch of the dramatic mania, and prefers him--here she is--now if she would talk about the stage. _lady._ pray be seated, my lord--i want to ask you a favour. _lord._ ask me a favour? is it possible? [_they sit._ _lady._ yes, for your friend ennui--what do you think he has done? _lord._ what? _lady._ turned author.--he has written a comedy. _lord._ a comedy!--she has it. _lady._ yes--it's very true, and it has been approved of by men of the first dramatic fame. _lord._ dramatic fame! she has it!--dam'me, she has it! _lady._ nay, if you need farther proof, my lord, it has been approved by the manager of one of the theatres, and the curtain is to draw up next winter. _lord._ the curtain draw up!--look ye, madam, i care no more for the manager or his theatre---- _lady._ now, my lord, the favour i have to ask of you is this--promise me to peruse the play, make alterations, and write the epilogue. _lord._ the epilogue!--fire and forefathers! [_lady holds him._ _lady._ ay, or the prologue. _lord._ the prologue! blood and gunpowder! [_vapid comes from behind the sofa, and smacks him on the back._ _vapid._ prologue or epilogue!--i'm the man--i'll write you both. _lord._ there he is again! _lady._ oh! i shall faint with vexation!--my lord, i desire you'll misinterpret nothing--every thing shall be explained to you.--marianne! _lord._ here's the curtain up with a vengeance! _enter marianne._ _lady._ answer me directly, how came that gentleman in this apartment? i know it is some trick of yours. _vapid._ [_coming down the stage._] to be sure, never any thing was so fortunate!--upon my soul, i beg your pardon; but, curse me, if i can help laughing, to think how lucky it was for you both i happened to be behind the sofa!--ha! ha! ha! _mari._ [_as if taking the hint._] 'faith, no more can i--to be sure it was the luckiest thing in the world! ha! ha! ha! [_here they both laugh loud, and point to my lord, and lady waitfor't, who stand, between them in amazement._ _lady._ sir, i insist you lay aside this levity, and instantly explain how you came in this room. _lord._ ay, sir,--explain. _vapid._ never fear, old lady--i'll bring you off, depend on't. _lady._ bring me off, sir! speak out, sir, how came you in this apartment? _vapid._ with all my heart--by her ladyship's own appointment. _lady._ my own appointment!----i shall run wild. _vapid._ to be sure you have hardly forgot your own hand writing. _lord._ her own hand writing!--get on, sir,--i beseech you, get on. _vapid._ why, look ye, old scratch,--you seem to be an admirer of this lady's.--now i think it my duty as a moral dramatist--a moral dramatist, sir, mark that--to expose hypocrisy--therefore, sir, there is the letter, read it, and be convinced of your error. _lord._ very well; have you done, sir--have you done?--consider i'm a peer of the realm, and i shall die if i don't talk. _vapid._ and now, sir, i must beg a favour of you--[_gets close to him._]--keep the whole affair secret, for if it gets hacknied, it loses its force.--to bring it all on the stage: hush! say nothing--it will have a capital effect, and brother bards will wonder where i stole it--your situation will be wonderful--you hav'n't an idea how ridiculous you will look--you will laugh very much at yourself, i assure you. _lord._ what is all this! well, now i will speak--i'll wait no longer. _vapid._ yes, yes, i shall take care of you,--falstaff in the buck basket will be nothing to it--he was only the dupe of another man's wife,--you'll be the dupe of your own, you know--"think of that, master brook, think of that." well, your servant. [_exit._ _lord._ he's gone without hearing me!--then there's an end of every thing, for here i stand, once a barrister,--since a country gentleman, and now a peer; and, though i have made twenty attempts to speak, i can't be heard a syllable,--mercy! what will this world come to! a peer, and not be heard! _lady._ my lord,--assured of my innocence, i have no doubt of justifying my own conduct, and even by means of that letter increasing your affection.--it was written to another person--your ungrateful nephew. _lord._ my nephew? _lady._ yes, sir, i could not perceive him losing the esteem of his friends, without having the desire to reclaim him--indeed, i knew no better mode of fulfilling my project, than by personally warning him of his situation.--for this purpose, i wrote that letter, and i never thought it would have been thus misused.--if there is any improper warmth in the expressions, it only proceeds from my anxiety of ensuring an interview.--i hope, sir, you are satisfied. _lord._ why, i believe you, my lady; and i should be perfectly satisfied if i could forget your passion for the stage, and that madman behind the sofa. _lady._ as to that, sir, this young lady can best inform you.--i desired him to leave the house an hour ago. _mari._ [_aside._] i'm afraid my only way is to confess all.--my lord, if i confess the truth, i hope you'll prevail on my aunt to forgive me. _lord._ tell what you know, and i'll answer for your forgiveness. _mari._ why, sir, i found the gentleman alone, and not having had a _tête-a-tête_ a long time, i pressed him to stay, and, on hearing your voice, i put him behind the sofa,--that you might not think any thing had happened,--and, indeed, sir, nothing did happen--upon my word he's as quiet, inoffensive a gentleman as yourself. _lord._ my fears are over! oh! you finished composition! come to my arms, and when i suspect you again--[_coughs much._]--this curst cough, it takes one so suddenly! _enter ennui._ _ennui._ i've an idea--floriville is arrived--in fact--i just now spoke to him. _lord._ floriville arrived!--come, my lady--let's go see what his travels have done for him.--hark ye, ennui--prepare for your interview with louisa, and remember you make a mandarin member.--come, my lady--nay, never irritate your feelings. [_exeunt lord and lady._ _mari._ so--poor mr neville is to lose miss courtney.--her present quarrel with him is so violent, that she may marry this idiot merely in revenge.--if i could dupe him now, and ensure her contempt.--i'll try.--mr ennui, have you seen your intended wife yet? _ennui._ no. _mari._ so i thought--why you'll never please her while you remain as you are.--you must alter your manners.--she is all life!--all spirits!--and loves a man the very opposite to you. _ennui._ i've an idea--i'm very sorry--in fact--how can i please her? _mari._ there's the difficulty--let me see--the sort of man she prefers is--you know sir harry hustle?--a man all activity and confidence!--who does every thing from fashion, and glories in confessing it. _ennui._ sir harry hustle?--in fact--he's a modern blood of fashion. _mari._ i know--that's the reason she likes him, and you must become the same, if you wish to win her affection--a new dress--bold looks--a few oaths, and much swaggering, effects the business. [_ennui puts himself in attitudes._] ay, that's right, you are the very man already. _ennui._ i'm a lad of fashion!--eh, dam'me!--i've an idea--i shall fall asleep in the midst of it. _mari._ no, no;--go about it directly--see sir harry hustle, and study your conversation before hand--but remember louisa is so fond of fashion, that you can't boast too much of its vices and absurdities. _ennui._ if virtue was the fashion, i should be virtuous!--i should, dam'me! _mari._ ay, that's the very thing--well;--good bye, mr ennui--success attend you--mind you talk enough. _ennui._ talk!--i'll talk till i fall asleep!--i will! dam'me! [_exit, swaggering.--marianne laughing._ act the third. scene i. _a saloon in lady waitfor't's house._ _louisa discovered reading._ _louisa._ heigho! these poets are wonderfully tiresome--always on the same theme--nothing but love--i'm weary of it. [_lays down the book, and rises._] ungenerous neville! how could he use me so cruelly? to attempt to gain my affections, and then address another? lady waitfor't has convinced me of the fact,--i can never forgive him: yet, i fear i love him still--well, i'll even go examine my heart, and determine whether i do love him or not. _enter neville, as she is going out._ mr neville!--i thought, sir, i had desired we might never meet again. _nev._ 'tis true, madam, and i meant to obey your commands, hard as they were, implicitly obey them--but i came hither to welcome my brother, and not to intrude on the happiness of her i am doomed to avoid. _louisa._ if i remember, sir, truth was ever among the foremost of your virtues? _nev._ yes--and i am confident you have no reason to doubt it--though you have cause to censure my presumption, you have none to suspect my fidelity. _louisa._ oh no!--i don't suspect your fidelity in the least, but when people are faithful to more than one, you know, mr neville---- _nev._ i don't understand you, ma'am. _louisa._ it is no matter, mr neville--you may spare yourself any trouble in attempting to justify your conduct--i am perfectly satisfied, sir, i'll assure you. [_going._ _nev._ oh, do not leave me in this anxious state!--perhaps this is the last time we shall ever meet, and to part thus, would embitter every future moment of my life. indeed, i have no hopes that concern not your happiness--no wishes that relate not to your esteem. _louisa._ sir,--i will freely confess to you, had you shown the least perseverance in your affection or sincerity in your behaviour, i could have heard your addresses with pleasure--but to listen to them now, mr neville, would be to approve a conduct, my honour prompts me to resent, and my pride to despise. _nev._ then i am lost indeed!--'tis to the perfidious lady waitfor't i owe all this--my present _enter lady waitfor't, behind._ misery--my future pain--are all the product of her jealous rage!--she is so vile a hypocrite, that-- _lady._ [_coming forward._] who is a hypocrite, sir? _nev._ madam! _lady._ who is a hypocrite, sir? answer me. _nev._ ask your own heart, that can best inform you. _lady._ tell me, mr neville, what have i done, that you dare insult me thus? _nev._ what have you done! look on that lady, madam;--there all my hopes and wishes were combined!--there was the very summit of my bliss!--i thought i had attained it; but in the moment of my happiness, you came, crushed every hope, and baffled all my joys. _lady._ upon my word, sir, very romantic,--but i thank heaven, i look for approbation in a better opinion than that of mr neville's. _nev._ 'tis well you do, madam; for were i your judge, your punishment should be exemplary.--but i'll waste words no more--i only hope [_to louisa._] you, madam, are satisfied that one of my errors may at least be forgiven, and this last suspicion for ever blotted from your memory. _lady._ sir,--from that lady's forgiveness you have nothing to expect--if she consents to pardon you, i'll take care my lord never shall. _nev._ no--i do not hope for forgiveness--i have heard her determination; and, cruel as it is, to that i must resign;--she may be assured i never will intrude where i know i offend. _louisa._ do you then leave us, mr neville? _nev._ yes, madam,--and for ever!----may you be as blest in the gratification of your hopes as i have been wretched in the disappointment of mine. [_exit._ _lady._ tyrant! i wish he had stayed to hear reason--i hope he is not serious in leaving us. _louisa._ you hope!--why does it concern you? _lady._ oh! no further than from that general love i bear mankind.--you forget my feelings on these occasions, louisa. _louisa._ yes, indeed--i have too much reason to attend to my own!--you'll excuse me--i have particular business--i'll return immediately. [_exit._ _lady._ oh! the cause of her confusion is evident--she loves him still--but they shall never meet again--i have already sent a letter to willoughby, which imparts a scheme i have long cherished. my lord, in his anger about my stage mania, has forgot ennui's play; so, that there may be no bars to willoughby's happiness, i am determined louisa shall be his this very night. _enter lord scratch._ _lord._ here's a spectacle for a peer! floriville is below, and has returned from his travels a finished coxcomb.--i'll not give him a farthing. _lady._ nay, my lord, perhaps you may be mistaken. _lord._ mistaken! no,--he has travelled not to see, but to say he had seen. _enter marianne, with a french watch and chain._ _mari._ oh, uncle-in-law! look here----i never saw any thing so elegant in all my life. _lord._ whose present is this? _mari._ whose!--why the sweet gentleman's just arrived from italy.--lord! he's a dear man!--he has promised to do every thing for me--to get me a fortune--to get me a husband--to get me a---- _lord._ hush! you don't know what you are talking about. _mari._ yes, but i do, though--he has told me every thing--lord! i have heard such things!--come here, near--[_lord scratch gets close to her._] get my aunt out of the room, and i'll tell you stories that shall make your old heart bound again! hush! do it quietly--i will, upon my honour.--what an old fool it is! [_aside._ _lady._ marianne, you mustn't listen to mr floriville,--for travellers may persuade you into any thing--and many a woman has been ruined in one country, by being told it is the fashion in another. _lord._ here he comes: i see, as plain as my peerage, i sha'n't keep my temper. _enter floriville._ _flor._ ladies, a thousand pardons, for not waiting on you before, but this is the first vacant moment i have had since my arrival in bath. _mari._ sir, your coming at all is taken as a very great compliment, i'll assure you. _lady._ leave the room immediately--no reply--i will be obeyed--[_to marianne, who exits._] mr floriville, we are very happy to see you. _flor._ ma'am, you do me honour--my lord, where's harry?--i thought to have found him here;--what, he didn't chuse to stay?--so much the better--it shows he's not a man of ceremony--we do the same in italy. but, hark ye, uncle,--is this the lady i'm to call my aunt? _lord._ my gorge is rising: i shall certainly do him a mischief. _flor._ [_spying at her._] rather experienced or so--a little antique, eh!--however, the same motive that makes her a good aunt to me, will make her a good wife to you--you understand me? _lord._ dam'me if i do. _flor._ well, well, no matter--come, i want to hear every thing--to know what remarkable occurrences have happened since i left england.--pray, lady waitfor't, inform me--do let me know every little circumstance. _lady._ rather, sir, we should ask of you what happened in your travels? _flor._ oh, nothing so shocking!--no man can be the herald of his own praise. _lady._ yes, sir,--but i wish to know how you like the chapel of loretto, the venus de medicis of florence, the vatican at rome, and all the numberless curiosities peculiar to the countries you have travelled through? _lord._ look ye--i'll answer for it, he knows nothing of the gentlemen you mention--do you, my sweet pretty?--oh! you damned puppy! _flor._ why swear, my lord? _lord._ swear, my lord! zounds! it's my prerogative, and, by----tell me how you spent your time, sir? _flor._ why, in contemplating living angels, not dead antiquities;--in basking in the rays of beauty, not mouldering in the dust of ancestry;--in mirth, festivity, and pleasure; not study, pedantry, and retirement.--oh, i have lived, sir! lived for myself, not an ungrateful world, who, should i die a martyr to their cause, would only laugh and wonder at my folly. _lady._ you seem to know the world, mr floriville. _flor._ no, ma'am, i know little of mankind, and less of myself,--i have no pilot, but my pleasures;--no mistress, but my passions;--and i don't believe, if it was to save my life, i could reason consequentially for a minute together. _lord._ granted:--you have seen every thing worth seeing, yet know nothing worth knowing;--and now you have just knowledge enough to prove yourself a fool on every subject. _flor._ vastly well, my lord--upon my word, you improve with your title, but i am perfectly satisfied, believe me--for what i don't know, i take for granted is not worth knowing--therefore we'll call another topic.--i'm in love, my lord. _lord._ in love!--with who, sir? _flor._ can't you guess? _lord._ no, sir, i cannot. _flor._ with one that will please you very much--at least, ought to please you--you'll be in raptures, dear uncle. _lord._ raptures! and you shall be in agonies, my dear nephew. _flor._ you have known one another a long while, yet you hav'n't met for years--you have loved one another a long while, yet you quarrelled not an hour ago--you have differed from one another all your lives, yet you are likely to be friends as long as you live--and, above all, the person is now in the house. _lord._ in this house! let me know who it is this moment, or by the blood of the scratches---- _flor._ one who has charms enough to set the world on fire;--one who has fortune enough to set a state at war, sir;--one who has talents, health, and prosperity, and yet not half what the person deserves:--can you tell now, sir? _lord._ no, sir, and if you don't tell this instant---- _flor._ then i'll tell you, [_slaps him on the back._] it's myself, sir! my own charming self!--i have searched the world over, and i don't find any thing i like half so well. [_walks up the stage._ _lord._ i won't disgrace myself,--i won't lower the dignity of peerage, by chastising a commoner;--else, you prince of butterflies----come, my lady----look ye, sir--i intend to be handed down to posterity; and, while you are being lampooned in ballads and newspapers, i mean to cut a figure in the history of england:--so, come along, my lady--in the history of england, you coxcomb! [_exeunt lord and lady._ _flor._ if the face is the picture of the mind, that intended aunt of mine is a great hypocrite, and the story i heard of the poet proves it.--but now for a frolic--'gad it's very strange i could never reform, and become a serious thinking being--but what's the use of thinking? reason stays till we call, and then not oft is near, but honest instinct comes a volunteer!-- [_exit._ scene ii. _an apartment in lady waitfor't's house._ _enter willoughby and servant._ _will._ [_to servant._] tell your mistress i shall be punctual to the appointment. [_exit servant._] so, thanks to fortune, lady waitfor't has at length consented to my entreaties, and this night makes louisa mine for ever!--now to read the letter once more. [_reads._ _louisa accompanies me to-night to lady walton's, which you know is at the extremity of the town--on some pretence or other i'll tell her i have ordered the servant at the back gate which adjoins the paddock,--there i'll leave her--and if you have a chaise waiting near the spot, you may conduct her where you please.--you know my feelings on this occasion, but it is for her good only, i'll assure you--she don't deserve it, mr willoughby:--indeed she don't deserve it._ a. waitfor't. so--this is beyond my hopes!--ha! my lord, and louisa with him, come to receive ennui, whom, to my astonishment, i met just now swearing and capering, and boasting of the vices of fashion--but no matter--i must to the rendezvous immediately--now, louisa, tremble at my vengeance! [_exit._ _enter lord scratch and louisa._ _lord._ yes, yes:--ennui will be here in an instant--but he's so reserved--and so mild-- _louisa._ so i understand, sir--and so very silent, that he won't talk so much in a year, as i intend in an hour. _lord._ i know--that's the reason i bring him into parliament--he'll never speak--only say "ay" or "no," and be up stairs to beef-steaks in an instant, [_knock._] here he is!--now encourage him--don't mind his diffidence-- _louisa._ no, sir--i'll do all in my power to make him talk. _lord._ that's well--i'll leave you together--i won't interrupt you, [_stamping without._] odso!--i must get out of the way,--encourage him; louisa--i beseech you encourage him! [_exit._ _ennui._ [_without._] stand by! no ceremony, damme!-- _louisa._ heaven!--is this diffidence? _enter ennui and servant._ _ennui._ get down stairs, you dog--get down,--[_exit servant._] here i am, ma'am:--ease is every thing--i'll seat myself--now for business!--yaw--aw!-- [_yawns aside._ _louisa._ sir! _ennui._ in one word, i'll tell you my character,--i'm a lad of fashion!--i love gaming--i hate thinking--i like racing--i despise reading--i patronize boxing--i detest reasoning--i pay debts of honour,--not honourable debts--in short, i'll kick your servants--cheat your family, and fight your guardian--and so if you like me, take me--heh, damme!--i'm tired already!--yaw--aw. [_yawns aside._ _louisa._ astonishing!--mr ennui-- _ennui._ ma'am? yaw--aw! [_aside._ _louisa._ mr ennui, can you be in your senses? _ennui._ in fact--i don't comprehend [_forgetting himself._]--oh--ay--senses! [_recollecting himself._] a lad of fashion in his senses!--that's a very good joke!--if one of us had any sense, the rest would shut him up in a cabinet of curiosities, or show him as a wonderful animal:--they would, damme!--i can't support it!--yaw--aw! [_yawns aside._ _louisa._ so, you glory in your ignorance? _ennui._ ma'am--yaw! aw! [_aside._ _louisa._ so, you glory in your ignorance--in your vices? _ennui._ i've an idea--i can't understand--[_forgetting himself._]--vices! oh:--ay, damme, to be sure; [_recollecting himself._] you must be wicked, or you can't be visited--singularity is every thing,--every man must get a character, and i'll tell you how i first got mine:--i pretended to intrigue with my friend's wife,--paragraph'd myself in the newspapers,--got caricatured in the print-shops--made the story believed,--was abused by every body,--noticed for my gallantry by every body--and at length visited by every body--i was, damme!--i'm curst sleepy,--yaw--aw! [_yawns aside._ _louisa._ incredible!--but if singularity is your system, perhaps being virtuous would make you as particular as any thing. _ennui._ vastly well!--'gad, you're like me, a wit, and don't know it. [_taking out his watch._] how goes the enemy?--more than half the day over!--tol de rol lol! [_humming a tune._] i'm as happy as if i was at a fire, or a general riot.--come to my arms, thou angel--thou--[_as he goes to embrace her, lord scratch enters--he embraces him._] ah,--scratch!--my friend scratch!--sit down, my old boy--sit down,--we've settled every thing. [_forces him into a chair, and sits by him._] _lord._ why,--what is all this? _ennui._ she's to intrigue, and you and i are to go halves in the damages--some rich old nabob--we'll draw him into _crim. con._--bring an action directly, and a ten thousand pound verdict at least--eh, damme!-- _lord._ why he's mad!--that dramatic maniac has bit him. _ennui._ get a divorce--marry another, and go halves again, damme! _lord._ [_rising._] why, look ye, you impostor!--you--didn't you come here to pay your addresses to this lady? and wasn't i to bring you into parliament, for your quiet silent disposition? _ennui._ [_pushing him out of his way._] hold your tongue! out of the way, scratch!--out of the way, or i'll do you a mischief--i will, damme!--zounds!--a'nt i at the top of the beau monde? and don't i set the fashions?--if i was to cut off my head, wouldn't half the town do the same?--they would, damme!--i get sleepy again!--yaw--aw!-- [_aside._ _lord._ here now!--here's a mandarin member;--why, he'd have bred a civil war!--made ten long speeches in a day!--cut your head off, indeed!--curse me but i wish you would--you must be silent then--you couldn't talk without a head, could you? _ennui._ yes, in parliament--as well without a head as with one--do you think a man wants a head for a long speech, damme!-- _enter servant._ _servant._ her ladyship is waiting, ma'am. _louisa._ oh, i attend her,--mr ennui, your most obedient. _ennui._ [_taking her hand._] with your leave, ma'am.--you see, scratch--you see. _lord._ why, louisa!-- _ennui._ keep your distance, scratch--contemplate your superiors,--look at me with the same awful respect a city beau looks at a prince,--this way, most angelic--scratch, cut your head off--this way, most angelic. [_exit with louisa._ _lord._ here's treatment!--was ever poor peer so tormented?--what am i to do?--i'll go to lady waitfor't, for from her alone i meet relief,--find a silent member, indeed!--by my privilege one might as soon find a pin in the ocean,--charity in a bench of bishops,--or wit in westminster hall! [_exit._ act the fourth. scene i. _the paddock near lady walton's house--a view of the house at a distance, and partly moonlight._ _willoughby alone._ _willoughby._ 'tis past the hour lady waitfor't appointed--why does she delay? i cannot have mistaken the place--yonder's lady walton's house--oh! 'would all were past, and louisa safely mine! i hear a noise--by heaven 'tis she! and with her all my happiness--i'll withdraw a while, and observe them. [_retires._ _enter lady waitfor't and louisa courtney._ _louisa._ my dear lady waitfor't, why do you loiter here? you cannot find your servants in this place--let us return to lady walton's. _lady._ no, no, they must be here,--i ordered them to wait in this very spot, to avoid confusion. what can have become of willoughby? [_aside._ _louisa._ if you have the least sense of fear for yourself, or regard for me, i beg we may return to lady walton's. _lady._ no, no, i tell you i ordered william at the back gate, that he might conduct us through the paddock to our carriage; you know we might have been whole hours getting through the crowd the other way--do be a little patient, hav'n't i as much reason to be alarmed as yourself? _louisa._ yes, but you have not the apprehension i have; i don't know why, but i am terrified beyond description. _lady._ well, well, never fear; [_looking out._] oh, yonder's willoughby! now for the grand design! [_aside._] louisa, if you'll wait here a moment i'll step to the next gate, and see if they are there;--they cannot escape us then. _louisa._ no, no, don't leave me;--i wouldn't stay by myself for the world. _lady._ ridiculous! can't you protect yourself for an instant? must you be all your life watch'd like a baby in leading-strings? oh! i am ashamed of you--only wait a moment, lest they pass by in my absence, and i'll return to you immediately. _louisa._ well: don't stay. _lady._ stay! what have you to be frightened at? i shall not be out of call;--besides, if there's any fear of a personal attack, may not i be as terrified as yourself? it isn't the first time, i'll assure you, but that's no matter;--show yourself a woman of spirit, and, at least, emulate one of my virtues.--now, willoughby, the rest is thine! [_exit._ _willoughby comes forward._ _willoughby._ be not alarmed, miss courtney. _louisa._ mr willoughby! _willoughby._ yes, madam; the man you most avoid. _louisa._ tell me, sir, immediately, how, and by whose appointment, you came here? _willoughby._ by love, madam; the same passion that has prompted me to pursue you for years, now happily conducts me hither;--i come to lessen your fears, not to increase them. _louisa._ then, leave me, sir, i can protect myself. _willoughby._ no, not till you have heard and pitied me; i have been long your suitor, and long scorned by you; you have treated me with indifference, and preferred my inferiors; how i have deserved all this, yourself can best explain, but, to prove all former cruelties are forgotten, i here offer you my hand, and, with it, my heart. _louisa._ sir,--this is no time for hearing you on this subject; if you wish to oblige me, leave me. _willoughby._ no, not till i am answered;--years may elapse ere i shall have another opportunity like the present, therefore no time can be so well as now. _louisa._ then i command you to leave me,--i will not be threatened into a compliance. _willoughby._ look ye, miss courtney--i would avoid taking advantage of your situation--nay, start not--but if you persist in your contempt of me, i know not to what extremities passion may hurry me; i have every motive for redress, and, if you do not instantly give me your word, to prefer me to that beggar neville, i may do that, my cooler sense would scorn. _louisa._ beggar, sir! _willoughby._ yes; and, were he not beneath my resentment, i'd tell you more;--but he is too poor--too-- _louisa._ hold, sir; did you resemble him, i might esteem, nay, adore you; but as you are, i loath, i despise, i defy you;--you take advantage of my situation!--hear me, sir,--though not a friend is near,--though night opposes me, and heaven deserts me, yet can i smile upon your menaces, and make you tremble, villain as you are. _willoughby._ have a care, madam! another declaration like that, and i'll delay no longer;--i'll force you to my purpose. _louisa._ you dare not, on your life you dare not. _willoughby._ nay, then--i am not to be terrified by threats,--[_lays hold of her._] all struggling is in vain; this moment gratifies my revenge,--away! _louisa._ off,--let me go! oh, help! help! [_as he is forcing her out, enter floriville, half drunk._] _flor._ "donne, donne, donne, dow." [_singing part of an italian air._] oh, this burgundy's a glorious liquor! hey-day! who have we here? _louisa._ oh, sir! if you have any pity for an injured, helpless woman, assist one who never knew distress till now! _flor._ go on, ma'am, go on--both damn'd drunk i perceive. _louisa._ do not be deaf to my entreaties--do not desert me-- _flor._ go on, ma'am, go on--i love oratory in a woman. _louisa._ gracious heaven! how have i deserved all this? i see, sir, you avoid me. i see you are indifferent to my fate. _flor._ no, ma'am, you wrong me--but in italy--observe--we always take these things coolly--now, sir, will you explain? _willoughby._ no, sir, i will not. _flor._ you will not? _willoughby._ no, sir, and i warn you not to listen to the wild ravings of a senseless woman--it may be better for you, sir. _flor._ why so, prince prettiman? _willoughby._ no matter, sir, i will not be amused from my purpose. _flor._ you won't, old pluto, won't you? then, ma'am, observe! you shall behold my mode of fighting--i'll kill him like a gentleman, and he shall die without a groan;--you'll be delighted, ma'am--i learnt it all in italy.--come, belzebub, are you ready? _willoughby._ 'sdeath! what can i do? he is drunk, perhaps i may disarm him. _flor._ now, thou original sin, thou prince of darkness! come out; never let her see thy black infernal visage more, or by my life i'll pulverize you--you see, ma'am, no bad orator either--learnt it all in italy. _willoughby._ come on, sir. _flor._ ay, now old sysiphus, push home--but fight like a gentleman, if you can, for remember, there is a lady in company--observe, ma'am, observe; you won't see it again. [_they fight.--floriville disarms willoughby._] _flor._ what, vanquished, tarquin? hah! hah! [_parrying up and down the stage by himself._]--you see, ma'am, you see!--oh! italy's your only country!--now, ma'am, would you have me kill him here, "in allegro," or postpone it, that you may have the pleasure of pinking him yourself, "in penseroso?" _louisa._ [_coming near floriville, and discovering him._] floriville, my deliverer!--generous man!--no, sir, whatever are his crimes, do not kill him; his greatest punishment will be to live. _flor._ there, then, caitiff, take your sword, and, d'ye hear? retire;--that black front of thine offends the lady;--if you want another flourish, you will soon find floriville--abscond. _willoughby._ sir, you shall hear from me--distraction! [_exit._ _flor._ and now, my dear little angel, how can i assist you? i'm very sorry that i can't help it--i'm cursed drunk, and not proper company for a lady of your dignity,--but i won't affront you,--i mean to make myself agreeable, and if i do not--it is the fault of that place, [_pointing to his head._] and not of this, [_pointing to his heart._] _louisa._ sir, your conduct has endeared you to me for ever, and while i live, your generosity and valour shall be engraven on my heart. _flor._ gently, gently, have a care, make no declarations; if you are in love with me, as i suppose you are, keep it secret,--for at this moment you might raise a flame that would consume us both;--poor creature! how fond she is of me! any other time i would indulge her, but not now--[_looks at her sometime, then runs, and kisses her hand._]--oh, you paragon!--"angels must paint to look as fair as you."--[_goes from her again._]--i'll leave you, or, by heaven, it will be all over with us. _louisa._ no, no, don't desert me! alas! i have no way left but to commit myself to your care--if i could bring him to recollect me, all would be safe. mr floriville, don't you know me? _flor._ no, 'would to heaven i did. _louisa._ what, not miss courtney? _flor._ what, louisa? my brother's idol? _louisa._ alas! the very same. _flor._ then may i die, if i don't get out of your debt before i leave you--where--where shall i conduct you? _louisa._ i know not--return to lady waitfor't's again, i will not--i had rather be a wanderer all my life--to lady walton's there is no excuse for returning, and i know no friend in bath i dare intrude upon.--i have so high an opinion, mr floriville, of your honour, that, notwithstanding your present situation, there is no man on earth i would sooner confide in;--can you then think of any place where i may rest in safety for a few hours, and then i will set out for my uncle's in the country. _flor._ indeed i cannot, i am a wanderer myself;--i have no home but what this gentleman is to purchase me [_taking out his purse._]--you cannot partake of that. _louisa._ oh! what will become of me? _flor._ let me see--i have it--i'll take her to my brother's;--she'll be safe there, and not a soul shall come near her.--well, miss courtney,--i have recollected a place where i know you'll be safe--a friend's house, that will be as secure--nay, don't droop--in italy we're never melancholy. _louisa._ oh, mr floriville, to what a hazard has lady waitfor't exposed me!--to her perfidy i owe it all--but yonder's that wretch again--pray let us begone. _flor._ belzebub again,--no, no, we mustn't stir;--what! an angel fly from a devil? damme, i'll stay and crush him. _louisa._ nay, sir, reflect,--'twere madness to remain. _flor._ 'faith that's true; i believe it's braver to retire,--therefore, tarquin, adieu; come, my best angel! i'll fight your battles, and if i don't sink all your enemies, may i never see italy again as long as i live! [_exeunt._ _enter willoughby._ _willoughby._ ha! gone,--i am sorry for it--i would have seen them--lady waitfor't has just left me, and treated me like her slave,--insulted and derided me; but i'll have done with her for ever,--i'll be her dupe no more;--she is now gone to neville's lodgings, under pretence of pursuing louisa, but, in fact, to see him, and prevent his leaving bath;--this i will write to my lord, and then let him follow, and be witness of her infamy;--thus, i hope, i shall make some reparation for the wrongs i have committed, and prove at last i have some sense of virtue. [_exit._ scene ii. _neville's lodgings--a closet in back scene.--two chairs, and a table, with wine on it.--a knocking at the door._ _enter peter, reading a card._ _peter._ _vapid presents his compliments to his friend neville; has thought of nothing but writing the epilogue for his friend's play since they parted; he has made great progress, and will wait on him to take his judgment on it in a few minutes._ if the gentleman should come soon, i fear my master won't be at home to receive him. [_knocks.--peter opens the door, and lets in vapid._ _vapid._ well, here it is;--where's neville? _peter._ not within, sir. _vapid._ yes, yes, here it is:--i must see him. _peter._ sir, he's gone out. _vapid._ gone out? impossible! _peter._ impossible! it's very true, sir. _vapid._ gone out! why, i've brought him the epilogue--the new epilogue to mr what's-his-name's comedy; the very best thing i ever wrote in my life; i knew it would delight him. _peter._ sir, he has been gone out above these two hours. _vapid._ then he'll never forgive himself as long as he lives; why, it's all correct--all chaste! only one half line wanting at the end to make it complete. _peter._ indeed, sir, it's very unfortunate. _vapid._ unfortunate! i wanted to have heard him read it too; when another person reads it, one often hits on a thought that might otherwise have escaped; then, perhaps, he would have hit on that cursed half line, i have so long been working at. _peter._ sir, if it is not impertinent, and you'd permit me to read it-- _vapid._ you read it! _peter._ yes, sir, if you'd allow me that honour. _vapid._ 'faith, i should have no objection,--but wouldn't it lower one's dignity? no, no, moliere used to read his plays to his servants, so i believe all's regular.--come, sir, begin. [_peter reading epilogue._ in ancient times, when agonizing wars, and bleeding nations, fill'd the world with jars; when murder, battle, sudden death, prevail'd, when---- _vapid._ stop--stop--i have it: not a word for your life; i feel it--it's coming on--the last line directly--quick! quick! [_peter reads._ the tyrant totters, and the senate nods, die all, die nobly!---- _peter._ here's something wanting, sir. _vapid._ i know it, say nothing--i have it-- [_walks backwards and forwards._ the tyrant totters, and the senate nods, die all, die nobly!---- oh, damn it! damn it! damn it!--that cursed half line!--i shall never accomplish it--all so chaste--all so correct,--and to have it marr'd for want of one half line,--one curst half line! i could almost weep for disappointment. _peter._ never mind, sir, don't perplex yourself,--put in any thing. _vapid._ put in any thing! why, 'tis the last line, and the epilogue must end with something striking, or it will be no trap for applause--no trap for applause, after all this fine writing!--put in any thing!--what do you mean, sirrah? _peter._ methinks this is a strange epilogue to a comedy--[_knock at the door._]--perhaps this is my master--[_looks out._]--no, as i live, 'tis mr floriville and miss courtney! she mustn't on any account be seen by this gentleman. _vapid._ well, who is it?--"the tyrant totters"-- _peter._ sir, it's a friend of my master's who has brought a lady with him--i'm sure you've too much gallantry to interrupt an amour; and, therefore, you'll be kind enough to get out of the way directly. _vapid._ get out of the way! what the devil, in the middle of my composition?--"die all, die nobly"-- _peter._ nay, sir, only step for a moment into this closet, and you shall be released,--now, pray, sir,--pray be prevailed on. _vapid._ well, let me see--in this closet! why, here's china, zounds! would you put a live author in a china closet? _peter._ what can i do, sir? there is no way out but that door--get in here for an instant, and i'll show them into the library--now do, sir. _vapid._ well, be brief then,--"die all! die nobly!"--oh! oh! oh! [_enters closet, and floriville and louisa enter._ _flor._ hey-day!--my old acquaintance, peter! where's my brother? _peter._ sir, he has been out the whole evening. _louisa._ in the same house with neville!--oh, heavens! _flor._ well, miss courtney, i hope now you are convinced of your safety. _louisa._ yes, sir, but i would it were in any other place; lady waitfor't, ere this, is in pursuit of me, and if she discovers me here, you know too well how much i have to dread. [_knock at the door.--exit peter._ _flor._ don't be alarm'd, there's nothing shall molest you. _louisa._ oh, sir, you don't know the endless malice of lady waitfor't--she will triumph in my misery, and till my lord is convinced of her duplicity, i see no hope of your brother's happiness, or my own. _enter peter._ _peter._ lady waitfor't is below, inquiring for that lady, or my master. _flor._ for my brother? _peter._ yes, sir, and my lord has sent to know if mr vapid, or her ladyship, have been here;--he was in bed, but on receiving a letter, got up, and will be here in an instant. _louisa._ for heaven's sake, mr floriville, let me retire,--i cannot support the conflict. _flor._ promise to recall your spirits, and you shall. _louisa._ what i can do i will. _flor._ then know no apprehension, for, on my life, you shall not be disturbed. [_leads her to the door of the library, and talks in dumb show._ _vapid._ [_from closet._] peter! peter! can't you release me? _peter._ no, sir, don't move, you'll ruin every thing. _vapid._ then give me that candle--i have pen and ink--i think i could finish my epilogue. _peter._ here, sir. [_giving candle._ _vapid._ that curst half line--"die all"-- [_peter shuts him in._ _flor._ so, now, the storm begins, and if i don't have some sport with the enemy--[_sits at table, and begins drinking._]--here she comes. _enter lady waitfor't._ _flor._ chairs, peter, chairs,--sit down, ma'am--sit down--you honour me exceedingly. _lady._ where is your brother, sir? i insist on seeing him. _enter lord scratch._ _lord._ there she is!--in a man's lodgings at midnight--here's treatment! _lady._ my lord, i came here in search of louisa, who has been betrayed from my power. _lord._ look ye, my lady--read that letter, that's all; read that letter, and then say, if we sha'n't both cut a figure in the print shops. _lady._ [_taking letter._] ha! willoughby's hand! [_reads._] _lady waitfor't, (i have only time to tell you) is gone to neville's lodgings, to meet one she has long had a passion for--follow her, and be convinced of her duplicity._ oh, the villain! well, my lord, and pray who is the man i come to meet? _lord._ why, who should it be but the stage ruffian? if there was a sofa in the room, my life on't, he'd pop from behind it.--zounds! that fellow will lay straw before my door every nine months! _lady._ this is fortunate.--[_aside._]--well, sir, if i discover louisa, i hope you'll be convinced i came here to redeem her, and not disgrace myself. tell me, sir, immediately, where she is concealed. [_to floriville._ _flor._ sit down, ma'am--sit down: drink, drink, then we'll talk over the whole affair--there is no doing business without wine; come, here's "the glory of gallantry"--i'm sure you'll both drink that. _lady._ no trifling, sir; tell me where she is concealed;--nay, then i'll examine the apartment myself--[_goes to door of library._]--the door lock'd! give me the key, sir. _flor._ [_drinking._] "the glory of gallantry, ma'am." _lord._ hear me, sir, if the lady's in that apartment, i shall be convinced that you and your brother are the sole authors of all this treachery; if she is there, by the honour of my ancestors, she shall be willoughby's wife to-morrow morning. _flor._ [_rising._] shall she, my lord? pray, were you ever in italy? _lord._ why, coxcomb? _flor._ because, i'm afraid you've been bitten by a tarantula--you'll excuse me, but the symptoms are wonderfully alarming--there is a blazing fury in your eye--a wild emotion in your countenance, and a green spot-- _lord._ damn the green spot! open that door, and let me see immediately: i'm a peer, and have a right to look at any thing. _flor._ [_standing before the door._] no, sir; this door must not be open'd. _lord._ then i'll forget my peerage, and draw my sword. _flor._ [_to lady waitfor't, who is going to interfere._] don't be alarm'd, ma'am, i'll only indulge him for my own amusement--mere trout fishing, ma'am-- _enter louisa, from the apartment._ _louisa._ hold! i charge you, hold!--let not my unhappy fate be the source of more calamities. _lord._ 'tis she herself:--my lady did not come to meet the madman. _flor._ by the lord, ma'am, you have ruined all. _louisa._ i know, sir, the consequences of this discovery, and i abide by them.--but what i have done, i can justify, and 'would to heaven all here could do the same! _flor._ indeed, i can't tell--i wish i was in italy. _lord._ mark me, madam,--nay, tears are in vain--to-morrow shall make you the wife of willoughby; and he shall answer for your follies.--no reply, sir, [_to floriville, who is going to speak._] i wou'dn't hear the chancellor. _lady._ now, who is to blame? oh, virtue is ever sure to meet its reward!--come to meet a mad poet, indeed!--my lord, i forgive you only on condition of your signing a contract to marry me to-morrow, and louisa to willoughby, at the same time. _lord._ i will, thou best of women!--draw it up immediately--and neville shall starve for his treachery. [_lady waitfor't goes to the table, and writes._ _louisa._ [_falling at the feet of lord scratch._] hear me, sir, not for myself, but for a wrong'd friend, i speak:--mr neville knows not of my concealment; on my honour, he is innocent:--if that lady's wrongs must be avenged, confine the punishment to me--i'll bear it, with patience bear it. _lord._ let go!--let go, i say!--lady waitfor't, make haste with the contract. _lady._ it only waits the signature.--now, my lord. _flor._ look ye, uncle--she's the cause of all this mischief, and if you are not lost---- _lord._ out of my way!--o'd--noise and nonsense!--don't fancy yourselves in the house of commons! we're not speaking twenty at a time. here! give me the pen--i'll sign directly; and now-- [_as he is going to sign, vapid breaks the china in the closet, and rushes out, with the epilogue in his hand._ _vapid._ "die all! die nobly! die like demi-gods!"--huzza, huzza! 'tis done! 'tis past! 'tis perfect. _flor._ huzza!--the poet at last; "stop him who can!" _lady._ confusion!--tell me, sir, immediately, what do you mean by this new insult? _vapid._ "die all! die nobly! die like demi-gods!"--oh, it's glorious!--ah, old scratch, are you there?--joy, joy! give me joy!--i've done your business! the work's past!--the labour's o'er, my boy!--"think of that, master brook--think of that!" _lady._ my lord, i am vilely treated.--i desire you'll insist on an explanation. _flor._ he can't speak, madam. [_all this time, my lord is slowly walking away._ _lady._ how! are you going to leave me, my lord? _vapid._ [_taking out his common-place book._] 'faith this musn't be lost!--here's something worth observing. [_exit lord scratch._ _lady._ oh, i shall burst with rage!--mr vapid, i desire you'll explain how you came in that closet.--why don't you answer me, sir? _vapid._ your pardon, ma'am, i was taking a note of the affair--and yet i'm afraid---- _lady._ what are you afraid of, sir? _vapid._ that it has been dramatized before;--it is certainly not a new case. _lady._ insupportable!--but i take my leave of you all!--i abandon you for ever!--i!--oh, i shall go wild! [_exit in a rage._ _flor._ ay, ay, follow his lordship--virtue is ever sure to meet its reward. now, mr vapid, tell us how you came in that closet? _vapid._ 'faith, i can't.--i believe the servant hurried me there on your approach. _flor._ then you didn't come to meet lady waitfor't? _vapid._ meet lady waitfor't!--no, i came to read my epilogue to neville; and a wonderful production it is--"the tyrant totters, and the senate nods." [_walking about._ _louisa._ to what a strange fatality of circumstances has her character been exposed!--but vice often finds its punishment for a crime it never committed, when it escapes for thousands it daily practises. _flor._ well, miss courtney, i hope now your apprehensions are at an end? _louisa._ yes, sir, i shall remain for the short time necessary to prepare for my journey, and beg i may detain you no longer. i'm afraid i have already been a great intruder. _flor._ no, you have been the occasion of more happiness than ever i experienced. but you won't leave bath, till you've seen my brother? _louisa._ oh, i have been cruelly deceived, mr floriville! i have injured your brother so much, that, though i wish, i almost dread to see him. _flor._ then i'll go in search of him,--and if i don't reconcile you----come, mr vapid, will you walk? _vapid._ with all my heart. _flor._ [_taking him by the hand._] by heaven, you are an honest fellow. _vapid._ madam, good night!--if i can be of any service to you in the dramatic, or any other way, you may command me. _flor._ ay, i'll answer for him,--he would die to serve you. _vapid._ die to serve her! ay, "die all!--die nobly!--die like demi-gods!" [_exeunt._ act the fifth. scene i. _lady waitfor't's apartment._ _lady waitfor't discovered at her toilette. letty waiting._ _lady._ mr vapid not come yet, letty? _letty._ no, ma'am,--but the servant, who found him at the tavern, said he would be here immediately. _lady._ i protest, i am almost weary of them all.--[_noise without._] see who's there. [_letty listens, and returns._ _letty._ mr vapid at last:--now, pray your ladyship, insist on his explaining every thing to my lord. _lady._ yes; but vilely as he has treated me, i must still be calm. _vapid, putting his head in._ walk in, sir, walk in. _vapid._ no, ma'am, i'd rather stay here. _lady._ i beg you'll be seated, mr vapid--i have something of consequence to impart to you. _enter vapid, gently._ _vapid._ i'd never have ventured but in hopes of seeing my dear marianne. _lady._ indeed i will not detain you a moment. _vapid._ very well, ma'am, if that's the case----[_slowly seating himself._] it's very alarming. [_aside._ _lady._ letty, leave the room, and fasten the door. [_exit letty._ _vapid._ no, no!--don't do that, i beseech you! _lady._ you're very much frightened, mr vapid;--i hope you don't suppose i have any design against you? _vapid._ i don't know, really, ma'am--such things are perfectly dramatic. _lady._ well, but, to release you from your fears, i'll tell you why i have given you this trouble--my business, mr vapid, was to converse with you on the farcical affair that happened at neville's. _vapid._ farcical! _lady._ yes, sir, the farcical affair that happened at mr neville's. _vapid._ farcical?--what, my epilogue, ma'am?--i hope you don't mean to reflect on that? _lady._ no, sir, far from it--i have no doubt but it is a very elegant composition. _vapid._ doubt!--here it is, read it!--the very first production of the age! a regular climax of poetic beauty!--the last line the _ne plus ultra_ of genius. _lady._ but, to be serious, mr vapid---- _vapid._ why, i am serious:--and i'll tell you, lady waitfor't, 'tis the last line of an epilogue, and the last scene of a comedy, that always distracts me--'tis the reconciliation of lovers--there's the difficulty!--you find it so in real life, i dare say? _lady._ yes.--but mr vapid, this affair concerns me excessively, and i wish to know what is to be done. _vapid._ i'll tell you,--write a play,--and, bad as it may possibly be, say it's a translation from the french, and interweave a few compliments on the english, and, my life on't, it does wonders.--do it, and say you had the thought from me. _lady._ sir, do you mean to deride me? _vapid._ no.--but only be cautious in your style--women are in general apt to indulge that pruriency and warm luxuriancy of fancy they possess,--but do be careful--be decent--if you are not, i have done with you. _lady._ sir, i desire you'll be more respectful.--i don't understand it at all. [_rising._ _enter marianne._ _vapid._ then here comes one that will explain every thing. "there's in her all that we believe of heaven; amazing brightness, purity, and truth, eternal joy, and everlasting love!" my dear sweet little partner, i rejoice to see you! _mari._ and, my dear sweet mr poet, i rejoice to see you! _lady._ provoking!--have i not told you a thousand times, never to break in upon me when i am alone? _mari._ alone, my lady! do you call mr vapid nobody, then? _lady._ suppose i should,--what is that to you? _mari._ then i have a wrong notion of your nobodies.--i always thought them harmless, unmeaning things; but mr vapid's not so very harmless either--are you, mr vapid? _vapid._ indeed, ma'am, i am not. _mari._ there now,--i told you so.--upon my word, you rely too much on your time of life,--you do indeed. you think, because you're a little the worse for wear, you may trust yourself any where,--but you're mistaken--you're not near so bad as you imagine--nay, i don't flatter, do i, mr vapid? _vapid._ indeed, ma'am, you do not. _lady._ look ye, miss,--your insolence is not to be borne--you have been the chief cause of all my perplexities. _mari._ nay, aunt, don't say that. _lady._ no matter,--your behaviour is shameless, and it is high time i exerted the authority of a relation--you are a disgrace to me--to yourself, and your friends--therefore, i am determined to put into execution a scheme i have long thought of. _mari._ what is it? something pleasant i hope. _lady._ no, you shall retire to a convent, till you take possession of your fortune. _mari._ a convent! oh lord! i can't make up my mind to it, now don't, pray don't think of it--i declare it's quite shocking. _lady._ it is a far better place than you deserve; my resolution is fixed, and we shall see whether a life of solitude and austerity will not awaken some sense of shame in you. _mari._ indeed, i can't bear the thoughts of it.--oh do speak to her, mr vapid--tell her about the nasty monks, now do,--a convent! mercy! what a check to the passions! oh! i can't bear it. [_weeping._ _vapid._ gad, here's a sudden touch of tragedy--pray, lady waitfor't, reflect--you can't send a lady to a convent when the theatres are open. _mari._ it will be the death of me! pray, my dear aunt---- _lady._ not a word--i am determined--to-morrow you shall leave this country, and then i have done with you for ever. _mari._ oh! my poor heart! oh, oh! _vapid._ see! she'll faint! _mari._ oh! oh! oh! [_marianne faints in lady waitfor't's arms._ _lady._ oh! i have gone too far, mr vapid! _vapid._ i fly, i'll call the servants. have you got any drops? _lady._ i have some drops in this closet may recover her--hold her a moment, and for heaven's sake take care of her. [_exit._ [_marianne lays in vapid's arms._ _vapid._ here's a situation!--poor girl!--how i pity her! i really loved her. _mari._ did you really love me, mr vapid? _vapid._ hey-day! recovered!--here's incident! _mari._ but did you really love me, mr vapid? _vapid._ yes i did,--here's stage effect! _mari._ and would you have really run away with me, mr vapid? _vapid._ yes, i really would. _mari._ then come along this moment. _vapid._ hush!--here's the old lady! keep dying, as before, and we'll effect the business--more equivoque! _enter lady waitfor't._ _lady._ well, mr vapid, how does she do? lord! she's in strong convulsions. _vapid._ yes, ma'am, she's dying; where are the drops? _lady._ here, sir. _vapid._ there are very few--are there any more of the same kind? _lady._ yes, plenty. _vapid._ fetch them,--'tis the only hope--if you have any hartshorn too, bring a little of that. _lady._ i'm quite shocked! [_exit._ _mari._ well, mr vapid, now let's run away--come--why what are you thinking of? _vapid._ my last act, and i fear-- _mari._ what do you fear? _vapid._ that it can't be managed--let me see--we certainly run away, and she returns--'faith, i must see her return. _mari._ no, no, pray let us begone, think of this another time. _vapid._ so i will--it will do for the fourth, though not for the fifth act,--therefore, my dear little girl, come away, and we'll live and die together. _mari._ die together! _vapid._ ay, "die all! die nobly! die like demi-gods!" [_exeunt._ _enter lady waitfor't._ _lady._ here, mr vapid--here are the drops!--what, gone!--ruined by a writer of epilogues!--oh! i shall burst with disappointment! [_exit._ scene ii. _another apartment in neville's house--in the back scene, glass doors, with curtains._ _enter louisa courtney._ _louisa._ still in the same house, yet still afraid to meet him! oh, neville! my superior in every thing; how can i hope for your forgiveness? while you revealed an affection it had done you credit to deny, i concealed a passion i might have been proud to confess. _enter vapid and marianne._ _mari._ oh! miss courtney! my sweet miss courtney! mr vapid, here, has run away with me, and i am so frightened for fear of lady waitfor't. _louisa._ yes, she may well alarm you,--she has destroyed my peace for ever! but have you seen mr neville? yet, why do i ask! _vapid._ seen mr neville!--what, doesn't he yet know you are in his lodgings? _louisa._ no, and i hope never will--the moment his brother returns, i shall set out for my uncle's, and perhaps never see him more. _vapid._ and why not see him, ma'am? _louisa._ because i cannot bear the sight of one i have so injured. _vapid._ this'll do--mutual equivoque! equal misunderstanding! my own case exactly! _mari._ your own case! lord! you base man, have you got a young lady in your lodgings? _vapid._ ridiculous! don't talk about young ladies at such an awful--the very situation in my comedy! the last scene to a syllable!--here's an opportunity of improving the denouement! _enter peter._ _peter._ ma'am, my master is returned--the occasion of his delay has been a long interview with mr willoughby,--he doesn't know you are here. _louisa._ marianne, excuse me--you'll be safe from lady waitfor't here--indeed i'm very ill. _mari._ nay--where are you going? _louisa._ alas! any where to avoid him--farewell! and may you enjoy that happiness i have for ever lost! [_exit._ _mari._ poor dear girl! i mustn't leave her thus--mr vapid, we won't run away till something is done for her. _vapid._ go,--there's a good girl--follow her, and comfort her. _mari._ i will--lord! if they must be happy in being friends again, what must i be who make them so! [_exit._ _vapid._ the picture before me! all from nature,--i must heighten his distress, for contrast is every thing--peter, not a word for your life. _enter neville._ _nev._ vapid, i am glad to see you--any letter from my brother? [_to peter._ _peter._ none, sir. _nev._ nor message? _peter._ no, sir. _nev._ then i need doubt no longer--'tis evident he avoids me--cruel, ungenerous floriville!-- [_seats himself._ _vapid._ [_leaning over his chair._] miss courtney will never see you again. _nev._ i know it--too well i know it--that, and that alone, makes me determined to leave this country for ever. _vapid._ you are unhappy then? _nev._ completely so. _vapid._ then stop.--[_sits by him._] she was an angel, harry. _nev._ ay, a divinity! _vapid._ and then to lose her! _nev._ [_rising._] 'sdeath!--don't torment me!--my griefs are already beyond bearing. _vapid._ it will do--he's as unhappy as i could wish. _peter._ i can hold no longer--sir! _vapid._ hush!--you d--d dog, you'll ruin the catastrophe. _peter._ i don't care--i'll tell him every thing--sir!--mr neville! _vapid._ you villain!--do you ever go to a play?--did you ever sit in the gallery? _peter._ yes, sir, sometimes. _vapid._ then know this is all for your good----you'll applaud it some day or other, you dog--curse it, won't he have happiness enough bye and bye?---what--you are going abroad, neville? _nev._ yes, for ever.--farewell, vapid. _vapid._ farewell, neville--good night----now for the effect!--miss courtney is in the next room. _nev._ what! _vapid._ miss courtney is in the next room. _nev._ louisa! is it possible? _vapid._ there's light and shade!--yes, your brother brought her here, and she expects him to return every moment. _nev._ my brother! then 'tis he means to marry her--nay, perhaps they are already married--heavens! i shall go wild! _vapid._ don't, don't go wild--that will ruin the denouement. _nev._ no matter--i am resolved--i'll bid her farewell for ever--vapid, 'tis the last favour i shall ask of you--give her this, [_a letter._] and tell her, since i have resented willoughby's attack on her honour, i think i may be allowed to vindicate my own; tell her, great as have been my faults, my truth has still been greater, and wherever i wander-- _vapid._ here's a flourish, now!--why you misunderstand--she is not married, nor going to be married. _nev._ come, this is no time for raillery. _vapid._ raillery!--why, i'm serious--serious as the fifth act--she is now weeping on your account. _nev._ pr'ythee leave fooling, it will produce no effect, believe me. _vapid._ won't it? it will produce a very great effect though, believe me. zounds! go to her--preserve the unity of action,--marry her directly, and if the catastrophe does not conclude with spirit, damn my comedy--damn my comedy--that's all, damn my comedy. _nev._ 'would to heaven you were in earnest! _vapid._ earnest! why there it is now! the women, dear creatures, are always ready enough to produce effect--but the men are so curst undramatic.--go to her, i tell you, go to her. [_exit neville.--vapid stands aside._ _enter lord scratch and floriville._ _lord._ that curst dramatic maniac,--if i see him again---- _flor._ my dear uncle, consent to harry's marriage, and depend on it he shall trouble you no more. _lord._ i tell you again, sir, i will not. _flor._ will you give any hopes of future consent? _lord._ by the word of a peer, i will not. [_vapid, coming forward, touching lord scratch on the shoulder, and writing in common-place book._ _vapid._ master brook, let me persuade you. _lord._ flames and firebrands, the fiend again! _vapid._ give consent, and i'll give neville a fortune--he shall have the entire profit of the different plays in which i intend to have the honour of introducing yourself and the old lady hurlothrumbo. _lord._ oh, that i was not a peer! if i was any thing else--but, thank heaven, louisa is more averse to the match than myself. _vapid._ is she? _lord._ yes, she knows his falsehood, and despises him. _vapid._ what, you are confident of it? _lord._ out of my way, sir,--i'll not answer you,--i'll go take her to town directly.--out of my way, sir. _vapid._ stop--you're wrong, master brook--she's in that room. _lord._ where?--behind me? _vapid._ yes--there--there! [_pointing._] now for it!--what an effect! [_lord s. opens the glass doors, and discovers neville kneeling to louisa. marianne with them._ _vapid._ there, peter! there's catastrophe!--shakspeare's invention nothing!--applaud it, you dog--clap, clap, peter, clap! _lord._ what are you at, you impudent rascal?--get out of the room. [_exit peter._ _vapid._ i should set this down--i may forget. _mari._ lord! he has a very bad memory,--i hope he won't forget our marriage. _nev._ oh! louisa, what am i to think? _louisa._ that i have wronged thee, neville! [_embracing._ _flor._ my dear harry, let this be my apology for not having seen you before. [_giving him a paper._] miss courtney, ten thousand joys;--could i have found my brother, you should have seen him sooner. _nev._ why, here is a deed of gift of half your estate! _flor._ i know it, but say nothing. when you gave me money, five years ago, did i say any thing?--no, i forgot it as soon as it was over; and should never have recollected, at this moment, but for my lord's inhumanity.--uncle, i thank you,--you have made me the happiest man alive. _lord._ don't perplex me;--what a compound of folly and generosity! _mari._ uncle-in-law, what are your feelings on this occasion?--as my aunt says. _lord._ feelings!--i never knew a peer had any. _mari._ didn't you? _lord._ no; but now i find the contrary: i begin to think i've a heart like other men. it's better to atone for an error, than persist in one--therefore give me that deed, neville----there, sir, [_giving it to floriville._] do you think nobody has estates but yourself?--louisa and her fortune are your own, neville; and after my death, you shall have all mine:--and now there's a cursed burden off my mind. _mari._ now, you're a dear creature! and i won't marry,--that's what i won't, without consulting you. _lord._ you marry! why, who should you marry?--and pray, how came you here? _mari._ a gentleman run away with me;--he is now in the room. _lord._ in the room! what, floriville? _mari._ no, behind you. [_pointing to vapid, who is writing at a table._ _lord._ ghosts and spectres! my evil genius! _mari._ come, my dear, haven't you almost finished? [_vapid rises._ _vapid._ yes, the denouement is complete, and now, mrs vapid, i resign myself to love and you. _mari._ come, give consent, my lord,--my husband will get money, though i have none. _lord._ none!--i dare say he can tell you, you will have twelve thousand pounds in less than a year. _vapid._ that's a new incident! _mari._ shall i? then 'faith, mr vapid, we'll build a theatre of our own! you shall write plays, and i'll act them. _enter ennui._ _ennui._ i've an idea--i give you joy, neville.--i mean to kill time, by living single; and, therefore, i hope, the lady and the borough may be yours. _mari._ mr ennui, i hope you'll forgive me, and sir harry hustle, the fatigue we occasioned you? _ennui._ yaw, aw--don't mention it.--the very recollection makes me faint.--in fact--my lord, i just met one of lady waitfor't's servants, who tells me she has left bath in a rage. _flor._ i am afraid she has escaped too easily. _lord._ oh, never think of her! i can answer for her punishment being adequate to her crimes--willoughby has told me all her schemes,--and if ever i hear her name again, may i lose my peerage, and dress like a gentleman. _ennui._ my lord--i've an idea-- _vapid._ sir, i beg your pardon; but really, if you have an idea, i will trouble you to spare it me for my comedy. _ennui._ in fact--i don't comprehend. i have read your "die-all" epilogue, and-- _vapid._ oh, then i don't wonder at your having ideas! _lord._ oh, poor fellow! he's always talking about what he never has.--neville, my boy, may you be as happy as i am. _flor._ ay, i'll answer for his happiness by my own.--miss courtney, notwithstanding my brother, i will "still live in your eye,--die in your lap--and be buried in your heart:" and, moreover, i will stay with you both in england. _louisa._ yes, floriville, if you would behold pure, unsullied love, never travel out of this country. depend on't, no foreign climes such high examples prove, of wedded pleasure, or connubial love. long in this land have joys domestic grown, nursed in the cottage--cherish'd on the throne. the end. original octavo editions of plays, &c. printed for longman, hurst, rees, orme, and brown. by george colman, the younger. the mountaineers, s d inkle and yarico, s d poor gentleman, s d who wants a guinea? s d john bull, a comedy, s d ways and means, s by richard cumberland, esq. the jew, a comedy, s d west indian, s d. wheel of fortune, s d first love, a comedy, s d false impressions, s d mysterious husband, s d by thomas dibdin, esq. school for prejudice, s d il bondocani; or, the caliph robber, s d st david's day, s d the birth day, a comedy, from kotzebue, s the jew and the doctor, a farce, s d the cabinet, s d the english fleet, in ; an historical comic opera, s d the will for the deed, a comedy, s family quarrels, s d by mrs inchbald. lovers' vows, a play, s d every one has his fault, a comedy, s d to marry, or not to marry, a comedy, s d wives as they were, s d such things are, s d child of nature, s wedding day, a comedy, in two acts, s d revised by j. p. kemble, esq. shakspeare's othello, moor of venice, now first printed as it is acted at the theatre royal, covent garden, vo. s d shakspeare's king john, do. s shakspeare's henry viii. do. s by thomas morton, esq. speed the plough, s d zorinski, a play, s d the way to get married, s d a cure for the heart ache, a comedy, s d secrets worth knowing, a comedy, s d the school of reform; or how to rule a husband, a comedy, s d by john o'keeffe, esq. lie of the day, a comedy, s highland reel, s d the farmer, an opera, s d modern antiques, a farce, s d love in a camp; or, patrick in prussia, s d the positive man, s d the poor soldier, s d wild oats, a comedy, s d the castle of andalusia, an opera, s d sprigs of laurel, s d prisoner at large, s d by frederick reynolds, esq. the delinquent, s d the will, a comedy, s d folly as it flies, s d life, a comedy, s d management, a comedy, s d laugh when you can, s d the dramatist, s d notoriety, a comedy, s d how to grow rich, s d the rage, a comedy, s d speculation, a comedy, s d the blind bargain, s d fortune's fool, s d werter, a tragedy, s * * * * * the honey moon, a comedy, by john tobin, s d the duenna, a comic opera, by mr sheridan, s d the heiress, a comedy, by general burgoyne, s d the road to ruin, a comedy, by mr holcroft, s d deserted daughter, a comedy, by ditto, s d the belle's stratagem, a comedy, by mrs cowley, s d which is the man? a comedy, by do. s d england preserved, a tragedy, by mr watson, s d the bank note, a comedy, by mr macready, s d the votary of wealth, a comedy, by mr holman, s d ramah droog; or, wine does wonders, by j. cobb, esq. s d mary, queen of scots, a tragedy, by hon. mr st john, s d the stranger, a play, as performed at drury lane, s d the maid of bristol, a play, by mr boaden, s raising the wind, a farce, by mr kenney, s d too many cooks, by ditto, s d matrimony, a petit opera, by ditto, s d the point of honour, a play, by mr c. kemble, s what is she? a comedy, s d wife in the right, a comedy, by mrs griffith, s d julia; or, the italian lover, a tragedy, by mr jephson, s d clementina, a tragedy, by kelly, s d doctor and apothecary, a farce, s d smugglers, a farce, s d first floor, a farce, s d tit for tat, a farce, s d sulian, a farce, s d match for a widow, an opera, s d turnpike gate, a farce, by knight, s d soldier's return, a farce, s d hartford bridge, a farce, by mr pearce, s d the midnight wanderers, an opera, by ditto, s d netley abbey, an opera, by ditto, s d arrived at portsmouth, a farce, by ditto, ls d the mysteries of the castle, by mr andrews, s d the irishman in london, a farce, by mr macready, s d lock and key, a farce, by mr hoare, s d marian, an opera, by mrs brookes, s d * * * * * transcriber's note: the following typographical errors present in the original edition have been corrected. in act i, scene i, a missing question mark was added after "has he not a share of vanity in his composition". in act iv, scene i, "_willoughby._" was added before the lines beginning "'tis past the hour" and "ha! gone,--i am sorry for it". in act iv, scene ii, "_peter._" was added before the line beginning "vapid presents his compliments"; the line "here's something wanting, sir.", which was originally formatted as a stage direction, has been reformatted as dialogue; a missing quotation mark was inserted before the words "die all" in the line "in the middle of my composition?--die all, die nobly"; and missing brackets were added before the stage directions beginning "as he is going to sign" and the final "exeunt". in act v, scene ii, "_vapid._" was added before the line beginning "here's a situation!" in the advertisements, a missing comma was added after "west indian". [illustration: "she slipped on her knees, and burst into a passionate fit of weeping."] vain fortune a novel by george moore _with five illustrations by__maurice greiffenhagen_ new edition completely revised london: walter scott, ltd. paternoster square edinburgh: t. and a. constable, printers to her majesty prefatory note i hope it will not seem presumptuous to ask my critics to treat this new edition of _vain fortune_ as a new book: for it is a new book. the first edition was kindly noticed, but it attracted little attention, and very rightly, for the story as told therein was thin and insipid; and when messrs. scribner proposed to print the book in america, i stipulated that i should be allowed to rewrite it. they consented, and i began the story with emily watson, making her the principal character instead of hubert price. some months after i received a letter from madam couperus, offering to translate the english edition into dutch. i sent her the american edition, and asked her which she would prefer to translate from. madam couperus replied that many things in the english edition, which she would like to retain, had been omitted from the american edition, that the hundred or more pages which i had written for the american edition seemed to her equally worthy of retention. she pointed out that, without the alteration of a sentence, the two versions could be combined. the idea had not occurred to me; i saw, however, that what she proposed was not only feasible but advantageous. i wrote, therefore, giving her the required permission, and thanking her for a suggestion which i should avail myself of when the time came for a new english edition. the union of the texts was no doubt accomplished by madam couperus, without the alteration of a sentence; but no such accomplished editing is possible to me; i am a victim to the disease of rewriting, and the inclusion of the hundred or more pages of new matter written for the american edition led me into a third revision of the story. but no more than in the second has the skeleton, or the attitude of the skeleton been altered in this third version, only flesh and muscle have been added, and, i think, a little life. _vain fortune_, even in its present form, is probably not my best book, but it certainly is far from being my worst. but my opinion regarding my own work is of no value; i do not write this prefatory note to express it, but to ask my critics and my readers to forget the original _vain fortune_, and to read this new book as if it were issued under another title. g.m. i the lamp had not been wiped, and the room smelt slightly of paraffin. the old window-curtains, whose harsh green age had not softened, were drawn. the mahogany sideboard, the threadbare carpet, the small horsehair sofa, the gilt mirror, standing on a white marble chimney-piece, said clearly, 'furnished apartments in a house built about a hundred years ago.' there were piles of newspapers, there were books on the mahogany sideboard and on the horsehair sofa, and on the table there were various manuscripts,--_the gipsy_, act i.; _the gipsy_, act iii., scenes iii. and iv. a sheet of foolscap paper, and upon it a long slender hand. the hand traced a few lines of fine, beautiful caligraphy, then it paused, correcting with extreme care what was already written, and in a hesitating, minute way, telling of a brain that delighted in the correction rather than in the creation of form. the shirt-cuff was frayed and dirty. the coat was thin and shiny. a half-length figure of a man drew out of the massed shadows between the window and sideboard. the red beard caught the light, and the wavy brown hair brightened. then a look of weariness, of distress, passed over the face, and the man laid down the pen, and, taking some tobacco from a paper, rolled a cigarette. rising, and leaning forward, he lighted it over the lamp. he was a man of about thirty-six feet, broad-shouldered, well-built, healthy, almost handsome. the time he spent in dreaming his play amounted to six times, if not ten times, as much as he devoted to trying to write it; and he now lit cigarette after cigarette, abandoning himself to every meditation,--the unpleasantness of life in lodgings, the charm of foreign travel, the beauty of the south, what he would do if his play succeeded. he plunged into calculation of the time it would take him to finish it if he were to sit at home all day, working from seven to ten hours every day. if he could but make up his mind concerning the beginning and the middle of the third act, and about the end, too,--the solution,--he felt sure that, with steady work, the play could be completed in a fortnight. in such reverie and such consideration he lay immersed, oblivious of the present moment, and did not stir from his chair until the postman shook the frail walls with a violent double knock. he hoped for a letter, for a newspaper--either would prove a welcome distraction. the servant's footsteps on the stairs told him the post had brought him something. his heart sank at the thought that it was probably only a bill, and he glanced at all the bills lying one above another on the table. it was not a bill, nor yet an advertisement, but a copy of a weekly review. he tore it open. an article about himself! after referring to the deplorable condition of the modern stage, the writer pointed out how dramatic writing has of late years come to be practised entirely by men who have failed in all other branches of literature. then he drew attention to the fact that signs of weariness and dissatisfaction with the old stale stories, the familiar tricks in bringing about 'striking situations,' were noticeable, not only in the newspaper criticisms of new plays, but also among the better portion of the audience. he admitted, however, that hitherto the attempts made by younger writers in the direction of new subject-matter and new treatment had met with little success. but this, he held, was not a reason for discouragement. did those who believed in the old formulas imagine that the new formula would be discovered straight away, without failures preliminary? besides, these attempts were not utterly despicable; at least one play written on the new lines had met with some measure of success, and that play was mr. hubert price's _divorce_. 'yes, the fellow is right. the public is ready for a good play: it wasn't when _divorce_ was given. i must finish _the gipsy_. there are good things in it; that i know. but i wish i could get that third act right. the public will accept a masterpiece, but it will not accept an attempt to write a masterpiece. but this time there'll be no falling off in the last acts. the scene between the gipsy lover and the young lord will fetch 'em.' taking up the review, hubert glanced over the article a second time. 'how anxious the fellows are for me to achieve a success! how they believe in me! they desire it more than i do. they believe in me more than i do in myself. they want to applaud me. they are hungry for the masterpiece.' at that moment his eye was caught by some letters written on blue paper. his face resumed a wearied and hunted expression. 'there's no doubt about it, money i must get somehow. i am running it altogether too fine. there isn't twenty pounds between me and the deep sea.' * * * * * he was the son of the rev. james price, a shropshire clergyman. the family was of welsh extraction, but in hubert none of the physical characteristics of the celt appeared. he might have been selected as a typical anglo-saxon. the face was long and pale, and he wore a short reddish beard; the eyes were light blue, verging on grey, and they seemed to speak a quiet, steadfast soul. hubert had always been his mother's favourite, and the scorn of his elder brothers, two rough boys, addicted in early youth to robbing orchards, and later on to gambling and drinking. the elder, after having broken his father's heart with debts and disgraceful living, had gone out to the cape. news of his death came to the rectory soon after; but james's death did not turn henry from his evil courses, and one day his father and mother had to go to london on his account, and they brought him back a hopeless invalid. hubert was twelve years of age when he followed his brother to the grave. it was at his brother's funeral that hubert met for the first time his uncle, mr. burnett. mr. burnett had spent the greater part of his life in new zealand, where he had made a large fortune by sheep-farming and investments in land. he had seemed to be greatly taken with his nephew, and for many years it was understood that he would leave him the greater part, if not the whole, of his fortune. but mr. burnett had come under the influence of some poor relations, some distant cousins, the watsons, and had eventually decided to adopt their daughter emily and leave her his fortune. he did not dare intimate his change of mind to his sister; but the news having reached mrs. price in various rumours, she wrote to her brother asking him to confirm or deny these rumours; and when he admitted their truth, mrs. price never spoke to him again. she was a determined woman, and the remembrance of the wrong done to her son never left her. while the other children had been a torment and disgrace, hubert had been to his parents a consolation and a blessing. they had feared that he too might turn to betting and drink, but he had never shown sign of low tastes. he played no games, nor did he care for terriers or horses; but for books and drawing, and long country walks. immediately on hearing of his disinheritance he had spoken at once of entering a profession; and for many months this was the subject of consideration in the rectory. hubert joined in these discussions willingly, but he could not bring himself to accept the army or the bar. it was indeed only necessary to look at him to see that neither soldier's tunic nor lawyer's wig was intended for him; and it was nearly as clear that those earnest eyes, so intelligent and yet so undetermined in their gaze, were not those of a doctor. but if his eyes failed to predict his future, his hands told the story of his life distinctly enough--those long, white, languid hands, what could they mean but art? and very soon hubert began to draw, evincing some natural aptitude. then an artist came into the neighbourhood, the two became friends, and went together on a long sketching tour. life in the open air, the shade of the hedge, the glare of the highway, the meditation of the field, the languor of the river-side, the contemplation of wooded horizons, was what hubert's pastoral nature was most fitted to enjoy; and, for the sake of the life it afforded him, he pursued the calling of a landscape painter long after he had begun to feel his desire turning in another direction. when the landscape on the canvas seemed hopelessly inadequate, he laid aside the brush for the pencil, and strove to interpret the summer fields in verse. from verse he drifted into the article and the short story, and from the story into the play. and it was in this last form that he felt himself strongest, and various were the dramas and comedies that he dreamed from year's end to year's end. while he was in the midst of his period of verse-writing his mother died, and in the following year, just as he was working at his stories, he received a telegram calling him to attend his father's death-bed. when the old man was laid in the shadow of the weather-beaten village church, hubert gathered all his belongings and bade farewell for ever to the shropshire rectory. in london hubert made few friends. there were some two or three men with whom he was frequently seen--quiet folk like himself, whose enjoyment consisted in smoking a tranquil pipe in the evening, or going for long walks in the country. he was one of those men whose indefiniteness provokes curiosity, and his friends noticed and wondered why it was that he was so frequently the theme of their conversation. his simple, unaffected manners were full of suggestion, and in his writings there was always an indefinable rainbow-like promise of ultimate achievement. so, long before he had succeeded in writing a play, detached scenes and occasional verses led his friends into gradual belief that he was one from whom big things might be expected. and when the one-act play which they had all so heartily approved of was produced, and every newspaper praised it for its literary quality, the friends took pride in this public vindication of their opinion. after the production of his play people came to see the new author, and every saturday evening some fifteen or twenty men used to assemble in hubert's lodgings to drink whisky, smoke cigars, and talk drama. encouraged by his success, hubert wrote _divorce_. he worked unceasingly upon it for more than a year, and when he had written the final scene, he was breaking into his last hundred pounds. the play was refused twice, and then accepted by a theatrical speculator, to whom it seemed to afford opportunity for the exhibition of the talents of a lady he was interested in. the success of the play was brief. but before it was withdrawn, hubert had sold the american rights for a handsome sum, and within the next two years he had completed a second play, which he called _an ebbing tide_. some of the critics argued that it contained scenes as fine as any in _divorce_, but it was admitted on all sides that the interest withered in the later acts. but the failure of the play did not shake the established belief in hubert's genius; it merely concentrated the admiration of those interested in the new art upon _divorce_, the partial failure of which was now attributed to the acting. if it had only been played at the haymarket or the lyceum, it could not have failed. the next three years hubert wasted in various aestheticisms. he explained the difference between the romantic and realistic methods in the reviews; he played with a poetic drama to be called _the king of the beggars_, and it was not until the close of the third year that he settled down to definite work. then all his energies were concentrated on a new play--_the gipsy_. a young woman of bohemian origin is suddenly taken with the nostalgia of the tent, and leaves her husband and her home to wander with those of her race. he had read portions of this play to his friends, who at last succeeded in driving montague ford, the popular actor-manager, to hubert's door; and after hearing some few scenes he had offered a couple of hundred pounds in advance of fees for the completed manuscript. 'but when can i have the manuscript?' said ford, as he was about to leave. 'as soon as i can finish it,' hubert replied, looking at him wistfully out of pale blue-grey eyes. 'i could finish it in a month, if i could count on not being worried by duns or disturbed by friends during that time.' ford looked at hubert questioningly; then he said 'i have always noticed that when a fellow wants to finish a play, the only way to do it is to go away to the country and leave no address.' but the country was always so full of pleasure for him, that he doubted his power to remain indoors with the temptation of fields and rivers before his eyes, and he thought that to escape from dunning creditors it would be sufficient to change his address. so he left norfolk street for the more remote quarter of fitzroy street, where he took a couple of rooms on the second floor. one of his fellow-lodgers, he soon found, was rose massey, an actress engaged for the performance of small parts at the queen's theatre. the first time he spoke to her was on the doorstep. she had forgotten her latch-key, and he said, 'will you allow me to let you in?' she stepped aside, but did not answer him. hubert thought her rude, but her strange eyes and absent-minded manner had piqued his curiosity, and, having nothing to do that night, he went to the theatre to see her act. she was playing a very small part, and one that was evidently unsuited to her--a part that was in contradiction to her nature; but there was something behind the outer envelope which led him to believe she had real talent, and would make a name for herself when she was given a part that would allow her to reveal what was in her. in the meantime, rose had been told that the gentleman she had snubbed in the passage was mr. hubert price, the author of _divorce_. 'oh, it was very silly of me,' she said to annie. 'if i had only known!' 'lor', he don't mind; he'll be glad enough to speak to you when you meets him again.' and when they met again on the stairs, rose nodded familiarly, and hubert said-- 'i went to the queen's the other night.' 'did you like the piece?' 'i did not care about the piece; but when you get a wild, passionate part to play, you'll make a hit. the sentimental parts they give you don't suit you.' a sudden light came into the languid face. 'yes, i shall do something if i can get a part like that.' hubert told her that he was writing a play containing just such a part. her eyes brightened again. 'will you read me the play?' she said, fixing her dark, dreamy eyes on him. 'i shall be very glad.... do you think it won't bore you?' and his wistful grey eyes were full of interrogation. 'no, i'm sure it won't.' and a few days after she sent annie with a note, reminding him of his promise to read her what he had written. as she had only a bedroom, the reading had to take place in his sitting-room. he read her the first and second acts. she was all enthusiasm, and begged hard to be allowed to study the part--just to see what she could do with it--just to let him see that he was not mistaken in her. her interest in his work captivated him, and he couldn't refuse to lend her the manuscript. ii rose often came to see hubert in his rooms. her manner was disappointing, and he thought he must be mistaken in his first judgment of her talents. but one afternoon she gave him a recitation of the sleep-walking scene in _macbeth_. it was strange to see this little dark-complexioned, dark-eyed girl, the merest handful of flesh and bone, divest herself at will of her personality, and assume the tragic horror of lady macbeth, or the passionate rapture of juliet detaining her husband-lover on the balcony of her chamber. hubert watched in wonderment this girl, so weak and languid in her own nature, awaking only to life when she assumed the personality of another. there she lay, her wispy form stretched in his arm-chair, her great dark eyes fixed, her mind at rest, sunk in some inscrutable dream. her thin hand lay on the arm of the chair: when she woke from her day-dream she burst into irresponsible laughter, or questioned him with petulant curiosity. he looked again: her dark curling hair hung on her swarthy neck, and she was somewhat untidily dressed in blue linen. 'were you ever in love?' she said suddenly. 'i don't suppose you could be; you are too occupied with your play. i don't know, though; you might be in love, but i don't think that many women would be in love with you.... you are too good a man, and women don't like good men.' hubert laughed, and without a trace of offended vanity in his voice he said, 'i don't profess to be much of a lady-killer.' 'you don't know what i mean,' she said, looking at him fixedly, a maze of half-childish, half-artistic curiosity in her handsome eyes. perplexed in his shy, straightford nature, hubert inquired if she took sugar in her tea. she said she did; stretched her feet to the fire, and lapsed into dream. she was one of the enigmas of stageland. she supported herself, and went about by herself, looking a poor, lost little thing. she spoke with considerable freedom of language on all subjects, but no one had been able to fix a lover upon her. 'what a part lady hayward is! but tell me,--i don't quite catch your meaning in the second act. is this it?' and starting to her feet, she became in a moment another being. with a gesture, a look, an intonation, she was the woman of the play,--a woman taken by an instinct, long submerged, but which has floated to the surface, and is beginning to command her actions. in another moment she had slipped back into her weary lymphatic nature, at once prematurely old and extravagantly childish. she could not talk of indifferent things; and having asked some strange questions, and laughed loudly, she wished hubert 'good-afternoon' in her curious, irresponsible fashion, taking her leave abruptly. the next two days hubert devoted entirely to his play. there were things in it which he knew were good, but it was incomplete. montague ford would not produce it in its present form. he must put his shoulder to the wheel and get it right; one more push, that was all that was wanted. and he could be heard walking to and fro, up and down, along and across his tiny sitting-room, stopping suddenly to take a note of an idea that had occurred to him. one day he went to hampstead heath. a long walk, he thought, would clear his mind, and he returned home thinking of his play. the sunset still glittering in the skies; the bare trees were beautifully distinct on the blue background of the suburban street, and at the end of the long perspective, a 'bus and a hansom could be seen coming towards him. as they grew larger, his thoughts defined themselves, and the distressing problem of his fourth act seemed to solve itself. that very evening he would sketch out a new dramatic movement around which all the other movements of the act would cluster. but at the corner of fitzroy square, within a few yards of no. , he was accosted by a shabbily-dressed man, who inquired if he were mr. price. on being answered in the affirmative, the shabbily-dressed man said, 'then i have something for ye; i have been a-watching for ye for the last three days, but ye didn't come out; missed yer this morning: 'ere it is;' and he thrust a folded paper into hubert's hand. 'what is this?' 'don't yer know?' he said with a grin; 'messrs. tomkins & co., tailors, writ--twenty-two pound odd.' hubert made no answer; he put the paper in his pocket, opened the door quietly, stole up to his room, and sat down to think. the first thing to do was to examine into his finances. it was alarming to find that he was breaking into his last five-pound note. true that he was close on the end of his play, and when it was finished he would be able to draw on ford. but a summons to appear in the county court could not fail to do him immense injury. he had heard of avoiding service, but he knew little of the law, and wondered what power the service of the writ gave his creditor over him. his instinct was to escape--hide himself where they would not be able to find him, and so obtain time to finish his play. but he owed his landlady money, and his departure would have to be clandestine. as he reflected on how many necessaries he might carry away in a newspaper, he began to feel strangely like a criminal, and while rolling up a couple of shirts, a few pairs of socks, and some collars, he paused, his hands resting on the parcel. he did not seem to know himself, and it was difficult to believe that he really intended to leave the house in this disreputable fashion. mechanically he continued to add to his parcel, thinking all the while that he must go, otherwise his play would never be written. he had been working very well for the last few days, and now he saw his way quite clearly; the inspiration he had been so long waiting for had come at last, and he felt sure of his fourth act. at the same time he wished to conduct himself honestly, even in this distressing situation. should he tell his landlady the truth? but the desire to realise his idea was intolerable, and, yielding as if before an irresistible force, he tied the parcel and prepared to go. at that moment he remembered that he must leave a note for his landlady, and he was more than ever surprised at the naturalness with which lying phrases came into his head. but when it came to committing them to paper, he found he could not tell an absolute lie, and he wrote a simple little note to the effect that he had been called away on urgent business, and hoped to return in about a week. he descended the stairs softly. mrs. wilson's sitting-room opened on to the passage; she might step out at any moment, and intercept his exit. he had nearly reached the last flight when he remembered that he had forgotten his manuscripts. his flesh turned cold, his heart stood still. there was nothing for it but to ascend those creaking stairs again. his already heavily encumbered pockets could not be persuaded to receive more than a small portion of the manuscripts. he gathered them in his hand, and prepared to redescend the perilous stairs. he walked as lightly as possible, dreading that every creak would bring mrs. wilson from her parlour. a few more steps, and he would be in the passage. a smell of dust, sounds of children crying, children talking in the kitchen! a few more steps, and, with his eyes on the parlour door, hubert had reached the rug at the foot of the stairs. he hastened along, the passage. mrs. wilson was a moment too late. his hand was on the street-door when she appeared at the door of her parlour. 'mr. price, i want to speak to you before you go out. there has----' 'i can't wait--running to catch a train. you'll find a letter on my table. it will explain.' hubert slipped out, closed the door, and ran down the street, and it was not until he had put two or three streets between him and fitzroy street that he relaxed his pace, and could look behind him without dreading to feel the hand of the 'writter' upon his shoulder. iii then he wandered, not knowing where he was going, still in the sensation of his escape, a little amused, and yet with a shadow of fear upon his soul, for he grew more and more conscious of the fact that he was homeless, if not quite penniless. suddenly he stopped walking. night was thickening in the street, and he had to decide where he would sleep. he could not afford to pay more than five or six shillings a week for a room, and he thought of holloway, as being a neighbourhood where creditors would not be able to find him. so he retraced his steps, and, tired and footsore, entered the tottenham court road by the oxford street end. there the omnibuses stopped. a conductor shouted for fares, with the light of the public-house lamps on his open mouth. there was smell of mud, of damp clothes, of bad tobacco, and where the lights of the costermongers' barrows broke across the footway the picture was of a group of three coarse, loud-voiced girls, followed by boys. there were fish shops, cheap italian restaurants, and the long lines of low houses vanished in crapulent night. the characteristics of the tottenham court road impressed themselves on hubert's mind, and he thought how he would have to bear for at least three weeks with all the grime of its poverty. it would take about that time to finish his play, and the neighbourhood would suit his purpose excellently well. so long as he did not pass beyond it he ran little risk of discovery, and to secure himself against friends and foes he penetrated farther northward, not stopping till he reached the confines of holloway. then a little dim street caught his eye, and he knocked at the door of the first house exhibiting a card in the parlour window. but they did not let their bedroom under seven shillings, and this seemed to hubert to be an extravagant price. he tried farther on, and at last found a clean room for six shillings. having no luggage, he paid a week's rent in advance, and the landlady promised to get him a small table, on which he could write, a small table that would fit in somewhere near the window. she asked him when he would like to be called, and put the candlestick on the chair. hubert looked round the room, and a moment sufficed to complete the survey. it was about seven feet long. the lower half of the window was curtained by a piece of muslin hardly bigger than a good-sized pocket-handkerchief; to do anything in this room except to lie in bed seemed difficult, and hubert sat down on the bed and emptied out his pockets. he had just four pounds, and the calculation how long he could live on such a sum took him some time. his breakfast, whether he had it at home or in the coffee-house, would cost him at least fourpence. he thought he would be able to obtain a fairly good dinner in one of the little italian restaurants for ninepence. his tea would cost the same as his breakfast. to these sums he must add twopence for tobacco and a penny for an evening paper--impossible to do without tobacco, and he must know what was going on in the world. he could therefore live for one shilling and eightpence a day--eleven shillings a week--to which he would have to add six shillings a week for rent, altogether seventeen shillings a week. he really did not see how he could do it cheaper. four times seventeen are sixty-eight; sixty-eight shillings for a month of life, and he had eighty shillings--twelve shillings for incidental expenses; and out of that twelve shillings he must buy a shirt, a sponge, and a tooth brush, and when they were bought there would be very little left. he must finish his play under the month. nothing could be clearer than that. next morning he asked the landlady to let him have a cup of tea and some bread and butter, and he ate as much bread as he could, to save himself from being hungry in the middle of the day. he began work immediately, and continued until seven, and feeling then somewhat light-headed, but satisfied with himself, went to the nearest italian restaurant. the food was better than he expected; but he spent twopence more than he had intended, so, to accustom himself to a life of strict measure and discipline, he determined to forego his tea that evening. and so he lived and worked until the end of the week. but the situation he had counted on to complete his fourth act had proved almost impracticable in the working out; he laboured on, however, and at the end of the tenth day at least one scene satisfied him. he read it over slowly, carefully, thought about it, decided that it was excellent, and lay down on his bed to consider it. at that moment it struck him that he had better calculate how much he had spent in the last ten days. he gathered himself into a sitting posture and counted his money; he had spent thirty shillings, and at that rate his money would not hold out till the end of the month. he must reduce his expenditure; but how? impossible to find a room where he could live more cheaply than in the one he had got, and it is not easy to dine in london on less than ninepence. only the poor can live cheaply. he pressed his hands to his face. his head seemed like splitting, and his monetary difficulty, united with his literary difficulties, produced a momentary insanity. work that morning was impossible, so he went out to study the eating-houses of the neighbourhood. he must find one where he could dine for sixpence. or he might buy a pound of cooked beef and take it home with him in a paper bag; but that would seem an almost intolerable imprisonment in his little room. he could go to a public-house and dine off a sausage and potato. but at that moment his attention was caught by black letters on a dun, yellowish ground: 'lockhart's cocoa rooms.' not having breakfasted, he decided to have a cup of cocoa and a roll. it was a large, barn-like place, the walls covered with a coat of grey-blue paint. under the window there was a zinc counter, with zinc urns always steaming, emiting odours of tea, coffee, and cocoa. the seats were like those which give a garden-like appearance to the tops of some omnibuses. each was made to hold two persons, and the table between them was large enough for four plates and four pairs of hands. a few hollow-chested men, the pale vagrants of civilisation, drowsed in the corners. they had been hunted through the night by the policeman, and had come in for something hot. hubert noted the worn frock-coats, and the miserable arms coming out of shirtless sleeves. one looked up inquiringly, and hubert thought how slight had become the line that divided him from the outcast. a serving-maid collected the plates, knives and forks, when the customers left, and carried them back to the great zinc counter. impressed by his appearance, she brought him what he had ordered and took the money for it, although the custom of the place was for the customer to pay for food at the counter and carry it himself to the table at which he chose to eat. hubert learnt that there was no set dinner, but there was a beef-steak pudding at one, price fourpence, a penny potatoes, a penny bread. so by dining at lockhart's he would be able to cut down his daily expense by at least twopence; that would extend the time to finish his play by nearly a week. and if his appetite were not keen, he could assuage it with a penny plum pudding; or he could take a middle course, making his dinner off a sausage and mashed potatoes. the room was clean, well lighted, and airy; he could read his paper there, and forget his troubles in the observation of character. he even made friends. an old wizen creature, who had been a prize-fighter, told him of his triumphs. if he hadn't broke his hand on somebody's nose he'd have been champion light-weight of england. 'and to think that i have come to this,' he added emphatically. 'even them boys knock me about now, and 'alf a century ago i could 'ave cleared the bloomin' place.' there was a merry little waif from the circus who loved to come and sit with hubert. she had been a rider, she said, but had broken her leg on one occasion, and cut her head all open on another, and had ended by running away with some one who had deserted her. 'so here i am,' she remarked, with a burst of laughter, 'talking to you. did you never hear of dolly dayrell?' hubert confessed that he had not. 'why,' she said, 'i thought every one had.' about eight o'clock in the evening, the table near the stairs was generally occupied by flower-girls, dressed in dingy clothes, and brightly feathered hats. they placed their empty baskets on the floor, and shouted at their companions--men who sold newspapers, boot-laces, and cheap toys. about nine the boys came in, the boys who used to push the old prize-fighter about, and hubert soon began to perceive how representative they were of all vices--gambling, theft, idleness, and cruelty were visible in their faces. they were led by a jew boy who sold penny jewellery at the corner of oxford street, and they generally made for the tables at the end of the room, for there, unless custom was slack indeed, they could defeat the vigilance of the serving-maid and play at nap at their ease. the tray of penny jewellery was placed at the corner of a table, and a small boy set to watch over it. his duty was also to shuffle his feet when the servant-maid approached, and a precious drubbing he got if he failed to shuffle them loud enough. the ''ot un,' as he was nicknamed, always had a pack of cards in his pocket, and to annex everything left on the tables he considered to be his privilege. one day, when he was asked how he came by the fine carnation in his buttonhole, he said it was a present from sally, neglecting to add that he had told the child to steal it from a basket which a flower-girl had just put down. [illustration: "'a dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is.'"] hubert hated this boy, and once could not resist boxing his ears. the ''ot un' writhed easily out of his reach, and then assailed him with foul language, and so loud were his words that they awoke the innocent cause of the quarrel, a weak, sickly-looking man, with pale blue eyes and a blonde beard. hubert had protected him before now against the brutality of the boys, who, when they were not playing nap, divided their pleasantries between him and the decrepit prize-fighter. he came in about nine, took a cup of coffee from the counter, and settled himself for a snooze. the boys knew this, and it was their amusement to keep him awake by pelting him with egg-shells and other missiles. hubert noticed that he had always with him a red handkerchief full of some sort of loose rubbish, which the boys gathered when it fell about the floor, or purloined from the handkerchief when they judged that the owner was sufficiently fast asleep. hubert now saw that the handkerchief was filled with bits of coloured chalk, and guessed that the man must be a pavement artist. 'a dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is,' said the artist, fixing his pale, melancholy eyes on hubert; 'bad manners, no eddication, and, above all, no respect.' 'they are an unmannerly lot--that jew boy especially. i don't think there's a vice he hasn't got.' the artist stared at hubert a long time in silence. a thought seemed to be stirring in his mind. 'i'm speaking, i can see, to a man of eddication. i'm a fust-rate judge of character, though i be but a pavement artist; but a picture's none the less a picture, no matter where it is drawn. that's true, ain't it?' 'quite true. a horse is a horse, and an ass is an ass, no matter what stable you put them into.' the artist laughed a guttural laugh, and, fixing his pale blue porcelain eyes on hubert, he said-- 'yes; see i made no bloomin' error when i said you was a man of eddication. a literary gent, i should think. in the reporting line, most like. down in the luck like myself. what was it--drink? got the chuck?' 'no,' said hubert, 'never touch it. out of work.' 'no offence, master, we're all mortal, we is all weak, and in misfortune we goes to it. it was them boys that drove me to it.' 'how was that?' 'they was always round my show; no getting rid of them, and their remarks created a disturbance; the perlice said he wouldn't 'ave it, and when the perlice won't 'ave it, what's a poor man to do? they are that hignorant. but what's the use of talking of it, it only riles me.' the blue-eyed man lay back in his seat, and his head sank on his chest. he looked as if he were going to sleep again, but on hubert's asking him to explain his troubles, he leaned across the table. 'well, i'll tell yer. yer be an eddicated man, and i likes to talk to them that 'as 'ad an eddication. yer says, and werry truly, just now, that changing the stable don't change an 'orse into a hass, or a hass into an 'orse. that is werry true, most true, none but a eddicated man could 'ave made that 'ere hobservation. i likes yer for it. give us yer 'and. the public just thinks too much of the stable, and not enough of what's inside. leastways that's my experience of the public, and i 'ave been a-catering for the public ever since i was a growing lad--sides of bacon, ships on fire, good old ship on fire.... i knows the public. yer don't follow me?' 'not quite.' 'a moment, and i'll explain. you'll admit there's no blooming reason except the public's blooming hignorance why a man shouldn't do as good a picture on the pavement as on a piece of canvas, provided he 'ave the blooming genius. there is no doubt that with them 'ere chalks and a nice smooth stone that raphael--i 'ave been to the national gallery and 'ave studied 'is work, and werry fine some of it is, although i don't altogether hold--but that's another matter. what was i a-saying of? i remember,--that with them 'ere chalks, and a nice smooth stone, there's no reason why a masterpiece shouldn't be done. that's right, ain't it? i ask you, as a man of eddication, to say if that ain't right; as a representative of the press, i asks you to say.' hubert nodded, and the pale-eyed man continued. 'well, that's what the public won't see, can't see. raphael, says i, could 'ave done a masterpiece with them 'ere chalks and a nice smooth stone. but do yer think 'e 'd 'ave been allowed? do yer think the perlice would 'ave stood it? do yer think the public would 'ave stood him doing masterpieces on the pavement? i'd give 'im just one afternoon. them boys would 'ave got 'im into trouble, just as they did me. raphael would 'ave been told to wipe them out just as i was.' the conversation paused; and, half amused, half frightened, hubert considered the pale vague face, and he was struck by the scattered look of aspiration that wandered in the pale blue eyes. 'i'll tell you,' said the man, growing more excited, and leaning further across the table; 'i'll tell you, because i knows you for an eddicated man, and won't blab. s'pose yer thinks, like the rest of the world, that the chaps wot smears, for it ain't drawing, the pavement with bits of bacon, a ship on fire, and the regulation oysters, does them out of their own 'eads?' hubert nodded. 'i'm not surprised that you do, all the world do, and the public chucks down its coppers to the poor hartist; but 'e aint no hartist, no more than is them 'ere boys that did for my show.' leaning still further forward, he lowered his voice to a whisper. 'they learns it all by 'art; there is schools for the teaching of it down in whitechapel. they can just do what they learns by 'art, not one of them could draw that 'ere chair or table from natur'; but i could. i 'ave an original talent. it was a long time afore i found out it was there,' he said, tapping his forehead; 'but it is there,' he said, fixing his eyes on hubert, 'and when it is there they can't take it away--i mean my mates--though they do laugh at my ideas. they call me "the genius," for they don't believe in me, but i believe in myself, and they laughs best that laughs last.... i don't know,' he said, looking round him, his eyes full of reverie, 'that the public liked my fancy landscapes better than the ship on fire, but i said the public will come to them in time, and i continued my fancy landscapes. but one day in trafalgar square it came on to rain very 'eavy, and i went for shelter into the national gallery. it was my fust visit, and i was struck all of a 'eap, and ever since i can 'ardly bring myself to go on with the drudgery of the piece of bacon, and the piece of cheese, with the mouse nibbling at it. and ever since my 'ead 'as been filled with other things, though for a long time i could not make exactly out what. i 'ave 'eard that that is always the case with men that 'as an idea--daresay you 'ave found it so yourself. so in my spare time i goes to the national to think it out, and in studying the pictures there i got wery interested in a chap called hetty, and 'e do paint the female form divine. i says to myself, why not go in for lovely woman? the public may not care for fancy landscapes, but the public allus likes a lovely woman, and, as well as being popular, lovely woman is 'igh 'art. so, after dinner hour, i sets to work, and sketches in a blue sea with three bathers, and two boxes, with the 'orse's head looking out from behind one of the boxes. for a fust attempt at the nude, i assure you--it ain't my way to blow my own trumpet, but i can say that the crowd that 'ere picture did draw was bigger than any that 'ad assembled about the bits o' bacon and ship-a-fire of all the other coves. 'ad i been let alone, i should 'ave made my fortune, but the crowd was so big and the curiosity so great that it took the perlice all their time to keep the pavement from being blocked. it wasn't that the public didn't like it enough, it was that the public liked it too much, that was the reason of my misfortune.' 'what do you mean?' said hubert. 'well, yer see them boys was a-hawking their cheap toys in the neighbourhood, and when they got wind of my success they comes round to see, and they remains on account of the crowd. pockets was picked, i don't say they wasn't, and the perlice turned rusty, and then a pious old gent comes along, and 'earing the remarks of them boys, which i admit wasn't nice, complains to the hauthorities, and i was put down! now, what i wants to know is why my art should be made to suffer for the beastly-mindedness of them 'ere boys.' hubert admitted that there seemed to be an injustice somewhere, and asked the artist if he had never tried again. 'try again? should think i did. when once a man 'as tasted of 'igh art, he can't keep his blooming fingers out of it. it was impossible after the success of my bathers to go back to the bacon, so i thought i would circumvent the hauthorities. i goes to the national gallery, makes a sketch, 'ere it is,' and after some fumbling in his breast pocket, he produced a greasy piece of paper, which he handed to hubert. 's'pose yer know the picture?' hubert admitted that he did not. 'well, that is a drawing from gainsborough's celebrated picture of medora a-washing of her feet.... but the perlice wouldn't 'ave it any more than my original, 'e said it was worse than the bathers at margaret, and when i told the hignorant brute wot it was, 'e said he wanted no hargument, that 'e wouldn't 'ave it.' hubert had noticed, during the latter part of the narrative, a look of dubious cunning twinkling in the pale eyes; but now this look died away, and the eyes resumed their habitual look of vague reverie. 'i've been 'ad up before the beak: from him i expected more enlightenment, but he, too, said 'e wouldn't 'ave it, and i got a month. but i'll beat them yet, the public is on my side, and if it worn't for them 'ere boys, i'd say that the public could be helevated. they calls me "the genius," and they is right.' then something seemed to go out like a flame, the face grew dim, and changed expression. 'it is 'ere all right,' he said, no longer addressing hubert, but speaking to himself, 'and since it is there, it must come out.' iv hubert at last found himself obliged to write to ford for an advance of money. but ford replied that he would advance money only on the delivery of the completed manuscript. and the whole of one night, in a room hardly eight feet long, sitting on his bed, he strove to complete the fourth and fifth acts. but under the pressure of such necessity ideas died within him. and all through the night, and even when the little window, curtained with a bit of muslin hardly bigger than a pocket-handkerchief, had grown white with dawn, he sat gazing at the sheet of paper, his brain on fire, unable to think. laying his pen down in despair, he thought of the thousands who would come to his aid if they only knew--if they only knew! and soon after he heard life beginning again in the little brick street. he felt that his brain was giving way, that if he did not find change, whatever it was, he must surely run raving mad. he had had enough of england, and would leave it for america, australia--anywhere. he wanted change. the present was unendurable. how would he get to america? perhaps a clerkship on board one of the great steamships might be obtained. the human animal in extreme misery becomes self-reliant, and hubert hardly thought of making application to his uncle. the last time he had applied for help his letter had remained unanswered, and he now felt that he must make his own living or die. and, quite indifferent as to what might befall him, he walked next day to the victoria docks. he did not know where or how to apply for work, and he tired himself in fruitless endeavour. at last he felt he could strive with fate no longer, and wandered mile after mile, amused and forgetful of his own misery in the spectacle of the river--the rose sky, the long perspectives, the houses and warehouses showing in fine outline, and then the wonderful blue night gathering in the forest of masts and rigging. he was admirably patient. there was no fretfulness in his soul, nor did he rail against the world's injustice, but took his misfortunes with sweet gentleness. he slept in a public-house, and next day resumed his idle search for employment. the weather was mild and beautiful, his wants were simple, a cup of coffee and a roll, a couple of sausages, and the day passed in a sort of morose and passionless contemplation. he thought of everything and nothing, least of all of how he should find money for the morrow. when the day came, and the penny to buy a cup of coffee was wanting, he quite naturally, without giving it a second thought, engaged himself as a labourer, and worked all day carrying sacks of grain out of a vessel's hold. for a large part of his nature was patient and simple, docile as an animal's. there was in him so much that was rudimentary, that in accepting this burden of physical toil he was acting not in contradiction to, but in full and perfect harmony with, his true nature. but at the end of a week his health began to give way, and, like a man after a violent debauch, he thought of returning to a more normal existence. he had left the manuscript of his unfortunate play in the north. had they destroyed it? the involuntary fear of the writer for his child made him smile. what did it matter? clearly the first thing to do would be to write to the editor of _the cosmopolitan_, and ask if he could find him some employment, something certain; writing occasional articles for newspapers, that he couldn't do. hubert had saved twelve shillings. he would therefore be able to pay his landlady: he smiled--one of his landladies! the earlier debt was now hopelessly out of his reach, and seemed to represent a social plane from which he had for ever fallen. if he had succeeded in getting that play right, what a difference it would have made! he would have been able to do a number of things he had never done, things which he had always desired to do. he had desired above all to travel--to see france and italy; to linger, to muse in the shadows of the world's past; and after this he had desired marriage, an english wife, an english home, beautiful children, leisure, the society of friends. a successful play would have given him all these things, and now his dream must remain for ever unrealised by him. he had sunk out of sight and hearing of such life. rose was another; she might sink as he had sunk; she might never find the opportunity of realising her desire. how well she would have played that part! he knew what was in her. and now! what did his failure to write that play condemn him to? heaven only knows, he did not wish to think. strange, was it not strange?... a man of genius--many believed him a genius--and yet he was incapable of earning his daily bread otherwise than by doing the work of a navvy. even that he could not do well, society had softened his muscles and effeminised his constitution. indeed, he did not know what life fate had willed him for. he seemed to be out of place everywhere. his best chance was to try to obtain a clerkship. the editor of _the cosmopolitan_ might be able to do that for him; if he could not, far better it would be to leave a world in which he was _out of place_, and through no fault of his own--that was the hard part of it. hard part! nonsense! what does fate know of our little rights and wrongs--or care? her intentions are inscrutable; she watches us come and go, and gives no sign. prayers are vain. the good man is punished, and the wicked is sent on his way rejoicing. in such mournful thought, his clothes stained and torn, with all the traces of a week's toil in the docks upon them, hubert made his way round st. paul's and across holborn. as he was about to cross into oxford street, he heard some one accost him,-- 'oh, mr. price, is that you?' it was rose. 'where have you been all this time?' she seemed so strange, so small, and so much alone in the great thoroughfare, that hubert forgot all his own troubles in a sudden interest in this little mite. 'where have you been hiding yourself?... it is lucky i met you. don't you know that ford has decided to revive _divorce_?' 'you don't mean it!' 'yes; ford said that the last acts of _the gipsy_ were not satisfactorily worked out, and as there was something wrong with that hamilton brown's piece, he has decided to revive _divorce_. he says it never was properly played ... he thinks he'll make a hit in the husband's part, and i daresay he will. but i have been unfortunate again; i wanted the part of the adventuress. i really could play it. i don't look it, i know ... i have no weight, but i could play it for all that. the public mightn't see me in it at first, but in five minutes they would.' 'and what part has he cast you for--the young girl?' 'of course; there's no other part. he says i look it; but what's the good of looking it when you don't feel it? if he had cast me for mrs. barrington, i should have had just the five minutes in the second act that i have been waiting for so long, and i should have just wiped miss osborne out, acted her off the stage.... i know i should; you needn't believe it if don't like, but i know i should.' hubert wondered how any one could feel so sure of herself, and then he said, 'yes, i think you could do just what you say.... how do you think miss osborne will play the part?' 'she'll be correct enough; she'll miss nothing, and yet somehow she'll miss the whole thing. but you must go at once to ford. he was saying only this morning that if you didn't turn up soon, he'd have to give up the idea.' 'i can't go and see him to-night. you see what a state i'm in.' 'you're rather dusty; where have you been? what have you been doing?' 'i've been down at the dock.... i thought of going to america.' 'well, we'll talk about that another time. it doesn't matter if you are a bit dusty and worn-out-looking. now that he's going to revive your play, he'll let you have some money. you might get a new hat, though. i don't know how much they cost, but i've five shillings; can you get one for that?' hubert thanked her. 'but you are not offended?' 'offended, my dear rose! i shall be able to manage. i'll get a brush up somewhere.' 'that's all right. now i'm going to jump into that 'bus,' and she signed with her parasol to the conductor. 'mind you see ford to-night,' she cried; and a moment after he saw a small space of blue back seated against one of the windows. v there was much prophecy abroad. stiggins' words, 'the piece never did, and never will draw money,' were evidently present in everybody's mind. they were visible in ford's face, and more than once hubert expected to hear that--on account of severe indisposition--mr. montague ford has been obliged to indefinitely postpone his contemplated revival of mr. hubert price's play _divorce_. but, besides the apprehension that stiggins' unfavourable opinion of his enterprise had engendered in him, ford was obviously provoked by hubert's reluctance to execute the alterations he had suggested. night after night, sometimes until six in the morning, hubert sat up considering them. thanks to ford's timely advance he was back in his old rooms in fitzroy street. all was as it had been. he was working at his play every evening, waiting for rose's footsteps on the stairs. and yet a change had come into his life! he believed now that his feet were set on the way to fortune--that he would soon be happy. he stared at the bright flame of the lamp, he listened to the silence. the clock chimed sharply, and the windows were growing grey. hubert had begun to drowse in his chair; but he had promised to rewrite the young girl's part, ford having definitely refused to intrust rose with the part of the adventuress. he was sorry for this. he believed that rose had not only talent, but genius. besides, they were friends, neighbours; he would like to give her a chance of distinguishing herself--the chance which she was seeking. all the time he could not but realise that, however he might accentuate and characterise the part of the sentimental girl, rose would not be able to do much with it. to bring out her special powers something strange, wild, or tragic was required. but of what use thinking of what was not to be? having made some alterations and additions he folded his papers up, and addressed them to miss massey. he wrote on a piece of paper that they were to be given to her at once, and that he was to be called at ten. there was a rehearsal at twelve. on the night of the first performance, hubert asked rose to dine in his rooms. mr. wilson proposed that they should have a roast chicken, and annie was sent to fetch a bottle of champagne from the grocer's. annie had been given a ticket for the pit. mrs. wilson was going to the upper boxes. annie said,-- 'why, you look as if you was going to a funeral, and not to a play. why don't ye laugh?' in truth, hubert and rose were a little silent. rose was thinking how she could say certain lines. she had said them right once at rehearsal, but had not since been able to reproduce to her satisfaction a certain effect of voice. hubert was too nervous to talk. there was nothing in his mind but 'will the piece succeed? what shall i do if it fails?' he could give heed to nothing but himself, all the world seemed blotted out, and he suffered the pain of excessive self-concentration. rose, on the other hand, had lost sight of herself, and existed almost unconsciously in the soul of another being. she was sometimes like a hypnotised spectator watching with foolish, involuntary curiosity the actions of one whom she had been bidden to watch. then a little cloud would gather over her eyes, and then this other being would rise as if out of her very entrails and recreate her, fashioning her to its own image and likeness. she did not answer when she was spoken to, and when the question was repeated, she awoke with a little start. dinner was eaten in morbid silence, with painful and fitful efforts to appear interested in each other. walking to the theatre, they once took the wrong turning and had to ask the way. at the stage door they smiled painfully, nodded, glad to part. hubert went up to montague ford's room. he found the comedian on a low stool, seated before a low table covered with brushes and cosmetics, in front of a triple glass. 'my dear friend, do not trouble me now. i am thinking of my part.' hubert turned to go. 'stay a moment,' cried the actor. 'you know when the husband meets the wife he has divorced?' hubert remembered the moment referred to, and, with anxious, doubting eyes, the comedian sought from the author justification for some intonations and gestures which seemed to him to form part and parcel of the nature of the man whose drunkenness he had so admirably depicted on his face. '"_this is most unfortunate, very unlucky--very, my dear louisa; but----_" '"_i am no longer obliged to bear with your insults; i can now defend myself against you._" [illustration: "in the third row harding stood talking to a young man."] 'now, is that your idea of the scene?' a pained look came upon hubert's face. 'don't question me now, my dear fellow. i cannot fix my attention. i can see, however, that your make-up is capital--you are the man himself.' the actor was satisfied, and in his satisfaction he said, 'i think it will be all right, old chap.' hubert hoped to reach his box without meeting critics or authors. the serving-maids bowed and smiled,--he was the author of the play. 'they'll think still more of me if the notices are right,' he thought, as he hurried upstairs, and from behind the curtain of his box he peeped down and counted the critics who edged their way down the stalls. harding stood in the third row talking to a young man. he said, 'you mean the woman with the black hair piled into a point, and fastened with a steel circlet. a face of sheep-like sensuality. red lips and a round receding chin. a large bosom, and two thin arms showing beneath the opera cloak, which she has not yet thrown from her shoulders. i do not know her--_une laideur attirante_. many a man might be interested in her. but do you see the woman in the stage-box? you would not believe it, but she is sixty, and has only just begun to speak of herself as an old woman. she kept her figure, and had an admirer when she was fifty-eight.' 'what has become of him?' 'they quarrelled; two years ago he told her he hoped never to see her ugly old face again. and that delicate little creature in the box next to her--that pale diaphanous face?' 'with a young man hanging over her whispering in her ear?' 'yes. she hates the theatre; it gives her neuralgia; but she attends all the first nights because her one passion is to be made love to in public. if her admirer did not hang over her in front of the box just as that man is doing, she would not tolerate him for a week.' at that moment the conversation was interrupted by a new-comer, who asked if he had seen the play when it was first produced. 'yes,' said harding; 'i did.' and he continued his search for acquaintances amid white rows of female backs, necks, and half-seen profiles--amid the black cloth shoulders cut sharply upon the illumined curtain. 'and what do you think of it? do you think it will succeed this time?' 'ford will create an impression in the part; but i don't think the piece will run.' 'and why? because the public is too stupid?' 'partly, and partly because price is only an intentionist. he cannot carry an idea quite through.' 'are you going to write about it?' 'i may.' 'and what will you say?' 'oh, most interesting things to be said. let's take the case of hubert price ... ah, there, the curtain is going up.' the curtain rolled slowly up, and in a small country drawing-room, in very simple but very pointedly written dialogue, the story of mrs. holmes' domestic misfortunes was gradually unfolded. it appeared that she had flirted with captain grey; he had written her some compromising letters, and she had once been to his rooms alone. so the court had pronounced a decree _nisi_. but mrs. holmes had not been unfaithful to her husband. she had flirted with captain grey because her husband's attentions to a certain mrs. barrington had maddened her, and in her jealous rage had written foolish letters, and been to see captain grey. hubert noticed that folk were still asking for their seats, and pushing down the very rows in which the most influential critics were sitting. they exchanged a salutation with their friends in the dress-circle, and, when they were seated, looked around, making observations regarding the appearance of the house; and all the while the actors were speaking. hubert trembled with fear and rage. would these people never give their attention to the stage? if they had been sitting by him, he could have struck them. then a line turned into nonsense by the actress who played mrs. holmes was a lancinating pain; and the actor who played captain grey, played so slowly that hubert could hardly refrain from calling from his box. he looked round the theatre, noticing the indifferent faces of the critics, and the women's shoulders seemed to him especially vacuous and imbecile. the principal scene of the second act was between mrs. holmes and the man who had divorced her. he has-been driven to drink by the vile behaviour of his second wife; he is ruined in health and in pocket, and has come to the woman he wronged to beg forgiveness; he knows she has learnt to love captain grey, but will not marry him, because she believes that once married always married. there is only one thing he can do to repair the wrong he has done--he will commit suicide, and so enable her to marry the man she loves. he tells her that he has bought the pistol to do it with, and the words, 'not here! not here!' escape from her; and he answers, 'no, not here, but in a cab. i've got one at the door.' he goes out; captain grey enters, and mrs. holmes begs him to save her husband. while they are discussing how this is to be done, he re-enters, saying that his conscience smote him as he was going to pull the trigger. will she forgive him? if she won't, he must make an end of himself. she says she will. in the third act hubert had attempted to paint mr. holmes' vain efforts to reform his life. but the constant presence of captain grey in the household, his attempts to win mrs. holmes from her husband, and the drunken husband's amours with the servant-maid disgusted rather than horrified. in the fourth act the wretched husband admits that his reformation is impossible, and that, although he has no courage to commit suicide and set his wife free, he will return to his evil courses; they will sooner or later make an end of him. the slowness and deadly gravity with which ford took this scene rendered it intolerable; and, notwithstanding the beauty of the conclusion, when the deserted wife, in the silence of her drawing-room, reads again captain grey's letter, telling her that he has left england for ever, and with another, the success of the play was left in doubt, and the audience filed out, talking, chattering, arguing, wondering what the public verdict would be. to avoid commiseration of heartless friends and the triumphant glances of literary enemies, hubert passed through the door leading on to the stage. scene-shifters were brutally pushing away what remained of his play; and the presence of hamilton brown, the dramatic author, talking to ford, was at that moment particularly disagreeable. on catching sight of hubert, brown ran to him, shook him by the hand, and murmured some discreet congratulations. he preferred the piece, however, as it had been originally written, and suggested to ford the advisability of returning to the first text. then ford went upstairs to take his paint off, and hubert walked about the stage with brown. brown's insincerity was sufficiently transparent; but men in hubert's position catch at straws, and he soon began to believe that the attitude of the public towards his play was not so unfavourable as he had imagined. hubert tried to summon up a smile for the stage-door keeper, who, he feared, had heard that the piece had failed, and then the moment they got outside he begged rose to tell him the exact truth. she assured him that ford had said that he had always counted on a certain amount of opposition; but that he believed that the general public, being more free of prejudice and less sophisticated, would be impressed by the simple humanity of the play. the conversation paused, and at the end of an irritating silence he said, 'you were excellent, as good as any one could be in a part that did not suit them. ah, if he had cast you for the adventuress, how you would have played it!...' 'i'm so glad you are pleased. i hope my notices will be good. do you think they will?' 'yes, your notices will be all right,' he answered, with a sigh. 'and your notices will be all right too. no one can say what is going to succeed. there was a call after each of the last three acts.... i don't see how a piece could go better. it is the suspense....' 'ah, yes, the suspense!' they lingered on the landing, and hubert said, 'won't you come in for a moment?' she followed him into the room. his calm face, usually a perfect picture of repose and self-possession, betrayed his emotion by a certain blankness in the eyes, certain contractions in the skin of the forehead. 'i'm afraid,' he said, 'there's no hope.' 'oh, you mustn't say that!' she replied. 'i think it went very well indeed.... i know i did nothing with the young girl. i oughtn't to have undertaken the part.' 'you were excellent. if we only get some good notices. if we don't, i shall never get another play of mine acted.' he looked at her imploringly, thirsting for a woman's sympathy. but the little girl was thinking of certain effects which she would have made, and which the actress who had played the adventuress had failed to make. 'i watched her all the time,' she said, 'following every line, saying all the time, "oh yes, that's all very nice and very proper, my young woman; but it's not it; no, not at all--not within a hundred miles of it." i don't think she ever really touched the part--do you?' hubert did not answer, and a quiver of distraction ran through the muscles of her face. 'why don't you answer me?' 'i can't answer you,' he said abruptly. then remembering, he added, 'forgive me; i can think of nothing now.' he hid his face in his hands, and sobbed twice--two heavy, choking sobs, pregnant with the weight of anguish lying on his heart. seeing how much he suffered, she laid her hand on his shoulder. 'i am very sorry; i wish i could help you. i know how it tears the heart when one cannot get out what one has in one's brain.' her artistic appreciation of his suffering only jarred him the more. what he longed for was some kind, simple-hearted woman who would say, 'never mind, dear; the play was perfectly right, only they did not understand it; i love you better than ever.' but rose could not give him the sympathy he wanted; and to be alone was almost a relief. he dared not go to bed; he sat looking into space. the roar of london hushed till it was no more than a faint murmur, the hissing of the gas grew louder, and still hubert sat thinking, the same thoughts battling in his brain. he looked into the future, but could see nothing but suicide. his uncle? he had applied to him before for help; there was no hope there. then he tramped up and down, maddened by the infernal hissing of the gas; and then threw himself into his arm-chair. and so a terrible night wore away; and it was not until long after the early carts had begun to rattle in the streets that exhaustion brought an end to his sufferings, and he rolled into bed. vi 'what will ye 'ave to eat? eggs and bacon?' 'no, no!' 'well, then, 'ave a chop?' 'no, no!' 'ye must 'ave something.' 'a cup of tea, a slice of toast. i'm not hungry.' 'well, ye are worse than a young lady for a happetite. miss massey 'as sent you down these 'ere papers.' the servant-girl laid the papers on the bed, and hubert lay back on his pillow, so that he might collect his thoughts. stretching forth his hands, he selected the inevitable paper. 'for those who do not believe that our english home life is composed mainly, if not entirely, of lying, drunkenness, and conjugal infidelity, and its sequel divorce, yester evening at the queen's theatre must have been a sad and dismal experience. that men and women who have vowed to love each other do sometimes prove false to their troth no reasonable man will deny. with the divorce court before our eyes, even the most enthusiastic believer in the natural goodness and ultimate perfectibility of human nature must admit that men and women are frail. but drunkenness and infidelity are happily not characteristic of our english homes. then why, we ask, should a dramatist select such a theme, and by every artifice of dialogue force into prominence all that is mean and painful in an unfortunate woman's life? always the same relentless method; the cold, passionless curiosity of the vivisector; the scalpel is placed under the nerve, and we are called upon to watch the quivering flesh. never the kind word, the tears, the effusion, which is man's highest prerogative, and which separates him from the brute and signifies the immortal end for which he was created. we hold that it is a pity to see so much talent wasted, and it was indeed a melancholy sight to see so many capable actors and actresses labouring to----' 'this is even worse than usual,' said hubert; and glancing through half a column of hysterical commonplace, he came upon the following:-- 'but if this woman had succeeded in reclaiming from vice the man who unjustly divorced her, and who in his misery goes back to ask her forgiveness for pity's sake, what a lesson we should have had! and, with lightened and not with heavier hearts, we should have left the theatre comforted, better and happier men and women. but turning his back on the goodness, truth, and love whither he had induced us to believe he was leading us, the author flagrantly makes the woman contradict her whole nature in the last act; and, because her husband falls again, she, instead of raising him with all the tender mercies and humanities of wifehood, declares that her life has been one long mistake, and that she accepts the divorce which the court had unjustly granted. the moral, if such a word may be applied to such a piece is this: "the law may be bad, but human nature is worse."' the other morning papers took the same view,--a great deal of talent wasted on a subject that could please no one. hubert threw the papers aside, lay back, and in the lucid idleness of the bed his thoughts grew darker. it was hardly possible that the piece could survive such notices; and if it did not? well, he would have to go. but until the piece was taken out of the bills it would be a weakness to harbour the ugly thought. there were, however, the evening papers to look forward to, and soon after midday annie was sent to buy all that had appeared. hubert expected to find in these papers a more delicate appreciation of his work. many of the critics of the evening press were his personal friends, and nearly all were young men in full sympathy with the new school of dramatic thought. he read paper after paper with avidity; and annie was sent in a cab to buy one that had not yet found its way so far north as fitzroy street. the opinion of this paper was of all importance, and hubert tore it open with trembling fingers. although more temperately written than the others, it was clearly favourable, and hubert sighed a sweet sigh of relief. a weight was lifted from him; the world suddenly seemed to grow brighter; and he went to the theatre that evening, and, half doubting and half confidently, presented himself at the door of montague ford's dressing-room. the actor had not yet begun to dress, and was busy writing letters. he stretched his hand hurriedly to hubert. 'excuse me, my dear fellow; i have a couple of letters to finish.' hubert sat down, glancing nervously from the actor to the morning papers with which the table was strewn. there was not an evening paper there. had he not seen them? at the end of about ten minutes the actor said,-- 'well, this is a bad business; they are terribly down on us--aren't they? what do you think?' 'have you seen the evening papers--_the telephone_, for instance?' 'oh yes, i've seen them all; but the evening papers don't amount to much. stiggins's article was terrible. i am afraid he has killed the piece.' 'don't you think it will run, then?' 'well, that depends upon the public, of course. if they like it, i'll keep it on.' 'how's the booking?' 'not good.' montague ford moved his papers absent-mindedly. at the end of a long silence he said, 'even if the piece did catch on, it would take a lot of working up to undo the mischief of those articles. of course you can rely on me to give it every chance. i shan't take it out of the bills if i can possibly help.' 'there is my _gipsy_.' 'i have another piece ready to put into rehearsal; it was arranged for six months ago. i only consented to produce your play because--well, because there has been such an outcry lately about art.... tremendous part for me in the new piece... i'm sure you'll like it.' the business did improve, but so very slowly that hubert was afraid ford would lose patience and take the play out of the bills. but while the fate of the play hung in the balance, hubert's life was being rendered unbearable by duns. they had found him out, one and all; to escape being served was an impossibility; and now his table was covered with summonses to appear at the county court. this would not matter if the piece once took the public taste. then he would be able to pay every one, and have some time to rest and think. and there seemed every prospect of its catching on. discussions regarding the morality of the play had arisen in the newspapers, and the eternal question whether men and women are happier married or unmarried had reached its height. hubert spent the afternoon addressing letters to the papers, striving to fan the flame of controversy. every evening he listened for rose's footstep on the stairs.--how did the piece go?--was there a better house? money or paper?--have you seen the notice in the ----?--first-rate, wasn't it?--that ought to do some good.--i've heard there was a notice in the ----, but i haven't seen it. have you?--no; but so-and-so saw the paper, and said there was nothing in it. and, do you know, i hear there's going to be a notice in _the modern review_, and that so-and-so is writing it. every post brought newspapers; the room was filled with newspapers--all kinds of newspapers--papers one has never heard of,--french papers, welsh papers, north of england papers, scotch and irish papers. hubert read columns about himself, anecdotes of all kinds,--where he was born, who were his parents, and what first induced him to attempt writing for the stage; his personal appearance, mode of life, the cut of his clothes; his religious, moral, and political views. had he been the plaintiff in an action for criminal libel, greater industry in the collection and the fabrication of personal details could hardly have been displayed. but at these articles hubert only glanced; he was interested in his piece, not in himself, and when annie brought up _the modern review_ he tore it open, knowing he would find there criticism more fundamental, more searching. but as he read, the expression of hope which his face wore changed to one of pain pitiful to look upon. the article began with a sketch of the general situation, and in a tone of commiseration, of benevolent malice, the writer pointed out how inevitable it was that the critics should have taken mr. price, when _divorce_ was first produced, for the new dramatic genius they were waiting for. 'there comes a moment,' said this caustic writer, 'in the affairs of men when the new is not only eagerly accepted, but when it is confounded with the original. wearied by the old stereotyped form of drama, the critics had been astonished by a novelty of subject, more apparent than real, and by certain surface qualities in the execution; they had hailed the work as being original both in form and in matter, whereas all that was good in the play had been borrowed from france and scandinavia. _divorce_ was the inevitable product of the time. it had been written by mr. price, but it might have been written by a dozen other young men--granting intelligence, youth, leisure, a university education, and three or four years of london life--any one of a dozen clever young men who frequent west end drawing-rooms and dabble in literature might have written it. all that could be said was that the play was, or rather had been, _dans le mouvement_; and original work never is _dans le mouvement_. _divorce_ was nothing more than the product of certain surroundings, and remembering mr. price's other plays, there seemed to be no reason to believe that he would do better. mr. price had tried his hand at criticism, and that was a sure sign that the creative faculty had begun to wither. his critical essays were not rich nor abundant in thought, they were not the skirmishing of a man fighting for his ideas, they were not preliminary to a great battle; they were at once vague and pedantic, somewhat futile, _les ébats d'un esprit en peine_, and seemed to announce a talent in progress of disintegration rather than of reconstruction. 'sometimes the critic's phrases seemed wet with tears; sometimes, abandoning his tone of commiseration, he would assume one of scientific indifference. the phenomenon was the commonest. there were dozens of hubert prices in london. the universities and the newspapers, working singly and in collaboration, turned them out by the dozen. and the mission of these men of intelligent culture seemed to be to _poser des lapins sur la jeune presse_. each one came in turn with his little volume of poems, his little play, his little picture; all were men of "advanced ideas"; in other words, they were all _dans le mouvement_. there was the rough hubert price, who made mild consternation in the drawing-room, and there was the sophisticated hubert price, who cajoled the drawing-room; there was the sincere and the insincere, and the price that suffered and the price that didn't. each one brought a different _nuance_, a thousand infinitesimal variations of the type, but, considered merely in its relation to art, the species may be said to be divided into two distinct categories. in the first category are those who rise almost at the first bound to a certain level, who produce quickly, never reaching again the original standard, dropping a little lower at each successive effort until their work becomes indistinguishable from the ordinary artistic commercialism of the time. the fate of those in the second category is more pathetic; they gradually wither and die away like flowers planted in a thin soil. among these men many noble souls are to be found, men who have surrendered all things for love of their art, and who seemed at starting to be the best equipped to win, but who failed, impossible to tell how or why. sometimes their failure turns to comedy, sometimes to tragedy. they may become refined, delicate, elderly bachelors, the ornaments of drawing-rooms, professional diners-out--men with brilliant careers behind them. but if fate has not willed that they should retire into brilliant shells; if chance does not allow them to retreat, to separate themselves from their kind, but arbitrarily joins them to others, linking their fate to the fate of others' unhappiness, disaster may and must accrue from the alliance; honesty of purpose, trueness of heart, deep love, every great, good, and gracious quality to be found in nature, will not suffice to save them.' the paper dropped from his hands, and he recollected all his failures. 'once i could do good work; now i can do neither good work nor bad. were i a rich man, i should collect my scattered papers and write songs to be sung in drawing-rooms; but being a poor one, i must--i suppose i must get out. positively, there is no hope,--debts on every side. fate has willed me to go as went haydon, gerard de nerval, and maréchal. the first cut his throat, the second hanged himself, and the third blew out his brains. clearly the time has come to consider how i shall make my exit. it is a little startling to be called upon so peremptorily to go.' in this moment of extreme dejection it seemed to hubert that the writer of the article had told him the exact truth. he refused to admit the plea of poverty. it was of course hard to write when one is being harassed by creditors. but if he had had it in him, it would have come out. the critic had very probably told him the truth. he could not hope to make a living out of literature. he had not the strength to write the masterpiece which the perverse cruelty of nature had permitted him only to see, and he was hopelessly unfit for journalism. but in his simple, wholesome mind there was no bent towards suicide; and he scanned every horizon. once again he thought of his uncle. five years ago he had written, asking him for the loan of a hundred pounds. he had received ten. and how vain it would be to write a second time! a few pounds would only serve to prolong his misery. no; he would not drift from degradation to degradation. he only glanced at the letter which annie had brought up with the copy of _the modern review_. it was clearly a lawyer's letter. should he open it? why not spare himself the pain? he could alter nothing; and in these last days---- leaving the thought unfinished, he sought for his keys; he went to his box, unlocked it, and took out a small paper package. of the fifty pounds he had received from ford about twenty remained: he had been poorer before, but hardly quite so hopeless. he scanned every horizon--all were barred. the thought of suicide, and with it the instinctive shrinking from it, came into his mind again. suppose he took, that very night, an overdose of chloral? he tried to put the thought from him, and returned, a little dazed and helpless, to his chair. had the critic in _the modern review_ told him the truth? was he incapable of earning a living? it seemed so. above all, was he incapable of finishing _the gipsy_ as he intended? no; that he felt was a lie. give him six months' quiet, free from worry and all anxiety, and he would do it. many a year had passed since he had enjoyed a month of quiet; and glancing again at the letter on the table, he thought that perhaps at that very moment a score of gallery boys were hissing his play. perhaps at that very moment ford was making up his mind to announce the last six nights of _divorce_. at a quarter to twelve he heard rose's foot on the stairs. he opened the door. 'how did the piece go to-night?' 'pretty well.' 'only pretty well? won't you come in for a few minutes?... so the piece didn't go very well to-night?' 'oh yes, it did. i've seen it go better; but----' 'did you get a call?' 'yes, after the second act.' 'not after the third?' 'no. that act never goes well. harding came behind; i was speaking to him, and he said something which struck me as being very true. ford, he said, plays the part a great deal too seriously. when the piece was first produced, it was played more good-humouredly by indifferent actors, who let the thing run without trying to bring out every point. ford makes it as hard as nails. i think those were his exact words.' hubert did not answer. at the end of a long silence he said,-- 'did you hear anything about the last night's?' 'no,' she said; 'i heard nothing of that.' 'ford appeared quite satisfied then?' 'yes, quite,' she answered, with difficulty; for his eyes were fixed on her, and she felt he knew she was not telling the truth. the conversation paused again, and to turn it into another channel she said, 'why, you have not opened your letter!' 'i can see it is a lawyer's letter, on account of some unpaid bill. if i could pay it, i would; but as i can't----' 'you are afraid to open it,' said rose. ashamed of his weakness, hubert opened the letter, and began to read. rose saw that the letter was not such an one as he had expected, and a moment after his face told her that fortunate news had come to him. the signs of the tumult within were represented by the passing of the hand across the brow, as if to brush aside some strange hallucination, and the sudden coming of a vague look of surprise and fear into the eyes. he said,-- 'read it! read it!' relieved of much detail and much cumbersome legal circumlocution, it was to the following effect:--that about three months ago mr. burnett had come up from his place in sussex, and at the offices of messrs. grandly & co. had made a will, in which he had disinherited his adopted daughter, miss emily watson, and left everything to mr. hubert price. there was no question as to the validity of the will; but messrs. grandly deemed it their duty to inform mr. hubert price of the circumstances under which it had been made, and also of the fact that a few weeks before his death mr. burnett had told mr. john grandly, who was then staying with mr. burnett at ashwood, that he intended adding a codicil, leaving some two or three hundred a year to miss watson. it was unfortunate that mr. burnett had not had time to do this; for miss watson was an orphan, eighteen years of age, and entirely unprovided for. messrs. grandly begged to submit these facts to the consideration of mr. hubert price. miss watson was now residing at ashwood. she was there with a friend of hers, mrs. bentley; and should mr. hubert price feel inclined to do what mr. burnett had left undone, messrs. grandly would have very great pleasure in carrying his wishes into effect. 'i'm not dreaming, am i?' 'no, you are not. it is quite true. your uncle has left his money to you. i am so glad; indeed i am. you will be able to finish your play, and take a theatre and produce it yourself if you like. i hope you won't forget me. i do want to play that part. you can't quite know what i shall do with it. one can't explain oneself in a scene here and there.... what are you thinking of?' 'i'm thinking of that poor girl, emily watson. it comes very hard upon her.' 'who is she?' 'the girl my uncle disinherited.' 'oh, she! well, you can marry her if you like. that would not be a bad notion. but if you do, you'll forget all about me and lady hayward.' 'no; i shall never forget you, rose.' he stretched his hand to her; but, irrespective of his will, the gesture seemed full of farewell. 'i'm so much obliged to you,' he said; 'had it not been for you, i might never have opened that letter.' 'even if you hadn't, it wouldn't have mattered; you would have heard of your good fortune some other way. but it is getting very late. i must say good-night. i hope you will have a pleasant time in the country, and will finish your play. good-night.' returning from the door, he stopped to think. 'we have been very good friends--that is all. how strangely determined she is!... more so than i am. she is bound to succeed. there is in her just that note of individual passion.... perhaps some one will find her out before i have finished,--that would be a pity. i wonder which of us will succeed first?' then the madness of good fortune came upon him suddenly; he could think no more of rose, and had to go for a long walk in the streets. vii 'dearest emily, you must prepare yourself for the worst.' 'is he dead?' 'yes; he passed away quite quietly. to look at him one would say he was asleep; he does not appear to have suffered at all.' 'oh, julia, julia, do you think he forgave me? i could not do what he asked me.... i loved him very dearly as a father, but i could not have married him.' 'no, dear, you could not. such a marriage would have been most unnatural; he was more than forty years older than you.' 'i do not think he ever thought of such a thing until about a month or six weeks ago. you remember how i ran to you? i was as white as a ghost, and i trembled like a leaf. i could hardly speak.... you remember?' 'yes, i remember; and some hours after, when i came into this room, he was standing there, just there, on the hearth-rug; there was a fearful look of pain and despair on his face--he looked as if he was going mad. i never saw such a look before, and i never wish to see such a look again. and the effort he made to appear unconcerned when he saw me was perhaps the worst part of it. i pretended to see nothing, and walked away towards the window and looked out. but all the while i could feel that some terrible drama was passing behind me. at last i had to look round. he was sitting in that chair, his elbows on his knees, clasping his head with both hands, the old, gnarled fingers twined in the iron-grey hair. then, unable to contain himself any longer, he rushed out of the room, out of the house, and across the park.' 'you say that he passed away quietly; he did not seem to suffer at all?' 'no, he never recovered consciousness.' 'but do you think that my refusal to marry him had anything to do with his death?' 'oh no, emily; a fit of apoplexy, with a man of his age, generally ends fatally.' 'even if i had known it all beforehand i don't think i could have acted differently. i could not have married him. indeed i couldn't, julia, not even if i knew i should save his life by doing so. i daresay it is very wicked of me, but----' 'dearest emily, you must not give way to such thoughts; you did quite right in refusing to marry mr. burnett. it was very wrong of him even to think of asking you, and if he had lived he would have seen how wrong it was of him to desire such a thing.' 'if he had lived! but then he didn't live, not even long enough to forgive me, and when we think of how much he suffered--i don't mean in dying, you say he passed away quietly, but all this last month how heart-broken he looked! you remember when he sat at the head of the table, never speaking to us, and how frightened i was lest i should meet him on the stairs; i used to stand at the door of my room, afraid to move. i know he suffered, poor old man. i was very, very sorry for him. indeed i was, julia, for i'm not selfish, and when i think now that he died without forgiving me, i feel, i feel--oh, i feel as if i should like to die myself. why do such things happen to me? i feel just as miserable now as i used to when i lived with father and mother, who could not agree. i have often told you how miserable i was then, but i don't think you ever quite understood. i feel just the same now, just as if i never wanted to see any one or anything again. i was so unhappy when i was a child, they thought i would die, and i should have died if i had remained listening to father and mother any longer. ... every one thought i was so lucky when mr. burnett decided to adopt me and leave me all his money, and he has done that, poor old man, so i suppose i should be happy; but i'm not.' the girl's eyes turned instinctively towards the window and rested for a moment on the fair, green prospects of the park. 'i hated to listen to father and mother quarrelling, but i loved them, and i had not been here a year before father died, and darling mother was not long following him--only six months. then i had no one: a few distant relatives, whom i knew nothing of, whom i did not care for, so i gave all my love to mr. burnett. he was so good to me; he never denied me anything; he gave me everything, even you, dearest julia. when he thought i wanted a companion, he found you for me. i learnt to love you. you became my best and dearest friend. then things seemed to brighten up, and i thought i was happy, when all this dreadful trouble came upon us. don't let's speak of it more than we can help. i often wished myself dead. didn't you, julia?' emily watson told the story of her misfortunes in a low, musical voice, heedless of two or three interruptions, hardly conscious of her listener, impressed and interested by the fatality of circumstances which she believed in design against her. she was a small, slender girl of about eighteen. her abundant chestnut hair--exquisite, soft, and silky--was looped picturesquely, and fastened with a thin tortoiseshell comb. the tiny mouth trembled, and the large, prominent eyes reflected a strange, yearning soul. she was dressed in white muslin, and the fantastically small waist was confined with a white band. her friend and companion, julia bentley, was a woman of about thirty, well above the medium height, full-bosomed and small-waisted. the type was anglo-saxon even to commonplace. the face was long, with a look of instinctive kindness upon it. she was given to staring, and as she looked at emily, her blue eyes filled with an expression which told of a nature at once affectionate and intelligent. she was dressed in yellow linen, and wore a gold bracelet on a well-turned arm. the room was a long, old-fashioned drawing-room. it had three windows, and all three were filled with views of the park, now growing pale in the evening air. the flower-gardens were drawn symmetrically about the house and were set with blue flower-vases in which there were red geraniums. it was a very large room, nearly forty feet long, with old portraits on the walls--ugly things and ill done; and where there were no portraits the walls were decorated with vine leaves and mountains. the parqueted floor was partially covered with skins, and the furniture seemed to have known many a generation; some of it was heavy and cumbersome, some of it was modern. there was a grand piano, and above it two full-length portraits--a lady in a blue dress and a man in black velvet knee-breeches. at the end of a long silence, emily suddenly threw herself weeping into julia's arms. 'oh, you are my only friend; you will not leave me now.... we shall always love one another, shall we not? if anything ever came between us it would kill me.... that poor old man lying dead up-stairs! he loved me very dearly, and i loved him, too. yet i said just now i could not have married him even if i had known it would save his life. i was wrong; yes, i would have married him if i had known.... you don't believe me?' 'my dearest girl, you must try to forget that mr. burnett ever entertained so foolish a thought. he was a very good man, and loved you for a long time as he should have loved you--as a daughter. we shall respect his memory best by forgetting the events of the last six weeks. and now, emily, dinner will be ready at seven o'clock, and it is now six. what are you going to do?' 'i shall go out for a little walk. i shall go down and see the swans.' 'shall i come with you?' 'no, thank you, dear; i think i'd sooner be alone. i want to think.' julia looked a moment anxiously at this fragile girl, whose tiny head was poised on a long, delicate neck like a fruit on its stem. 'yes, go for a walk, dear,' said julia; 'it will do you good. shall i go and fetch your hat and jacket?' 'no, thank you, i will not trouble you; i'll go myself.' 'no, emily, i think you had better let me go.' 'oh, no; i am not afraid.' and she went up the wide oak staircase, thinking of the man who lay dead in the room at the end of the passage. she was conscious of a sense of dread; the house seemed to wear a strange air, and her dog, dandy, was conscious of it, too; he was more silent, less joyful than usual. and when she came from her room, dressed to go out, instead of rushing down-stairs, barking with joy, he dropped his tail and lingered at the end of the passage. she called him; he still hesitated, and then, yielding to a sudden desire, she went down the passage and knocked at the door of the room. the nurse answered her knock. 'oh, don't come in, miss.' 'why not? i want to see him before he goes away for ever.' upon the limp, white curtains of an old four-posted bed she saw the memorable profile--stern, unrelenting. how still he lay! never would that face speak or laugh or see again. although sixty-five, his head was covered with short, thick, iron-grey hair; the beard, too, was short and thick, and iron-grey. the face was rugged, and when emily touched the coarse hand, telling of a life of toil, she started--it was singularly cold. fear and sorrow in like measure choked her, and her soul awoke, and tremblingly she walked out of the house, glad to breathe the sweet evening air. she walked towards the artificial water. the sky was melancholy and grey, and the park lay before her, hushed and soundless. through the shadows of the darkening island two swans floated softly, leaving behind slight silver lines; above, the swallows flew high in the evening. there was sensation of death, too, in this cold, mournful water, and in the silence that hung about it, and in some vague way it reminded emily of her own life. she had known little else but death; her life seemed full of death; and those reflections, so distinct and so colourless, were like death. then, in a sudden expansion of youth she wondered. her own life, how strange, how personal, how intense! what did it mean, what meaning had it in the great, wide world? and the impressive tranquillity, the pale death of the day, lying like a flower on the water, seemed to symbolise her thought, and she felt more distinctly than she had ever done before. and there arose in her a nervous and passionate interest in herself. she seemed so strange, so wonderful. her childhood was in itself an enigma. that sad and sorrowful childhood of hers, passed in that old london house; her mother's love for her; her cruel, stern stepfather, and the endless quarrels between her father and mother, which made her young life so unbearable, so wretched, that she could never think of those years without tears rising to her eyes. and then the going away, coming to live with mr. burnett! the death of her father and her dear mother, so sudden, following so soon one after the other. how much there had been in her life, how wonderful it was! her love of mr. burnett, and then that bitter and passionate change in him! that proposal of marriage; could she ever forget it? and then this cruel and sudden death. everything she had ever loved had been taken from her. only julia remained, and should julia be taken from her, she felt that she must die. but that would not, could not, happen. she was now mistress of ashwood, she was a great heiress; and she and julia would live always together, they would always love one another, they would always live here in this beautiful place which they loved so well. viii there were at the funeral a few personal friends who lived in the neighbourhood, the farmers on the estate, and the labourers; and when the little crowd separated outside the church, emily and julia walked back to ashwood with mr. grandly, mr. burnett's intimate friend and solicitor. they returned through the park, hardly speaking at all, emily absent-minded as usual, waving her parasol occasionally at a passing butterfly. the grass was warm and beautiful to look on, and they lingered, prolonging the walk. it was very good of mr. grandly to accompany them back; he might have gone on straight to the station, so julia thought, and she was surprised indeed when, instead of bidding them good-bye at the front door, he said-- 'before i return to london i have a communication to make to both you ladies. will it suit you to come into the drawing-room with me?' 'perfectly, so far as i'm concerned; and you, emily?' 'oh, i've nothing to do; but if it is about business, julia will attend----' 'i think you had better be present, miss watson.' mr. grandly was a tall, massive man with benevolent features; his bald, pink skull was partly covered with one lock of white hair. there was an anxious look in his pale, deep-set eyes which impressed julia, and she said: 'i hope this communication you have to make to us is not of a painful nature. we have----' 'yes, mrs. bentley, i know that you have been severely tried lately, but there is no help for it. i cannot keep you in ignorance any longer of certain facts relating to mr. burnett's will.' the words 'will' and 'facts' struck on emily's ear. she had been thinking about her fortune. the very ground she was walking on was hers. she was the owner of this beautiful park; it seemed like a fairy tale. and that house, that dear, old-fashioned house, that rambling, funny old place of all sizes and shapes, full of deep staircases and pictures, was hers. her eyes wandered along the smooth wide drive, down to the placid water crossed by the great ornamental bridge, the island where she had watched the swans floating last night--all these things were hers. so the words 'will' and 'facts' and 'ignorance of them' jarred her clutching little dream, and she turned her eyes--they wore an anxious look--towards mr. grandly, and said with an authoritative air: 'yes, let us go into the drawing-room; i want to hear what mr. grandly has to say about----let us go into the drawing-room at once.' julia took the chair nearest to her. emily stood at the window, waiting impatiently for mr. grandly to begin. he laid his hat on the parquet, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and drew an arm-chair forward. 'mr. burnett, as you know, made a will some years ago, in favour of his cousin and adopted daughter, miss emily watson. in that will he left his entire fortune to her, ashwood park and all his invested money. no other person was mentioned in that will, except miss watson. it was i who drew up this will. i remember discussing its provisions with mr. burnett, and advising him to leave something, even if it were only a few hundred pounds, to his nephew, hubert price. but mr. burnett was always a very headstrong man; he had quarrelled with this young man, as he said, irreparably, and could not be induced to leave him even a hundred pounds. i thought this was harsh, and as mr. burnett's friend i told him so--i have always been opposed to extreme measures,--but he was not to be gainsaid. so the matter remained for many years; never did mr. burnett mention his nephew's name. i thought he had forgotten the young man's existence, when, suddenly, without warning, mr. burnett came into my office and told me that he intended to alter his will, leaving all his property to his nephew, hubert price. you know what old friends we were, and, presuming on our friendship, i told him what i thought of his project of disinheritance, for it amounted to that. well, suffice it to say, we very nearly quarrelled over the matter. i refused to draw up the will, so iniquitous did it seem to me. he said: "very well, grandly, i'll go elsewhere." then i remembered that if i allowed him to go elsewhere i should lose all hold over him, and i consented to draw up the will.' emily listened, a vague expression of pain in her pathetic eyes. then this house, this room where she was sitting, was not hers, and a strange man would come soon and drive her away! 'and he has left ashwood to mr. price, is not that his name?' she said, abruptly. 'yes; he has left ashwood to mr. price.' 'and when did he make this new will?' 'i think it is just about a month ago.' emily leaned forward, and her great eyes, full of light and sorrow, were fixed in space, her little pale hands linked, and the great mass of chestnut hair slipping from the comb. she was, in truth, at that moment the subject of a striking picture, and she was even more impressive when she said, speaking slowly: 'then that old man was even wickeder than i thought. oh, what i have learned in the last three or four weeks! oh, what wickedness, what wickedness!... but go on,' she said, looking at mr. grandly; 'tell me all.' 'i suppose there was some very serious reason, but on that point mr. burnett absolutely refused to answer me. he said his reasons were his own, and that he intended to leave his money to whom he pleased.' 'there was----' julia stopped short, and looked interrogatively at emily. 'go on, julia, tell him; we have nothing to conceal.' 'mr. burnett asked emily to marry him a short time ago; she, of course, refused, and ever since he seemed more like----' 'a madman than anything else,' broke in emily. 'oh, for the last month we have led a miserable life! it was a happy release.' 'is it possible,' said mr. grandly, 'that mr. burnett seriously contemplated marriage with miss watson?' 'yes, and her refusal seemed to drive him out of his mind.' 'i never was more surprised.' the placid face of the eminently respectable solicitor lapsed into contemplation. 'i often tried,' he said, suddenly, 'to divine the reason why he changed his will. disappointed love seemed the only conceivable reason, but i rejected it as being quite inconceivable. well, it only shows how little we know what is passing in each other's minds.' 'then,' said julia, 'mr. burnett has divided his fortune, leaving ashwood to mr. price, and all his invested money to emily?' a look of pain passed over mr. grandly's benevolent face, and he answered: 'unfortunately he has left everything to mr. price.' 'i'm glad,' exclaimed emily, 'that he has left me nothing. once he thought fit to disinherit me because i would not marry him, i prefer not to have anything to do with his money.' mr. grandly and julia looked at each other; they did not need to speak; each knew that the girl did not realise at once the full and irretrievable nature of this misfortune. the word 'destitute' was at present unrealised, and she only thought that she had been deprived of what she loved best in the world--ashwood. mr. grandly glanced at her, and then speaking a little more hurriedly, said-- 'i was saying just now that i only consented to draw up the will so that i might be able at some future time to induce mr. burnett to add a codicil to it. later on i spoke to him again on the subject, and he promised to consider it, and a few days after he wrote to me, saying that he had decided to take my advice and add a codicil. subsequently, in another letter he mentioned three hundred a year as being the sum he thought he would be in honour bound to leave miss watson. unfortunately, he did not live long enough to carry this intention into execution. but the letters he addressed to me on the subject exist, and i have every hope that the heir, mr. price, will be glad to make some provision for his cousin.' 'have you any reason for thinking that mr. price will do so?' said julia. 'no. but it seems impossible for any honourable man to act otherwise.' 'he cannot bear enmity against emily, who of course knew nothing of his quarrel with his uncle. do you know anything about mr. price? what is he? where does he live?' 'he is a literary man, i believe. i have heard that he writes plays!' 'oh, a writer of plays.' 'yes. i am glad of it; he may be easier to deal with. i daresay it is a mistaken notion, but one is apt to imagine that these artist folk are more generous with their money than ordinary mortals.' 'is he married?' said julia, and involuntarily she glanced toward emily. mr. grandly, too, looked toward the girl, and then he said: 'i don't know if mr. price is married; i hope not.' 'why do you hope so?' said emily, suddenly. 'because if he isn't, there will only be one person to deal with. if he had a wife, she would have a voice in the matter; and in such circumstances as ours a man is easier to deal with. i earnestly hope mr. hubert price is not married, and shall consider it a great point in our favour if on returning to town i find he is not.' then assuming a lighter tone, for the nervous strain of the last ten minutes had been intense, he said: 'if he is not married, who knows--you may take a fancy to him, and he to you; then things would be just the same as before--only better.' 'i should not marry him--i hate him already. i wonder how you can think of such a thing, mr. grandly? you know that he must be a very wicked man for uncle to have disinherited him. i have always heard that--but i don't know what i am saying.' tears welled up into her eyes. 'i daresay my cousin is not so bad as--but i can talk no more.... i am very miserable, i have always been miserable, and i don't know why; i never did harm to any one.' soon after mr. grandly bade the ladies good-bye. julia followed him to the front door. 'you will do all you can to help us? that poor child is too young, too inexperienced, to realise what her position is.' 'i know, i know,' said mr. grandly, extending both hands to julia; 'in the whole course of my experience i never met with a sadder case. but we must not take too sad a view of it. perhaps all will come right in the end. the young man cannot refuse to make good his uncle's intentions. he cannot see his cousin go to the workhouse. i will do the best i can for you. the moment i get back to london, i'll set inquiries on foot and find out his address, and when i have seen him i'll write. good-bye.' then, resolving that it were better to leave the girl to herself, julia took up her key-basket and hurried away on household business. but in the middle of her many occupations she would now and then stop short to think. she had never heard of anything so cruel before. that poor girl--she must go to her; she must not leave her alone any longer. but it would be well to avoid the subject as much as possible. she must think of something to distract her thoughts. the pony-chaise. it might be the last time they had a carriage to go out in. but they could not go out driving on the day of the funeral. that evening, as they were going to bed, emily said, lifting her sweet, pathetic little face, looking all love and gentleness: 'oh, to think of a common, vulgar writer coming here, with a common, vulgar wife and a horrid crowd of children. oh, julia, doesn't it seem impossible? and yet i suppose it is true. i cannot bear to think of it. i can see the horrid children tramping up and down the stairs, breaking the things we have known and loved so long; and they will destroy all my flowers, and no one will remember to feed the poor swans. dandy, my beloved, i shall be able to take you with me.' and she caught up the rough-haired terrier and hugged him, kissing his dear old head. 'dandy is mine; they can't take him from me, can they? but do you think the swans belong to them or to us? i suppose it would be impossible to take them with us if we go to live in london. they couldn't live in a backyard.' 'but, dearest emily, who are "they"? you don't know that he is married--literary men don't often marry. for all you know, he is a handsome young man, who will fall madly in love with you.' 'no one ever fell in love with me except that horrid old man--how i hate him, how i detest to think of it! i thought i should have died when he asked to marry me. the very memory of it is enough to make me hate all men, and prevent me from liking any one. i don't think i could like him; i should always see that wicked old man's hoary, wrinkled face in his.' 'oh, emily, i cannot think how such ideas can come into your head. it is not right, indeed it isn't.' and this simple englishwoman looked at this sensitive girl in sheer wonderment and alarm. 'i only say what i think. i am glad the old man did disinherit me. i'm glad we are leaving ashwood; i cannot abide the place when i think of him.... there, that is his chair. i can see him sitting in it now. he is grinning at us; he is saying, "ha! ha! i have made beggars of you both." you remember how we used to tremble when we met his terrible old face on the stairs; you remember how he used to sit glaring at us all through dinner?' 'yes, emily, i remember all that; but i do not think it natural that you should forget all the years of kindness; he was very good to you, and loved you very much, and if he forgot himself at the end of his life, we must remember the weakness of age.' 'the hideousness of age,' emily replied, in a low tone. the conversation paused, and then julia said-- 'you are speaking wildly, emily, and will live to regret your words. let us speak no more of mr. burnett... i daresay you will find your cousin a charming young man. i should laugh if it were all to end in a marriage. and how glad i should be to see you off on your honeymoon, to bid you good-bye!' 'oh, julia, don't speak like that; you will never bid me good-bye. you will never leave me--promise me that--you are my only friend. oh, julia, promise me that you will never leave me.' tears rose in julia's eyes, and taking the girl in her arms, she said, 'i'll never leave you, my dear girl, until you yourself wish it.' 'i wish it? oh, julia, you do not know me. i have lost everything, julia, but i mustn't lose you... after all, it doesn't so much matter, so long as we are not separated. i don't care about money, and we can have a nice little house in london all to ourselves. and if we get too hard up, we'll both go out as daily governesses. i think i could teach a little music, to young children, you know; you'd teach the older ones.' emily looked at julia inquiringly, and going over to the piano, attempted to play her favourite polka. julia, who had once worked for her daily bread, and earned it in a sort of way by giving music-lessons, smiled sadly at the girl's ignorance of life. 'i see,' said emily, who was quick to divine every shade of sentiment passing in the minds of those she loved; 'you don't think i could teach even the little children.' 'my dear emily, i hope it will never come to your having to try.' 'i must do something to get a living,' she replied, looking vaguely and wistfully into the fire. 'how unfortunate all this is--that horrid, horrid old man. but supposing he had asked you to marry him--he wasn't nice, but you are older than i, and if you had married him you would have become, in a way, my stepmother. but what a charming stepmother! oh, how i should have loved that!' 'come, emily, it is time to go to bed; you let your imagination run away with you.' 'julia, you are not cross because----' 'no, dear, i'm not cross. i'm only a little tired. we have talked too long.' emily's allusion to music-teaching had revived in julia all her most painful memories. if this man were to cast them penniless out of ashwood! supposing, supposing that were to happen? starving days, pale and haggard, rose up in her memory. what should she do, what should she do, and with that motherless girl dependent on her for food and clothes and shelter? she buried her face in the pillow and prayed that she might be saved from such a destiny. if this man--this unknown creature--were to refuse to help them, she and emily would have to go to london, and she would have to support emily as best she might. she would hold to her and fight for her with all her strength, but would she not fall vanquished in the fight; and then, and then? the same thoughts, questions, and fears turned in her head like a wheel, and it was not until dawn had begun to whiten the window-panes that she fell asleep. a few days after, the post brought a letter for julia. after glancing hastily down the page she said: 'this is a letter from mr. grandly, and it is good news. oh, what a relief!...' 'read it.' '"dear mrs. bentley,--immediately i arrived in london, i set to work to find out mr. price's address. it was the easiest matter in the world, for he has a play now running at one of the theatres. so i directed my letter to the theatre, and next morning i had a visit from him. after explaining to him the resources of the brilliant fortune he had come into, i told him of his uncle's intention to add a codicil to his will, leaving miss watson three hundred a year; i told him that this last will had left her entirely unprovided for. he said, at once, that he fully agreed with me, and that he would consider what was the most honourable course for him to take in regard to his 'cousin. this is exactly what he said, but his manner was such that before leaving he left no doubt in my mind whatever that he will act very generously indeed. i should not be surprised if he settled even more than the proposed three hundred a year on miss watson. he is a very quiet, thoughtful young man of about two or three and thirty. he looks poor, and i fancy he has lived through very hard times. he wears an air of sadness and disappointment which makes him attractive, and his manners are gentle and refined. i tell you these things, for i know they will interest you. i have not been able to find out if he is married, but i am sorry to say that his play has not succeeded. i should have found out more, but he was not in my office above ten minutes; he had to hurry away to keep an appointment at the theatre, for, as he explained, it was to be decided that very day if the play was to be taken out of the bills at the end of the week. he promised to call again, and our interview is fixed for eleven o'clock the day after to-morrow. in the meantime take heart, for i think i am justified in telling you i feel quite sanguine as to the result."' 'well,' said julia, laying down the letter, 'i don't think that anything could be more satisfactory, and just fancy dear old mr. grandly being able to describe a young man as well as that.' 'he doesn't say if he is short or tall, or dark or fair.' 'no, he doesn't. i think he might have told us something about his personal appearance, but it is a great relief to hear that he is not the vulgar bohemian we have always understood him to be. mr. grandly says his manners are refined; you might take a fancy to him after all.' 'but you don't know that he isn't married. i suppose mr. grandly wasn't able to find that out. i should like to know--but not because i want to marry him or any one else; only i don't like the idea of a great, vulgar woman, and a pack of children scampering about the place when we go.' 'do you dislike children so much, then, emily?' 'i don't know that i ever thought about them; but i'm sure i shouldn't like his children. i dreamt of him last night. do you believe in dreams?' 'what did you dream?' 'i cannot remember, but i woke up crying, feeling more unhappy than i ever felt in my life before. it is curious that i should dream of him last night, and that you should receive that letter this morning, isn't it?' 'i don't see anything strange in it. nothing more natural than that you should dream about him, and it was certain that i should receive a letter from mr. grandly; he promised to write to me in a few days.' 'then you believe what is in that letter--i don't. something tells me that he will not act kindly, but i don't know how.' 'i'm quite sure you are wrong, emily. mr. grandly would never have written this letter unless he knew for certain that mr. price would do all or more than he promised.' 'i can't see from the letter that he has promised anything... even if he does give me three hundred a year, i shall have to leave ashwood.' 'my dear emily, i'm cross with you: of course, if you will insist on always looking at the melancholy side.... now i'm going; i've to see after the housekeeping. are you going into the garden?' 'yes, presently.' emily did not seem to know what she was going to do. she looked out of the window, she lingered in the corridor; finally she wandered into the library. the quaint, old-fashioned room recalled her childhood to her. it was here she used to learn her lessons. here was the mahogany table, at which she used to sit with her governess, learning to read and write; and there, far away at the other end of the long room, was the round table, where lay the old illustrated editions of _gulliver's travels_ and _the arabian nights_, which she used to run to whenever her governess left the room. and at the bottom of the book-cases there were drawers full of strange papers; these drawers she used to open in fear and trembling, so mysterious did they seem to her. and there was the book-cases full of the tall folios, behind which lay, in dark and dim recesses, stores of books which she used to pull out, expecting at every moment to come upon long-forgotten treasures. she smiled now, as she recalled these childish imaginings, and lifting tenderly the coarse drugget, she looked at the great green globe which her fingers used to turn in infantile curiosity. then leaving the library, she roamed through the house, pausing on the first landing to gaze on the picture of the fine gentleman in a red coat, his hand for ever on his sword. she remembered how she used to wonder whom he was going to kill, and how sure she used to feel that at last he would grant his adversary his life. and close by was the picture of the wind-mill, set on the edge of the down, with the shepherd driving sheep in the foreground. her whole life seemed drenched with tears at the thought of parting with these things. every room was full of memories for her. she was a little girl when she came to live at ashwood, and the room at the top of the stairs had been her nursery. there were the two beds; both were now dismantled and bare. it was in the little bed in the corner that she used to sleep; it was in the old four-poster that her nurse slept. and there was the very place, in front of the fire, where she used to have her tea. the table had disappeared, and the grate, how rusty it was! in the far corner, by the window, there used to be a press, in which nurse kept tea and sugar. that press had been removed. the other press was there still, and throwing open the doors she surveyed the shelves. she remembered the very peg on which her hat and jacket used to hang. and the long walks in the great park, which was to her, then, a world of wonderment! she wandered about the old corridor, in and out of odd rooms, all associated with her childhood--quaint old rooms, many of them lumber rooms, full of odd corners and old cupboards, the meaning of which she used to strive to divine. how their silence and mystery used to thrill her little soul! faded rooms whose mystery had departed, but whose gloom was haunted with tenderest recollections. in one corner was the reading-chair in which mr. burnett used to sit. at that time she used to sit on his knee, and when the chair gave way beneath their weight, he had said she was too big a girl to sit on his knee any longer. the words had seemed to her a little cruel. she had forgotten the old chair, but now she remembered the very moment when the servants came to take it away. under the window were some fragments of a china bowl which she had broken when quite a little child. there was a hoop-stick and the hoop which had been taken down to the blacksmith's to be mended. he had mended it, but she did not remember ever using it again. and there was an old box of water-colours, with which she used to colour all the uncoloured drawings in her picture-books. emily took the hoop-stick, the old doll, and the broken box of water-colours, and packed them away carefully. she would be able to find room for them in the little house in london where she and julia were going to live. a few days after, the post brought letters from mr. grandly, one for emily and one for julia. julia's letter ran as follows: 'dear mrs. bentley,---i write by this post to miss watson, advising her that her cousin, mr. price, is most anxious to make her acquaintance, and asking her to send the dog-cart to-morrow to meet him at the station. i must take upon myself the responsibility for this step. i have seen mr. price again, and he has confirmed me in my good opinion of him. he seems most anxious, not only to do everything right, but to make matters as pleasant and agreeable as possible for his cousin. he has written me a letter recognising miss watson's claim upon him, and constituting himself her trustee. i have not had yet time to prepare a deed of gift, but there can be little doubt that miss watson's position is now quite secure. so far so good; but more than ever does the only clear and satisfactory way out of this miserable business seem to me to be a marriage between mr. hubert price and miss watson. i have already told you that he is a nice, refined young man, of gentlemanly bearing, good presence, and excellent speech, though a trifle shy and reserved; and, as i have since discovered that he is not married, i have taken upon myself the responsibility of advising him to jump into a train and to go and tell his cousin the conclusion he has come to regarding the will of the late mr. burnett. as i have said, he is a shy man, and it was some time before i could induce him to take so decisive a step; he wanted to meet miss watson in my office, but i succeeded in persuading him. he will go down to you to-morrow by the five o'clock, and i need not impress upon you the necessity that you should use your influence with miss watson, and that his reception should be as cordial as circumstances permit. i have only to add that i see no need that you should show this letter to miss watson, for the very fact of knowing that we desired to bring about a marriage might prejudice her against this young man, whom she otherwise cannot fail to find charming.' hearing some one at her door, julia put the letter away. it was emily. 'i've just received a letter from mr. grandly, saying that that man is coming here to-day, and that we are to send the dog-cart for him.' 'is not that the very best thing that----' 'we cannot remain here, we must leave a note for him, or something of that kind. i wouldn't remain here to meet him for worlds. i really couldn't, julia.' 'and why not, emily?' 'to meet the man who is coming to turn me out of ashwood!' 'how do you know that he is coming to turn you out of ashwood? you imagine these things.... do you suppose that mr. grandly would send him down here if he did not know what his intentions were?' 'but we shall have to leave ashwood.' 'very likely, but not in the way you imagine. remember, mr. price is your cousin; you may like him very much. let's be guided by mr. grandly; i have not seen your letter, but apparently he advises us to remain here and receive him.' 'i don't think i can, julia. i have misgivings.' 'have you been dreaming again?' 'no; i've not been dreaming, but i have misgivings.' 'you are a silly little goose, emily. come and give me a kiss, and promise to take my advice.' 'dearest julia, you do love me, don't you? promise me that we shall not be separated, and then i don't mind.' 'yes, dear, i promise you that, and you will promise me to try to like your cousin?' 'i'll try, julia, but i'm awfully frightened, and--i don't think i could like him, no matter what he was like. i feel a sort of hatred in my heart. don't you know what i mean?' and the girl looked questioningly into her friend's eyes. ix 'i am miss watson,' she said in her low musical voice, 'and this is my friend, mrs. bentley.' hubert bowed, and sought for words. he found none, and the irritating silence was broken again by miss watson. 'won't you sit down?' she said. 'thank you.' he pulled off his gloves. the pained, troubled look which he had met in miss watson's face seemed a reproach, and he regretted not having followed his own idea, and invited the young lady to meet him at mr. grandly's office. he glanced nervously from one lady to the other. 'i hope you have had a pleasant journey, mr. price,' said mrs. bentley. 'the country is looking very beautiful just at present. do you know this part of the country?' mrs. bentley's words were very welcome, and hubert replied eagerly-- 'no; i do not know the country at all well. i have been very little out of london for some years, but i hope now to see more of the country. this is a beautiful place.' at that moment he met mrs. bentley's eyes, and, feeling that he was touching on delicate ground, he stopped speaking. when he turned his head, he met miss watson's great sad eyes, which seemed to absorb the entire face, fixed upon him. they expressed such depth of pathetic appeal that he trembled with apprehension, and the instinct in him was to beg for pardon. but it became suddenly necessary to say something, and, speaking at random, his head full of whirling words, he said-- 'of course nothing could be more sad than my poor uncle's death,--so unexpected... having lived so long together, you must have----' then it was hubert's turn to look appealingly at miss watson; but her great eyes seemed to say, 'go on, go on; heap cruelty on cruelty!' then he plunged desperately, hoping to retrieve his mistakes. 'he died about a month ago. mr. grandly told me i should still find you here, so i thought----' the intensity of his emotion perhaps caused hubert to accentuate his words, so that they conveyed a meaning different from that which he intended. certainly his hesitations were capable of misinterpretation, and miss watson said, her voice trembling,-- 'of course we know we have no right here, we are intruding; but we are making preparations.... i daresay that to-morrow we shall be able to----' 'oh, i beg pardon, miss watson; let me assure you ... i am sorry if----' taking a little handkerchief out of her black dress, emily covered her face in her thin, tiny hands. she sobbed aloud, and ran out of the room. hubert turned to mrs. bentley, his face full of consternation. 'i am very sorry, but she did not give me time to speak. will you go and fetch her, mrs. bentley? i want to tell her i hope she will never leave ashwood. ... i believe she thinks that i came down here to ask her to leave as soon as possible. it is really quite awful that she should think such a thing.' 'she is an exceedingly sensitive girl, and is now a little overwrought. the events of the last month have proved too much for her.' 'mr. grandly informed me that it was mr. burnett's intention to add a codicil to his will, leaving miss watson three hundred a year. this money i am prepared to give her, and i'm quite sure she is welcome to stay here as long as she pleases. indeed, she will do me a great favour by remaining. please go and tell her. i cannot bear to see a girl cry; to hear her sob like that is quite terrible.' 'you will be able to tell her yourself during the course of the evening. i think it will come better from you.' 'after what has happened, it will be very difficult for me to meet her until she is informed that she is mistaken. i charged mr. grandly to explain everything in his letter. apparently he omitted to do so.' 'he only said you wanted to see emily on a matter of business. of course we did not expect such generosity.' they were standing quite close together, and suddenly hubert became conscious of mrs. bentley's beauty. her blue eyes were at that moment full of tender admiration for the instinctive generosity which hubert so unwittingly exhibited, and her eyes told what was passing in her soul. suddenly they both seemed to understand each other better, and, playing with the bracelet on her arm, she said-- 'you do not know emily; she is strangely sensitive. but i will go and try to persuade her to return.... although only distantly related, you are cousins, after all--are you not?' 'yes, we are cousins, but the relationship is remote. tell her everything; beg of her to come down-stairs.' hubert imagined emily's little black figure thrown upon her bed, sobbing convulsively. he was very much agitated, and looked about the room, at first hardly seeing it. at last its novelty drew his thoughts from his cousin's tears, and he wondered what was the history of the house. 'the old man,' he thought, 'bought it all, furniture and ancestors, from some ruined landowner, and attempted very few alterations--that's clear.' then he reproached himself. 'how could i have been so stupid? i did not know what i was saying. i was so horribly nervous. those strange eyes of hers quite upset me. i do hope mrs. bentley will tell her that i wish to act generously, that i am prepared to do everything in my power to make her happy. poor little thing! she looks as if she had never been happy.' again the room drew hubert's thoughts away from his cousin. it was still lit with the faint perfumed glow of the sunset. the paint of the old decorations was cracked and faded. a man in a plum-coloured coat with gold facings fixed his eyes upon him, and the tall lady in blue satin had no doubt played there in short clothes. he walked up and down, he turned over the music on the piano, and, hearing a step, looked round. it was only the servant coming to tell him that his room was ready. he dressed for dinner, hoping to find the two ladies in the drawing-room, and it was a disappointment to find only mrs. bentley there. 'i have told emily everything you said. she is very grateful, and begs of me to thank you for your kind intentions. but i am afraid you must excuse her absence from dinner. i really don't think she is in a fit state to come down; she couldn't possibly take part in the conversation.' 'but why? i hope she isn't ill? had we better send for the doctor?' 'oh no; she'll be all right in the morning. she has been crying. she suffers from depression of spirits. she is, i assure you, all right,' said mrs. bentley, replying to hubert's alarmed and questioning face. 'i assure you there is no need for you to reproach yourself. dinner is ready.' she took his arm, and they went into the dining-room. no further mention was made of mr. burnett, of money matters, or of the young lady up-stairs; and with considerable tact mrs. bentley introduced the subject of literature, alluding gracefully to hubert's position as a dramatist. 'your play, _divorce_, is now running at the queen's theatre?' no; i'm sorry to say it was taken out of the bills last saturday. saturday night was the last performance.' 'that was not a long run. and the papers spoke so favourably of it.' 'it is a play that only appeals to the few.' and, encouraged by mrs. bentley's manner, hubert told her how happy endings and comic love-scenes were essential to secure a popular success. 'i am afraid you will think me very stupid, but i do not quite understand.' in a quiet, unobtrusive way hubert was a graceful talker, and he knew how to adapt his theme, and bring it within the circle of the sympathies of his listeners. there was some similarity of temperament between himself and mrs. bentley; they were both quiet, fair, meditative saxons. she lent her whole mind to the conversation, interested in the account that the young man gave of his dramatic aspirations. from the dining-room window looking over the park the long road wound through the vaporous country. the town stood in the middle distance, its colour blotted out, and its smoke hardly distinguishable. in the room a yellow dress turned grey, and the gold of a bracelet grew darker, and the pink of delicate finger-nails was no longer visible. but the pensive dusk of the dining-room, which blackened the claret in the decanters, leaving only the faintest ruby glow in the glass which hubert raised to his lips, suited the tenor of the conversation, which had wandered from the dramatic to the social side of the question. what did he think of divorce? she sighed, and he wondered what her story might be. they passed out of the dining-room, and stood on the gravel, watching the night gathering in the open country. in the light of the moon, which had just risen above the woods, the white road grew whiter, the town was faintly seen in the tide of blue vapour, which here and there allowed a field to appear. in the foreground a great silver fir, spiky and solitary, rose up in the blue night. beyond it was seen a corner of the ornamental bridge. the island and its shadow were one black mass rising from the park up to the level of the moon, which, a little to the right, between the town and the island, lay reflected in a narrow strip of water. farther away some reeds were visible in the illusive light, and the meditative chatter of dozing ducks stirred the silence which wrapped the country like a cloak. hubert and mrs. bentley stood looking at the landscape. the fragrance of his cigar, the presence of the woman, the tenderness of the hour, combined to make him strangely happy; his past life seemed to him like a harsh, cruel pain that had suddenly ceased. more than he had ever desired seemed to be fulfilled; the reality exceeded the dream. what greater happiness than to live here, and with this woman! his thoughts paused, for he had forgotten the girl up-stairs. she was not happy; but he would make her happy--of that he was quite certain. at that moment mrs. bentley said-- 'i hope you like your home. is not the prospect a lovely one?' 'yes; but i was thinking at that moment of emily. i suppose i must accustom myself to call her by her christian name. she is my cousin, and we are going to live together. but, by the way, she cannot stay here alone. i hope--i may trust that you will remain with her?' mrs. bentley turned her face towards him; he noticed the look of pleasure that had passed into it. 'thank you; it is very good of you. i shall be glad to remain with emily as long as she cares for my society. it is needless to say i shall do my best to deserve your approval.' [illustration: "they dined at the café royal."] her voice fell, and he heard her sigh, and in his happiness it seemed to him to be a pity that he should find unhappiness in others. they went into the drawing-room. mrs. bentley asked him if he liked music, and she went to the piano and sang some scotch songs very sweetly. then she took a book from the table and bade him good-night. she was sure that he would excuse her. she must go and see after emily. when the door closed, the woman who had just left him seemed like some one he had seen in a dream; and still more shadowy and illusive did the girl seem--that pale and plaintive beauty, looking like a pastel, who had so troubled him with her enigmatic eyes! and the lodging-house that he had left only a few hours ago! and rose. on sunday he had taken rose out to dinner. they dined at the café-royal. he had tried to talk to her about hamilton brown's new drama, which they had just heard would follow _divorce_; but he was unable to detach his thoughts from ashwood and the ladies he was going to visit to-morrow evening. hubert and rose had felt like two school-fellows, one of whom is leaving school; the link that had bound them had snapped; henceforth their ways lay separate; and they were sad at parting just as school-friends are sad. 'you are not rich; you offered to lend me money once. i want to lend you some now.' 'oh yes; five shillings, wasn't it?' 'it doesn't matter what the sum was--we were both very poor then----' 'and i'm still poorer now.' 'all the more reason why you should allow me to help you.... allow me to write you a cheque for a hundred pounds. i assure you i can afford it.' 'i think i had better not.... i have some things i can sell.' 'but you must not sell your things. indeed, you must allow me----' 'i think i'd rather not. i shall be all right--that is to say, if ford engages me for brown's new piece; and i think he will.' 'but if he doesn't?' 'then,' she said, with a sweet and natural smile, 'i'll write to you.... we have been excellent friends--comrades--have we not?' 'yes, we have indeed, and i shall never forget. there is my address; that will always find me.' he had written a play--a play that the most competent critics had considered a work of genius; in any case, a play that had interested his generation more than any other. it had failed, and failed twice; but did that prove anything? fortune had deserted him, and he had been unable to finish _the gipsy_. was it the fault of circumstances that he had not been able to finish that play? or was it that the slight vein of genius that had been in him once had been exhausted? he remembered the article in _the modern review_, and was frightened to think that the critic might have divined the truth. once it had seemed impossible to finish that play; but fortune had come to his aid, accident had made him master of his destiny; he could spend three years, five years if he liked, on _the gipsy_. but why think of the play at all? what did it matter even if he never wrote it? there were many things to do in life besides writing plays. there was life! his life was henceforth his own, and he could live it as he pleased. what should he do with it? to whom should he give it? should he keep it all for himself and his art? it were useless to make plans. all he knew for certain was that henceforth he was master of his own life, and could dispense it as he pleased. and then, in sensuous curiosity, his thoughts turned on the pleasure of life in this beautiful house, in the society of two charming women. 'perhaps i shall marry one of them. which do i like the better? i haven't the least idea.' and then, as his thoughts detached themselves, he remembered emily's tears. x it was a day of english summer, and the meadows and trees drowsed in the moist atmosphere; a few white clouds hung lazily in the blue sky; the garden was bright with geraniums and early roses, and the closely cropped privets were in full leaf. hubert's senses were taken with the beauty of the morning, and there came the thought, so delicious, 'all this is mine.' he noticed the glitter of the greenhouses, and thought the cawing of some young rooks a sweet sound; a great tortoiseshell cat lay basking in the middle of the greensward, whisking its furry tail. hubert stroked the animal; it arched its back, and rubbed itself against his legs. at that moment a half-bred fox-terrier barked noisily at him; he heard some one calling the dog, and saw a slight black figure hastening down one of the side-walks. despite the dog's attempts on his legs, he ran forward. 'emily! emily!' he called. she stopped, turned, and stood looking at him. 'my dear cousin,' he said. 'i'm sorry about last night. i hope that mrs. bentley has told you. i begged of her to do so.' 'yes; she told me of your kind intentions. i have to thank you.' they walked on in silence, neither knowing what to say. 'go away, dandy!' said emily, thrusting her black silk parasol at the dog, who had begun an attack on hubert's trousers. the dog retreated; hubert laughed. 'i'm afraid he doesn't like me.' 'he'll soon get to know you. are you fond of animals?' 'i don't know that i am, particularly.' 'oh!' she said, looking at him reproachfully, 'how can you?' her eyes seemed to say, 'i never can like you after that.' 'i adore animals,' she said. 'my dear dog--there is nothing in the world i love as i love my dandy; come here, dear.' the dog came, wagging his tail, putting back his ears, knowing he was going to be caressed. emily stooped down, took his rough head in her hands, and kissed him. 'is he not a dear?' she said, looking up; and then she said, 'i hope you won't object to having him in the house;' her face clouded. 'oh, my dear emily, how can you ask such a question? i shall never object to anything you desire.' the conversation paused, and they walked some paces in silence. emily had just begun to speak of her flowers, when they came upon the gardener, who was standing in consternation over the fragments of a broken mowing-machine. jack--that was the donkey--had been left to himself just for a moment. it was impossible to say what wild freak had taken him; but instead of waiting, as he was expected to wait, stolidly, he had started off on a wild career, regardless of the safety of the machine. at the first bound it had come in contact with a flower-vase, which had been sent in many pieces over the sward; at the second it had met with some stone coping; and at the third it had turned over in complete dissolution, and jack was free to tear up the turf with his hoofs, until finally his erratic course was stopped by the small boy who was responsible for the animal's behaviour. the arrival of hubert and emily saved the small boy from many a cuff and the donkey from a kick or two; and jack stood amid the ruin he had created, as quiet and as docile a creature as the mind could imagine. 'oh, you--you wicked jack! who would have thought it of you?' said emily, throwing her arms round the animal's neck. 'and at your age, too! this is my old donkey,' she said, turning her dreamy eyes on hubert. 'i used to ride him every day until about two years ago. i love my dear old jack, and would not have him beaten for worlds, although he is so wicked as to break the mowing-machine. look what you have done to the flower-vase.' the animal shook its long ears. hubert and emily strolled down a long walk, wondering what they should talk about. 'these are really very pretty grounds,' he said at last. 'i am sure i shall enjoy myself immensely here.' the remark appeared to him to be of doubtful taste, and he hastened to add, 'that is to say, if i have completely made it up with my pretty cousin.' 'but you have not seen the place yet,' she said, speaking still with a certain tremor in her voice. 'you haven't even seen the gardens. come, and i'll show them to you.' hubert would have preferred to walk with her through these ornamental swards; and he liked the espalier apple-trees with which the garden was divided better than the glare and heat of the greenhouses into which she took him. 'do you care for flowers?' 'not very much.' 'these are all my flowers,' she said, pointing to many rows of flower-pots. 'those are julia's. you see i run a line of thread around mine, so that there shall be no mistake. she is not nearly so careful as i am, and it isn't nice to find that the plants you have been tending for weeks have been spoilt by over-watering. i don't say she doesn't love them, but she forgets them.... just look at those; they are devoured by insects. they want to be taken out and given a thorough cleansing. even then i doubt if they would come out right,--a plant never forgives you; it is just like a human being.' 'and doesn't a human being ever forgive?' 'oh, i didn't mean that!' she said, blushing; 'but sometimes i could cry over the poor plants which she neglects. i daresay you will think me very ridiculous, but i do cry sometimes, and sometimes i cannot resist taking them out on the sly, and giving them a thoroughly good syringing,--only you must not tell her; we have agreed not to touch each other's flowers. but i cannot bear to see the poor things dying. how do we know that they do not suffer?' 'i don't think it probable.' 'but we don't know for certain,' she said, fixing her great eyes on him. 'do we?' 'we know nothing for certain,' he answered; and then he said, 'you and mrs. bentley have lived a long time together?' 'no; not very long. about a couple of years. i was about thirteen when i came to ashwood. i am now eighteen. mrs. bentley is a sort of connection. she is very poor--that is why mr. burnett asked her to come and live here; besides, as i grew up i wanted a companion. she has been very good to me. we have been very happy together--at least, as happy as one may be; for i don't think that any one is ever very happy. have you been very happy?' 'i have not always been happy. but tell me more about mrs. bentley.' 'there is little more to tell. i naturally love her very much. she nursed me when i was ill--and i'm often ill; she taught me all i know; she cheered me when i was sad--when i thought my heart would break; when everybody else seemed unkind she was kind. besides, i could not remain here without her.' emily lowered her eyes, and the conversation seemed to pause. 'i have arranged all that,' hubert answered hurriedly. 'i spoke to her last night, and she has consented to remain.' 'that is very good of you.' emily raised her eyes and looked shyly at hubert; and then, as if doubtful of herself, she said, 'do you like her? i'm sure you do. every one does. do you not think she is very handsome?' 'i think her an exceedingly pleasant woman, and i'm sure we shall all get on very well together.' 'but don't you think her very handsome?' 'yes; she is a handsome woman.' nothing more was said. emily drew meditatively on the gravel with the point of her parasol. the gardeners looked up from their work. 'i have to go now,' she said, raising her eyes timidly, 'to feed the swans. you would not care to go so far?' 'on the contrary, i should like it, of all things. a walk by the water on a day like this will be quite a treat.' 'then will you wait a moment? i will go and fetch the bread.' she returned soon after with a small basket; and a large retriever, tied up in the corner of the yard, barked and lugged at his chain. 'he knows where i am going, and is afraid i shall forget him--aren't you, dear old don? you wouldn't like to miss a walk with your mistress, would you, dear?' the dog bounded and rushed from side to side; it was with difficulty that emily loosed him. once free, he galloped down the drive, returning at intervals for a caress and a sniff at the basket which his mistress carried. 'there's nothing there for you, my beautiful don!' the drive sloped from the house down to the artificial water, passing under some large elms; and in the twilight of the branches where the sunlight played, and the silence was tremulous with wings, hubert felt that emily had forgiven him. she wore the same black dress that he had admired her in the night before; her waist was confined by the same black band; but the chestnut hair seemed more beautiful beneath the black silk sunshade, leaned so gracefully, the black handle held between thumb and forefinger. and the little black figure seemed a part of the beautiful english park, now so green and fragrant in all the flower and sunlight of june, and decorated with a blue summer sky, and white clouds moving lazily over the tops of the trees. and the impression of the beautiful park was enforced by its reflection, which lay, with the mute magic of reflected things, in the still water, stirred only when, with exquisite motion of webbed feet, the swans propelled their freshness to and fro, balancing themselves in the current where they knew the bread must surely fall. 'they are waiting for me. cannot you see their black eyes turned towards the bridge?' and she threw the bread from the basket, and the beautiful birds unbent their curved necks, devouring it voraciously under the water. in the larger portion of this artificial lake there were two islands, thickly wooded. in the smaller, which lay behind emily and hubert, there was one small island covered with reeds and low bushes, and this was a favourite haunt for the waterfowl, which now came swimming forward, not daring to approach too near the dangerous swans. 'these are my friends,' said emily. 'they will follow me to the other end, and i shall be able to feed them as we walk along the meadow.' don and dandy bounded through the tall grass; sometimes foolishly giving chase to the birds that rose up out of the golden grasses, barking in mad eagerness--sometimes pursuing a hare into the distant woods. the last chase had led them far, and both dogs returned panting to walk till they recovered breath by their mistress's side; and to satisfy the retriever's affection emily held one hand to him. playing gently with his ears, she said-- 'did you ever see much of mr. burnett?' 'not since i was a boy, ten or twelve years ago, when i was at the university. there was absolutely no reason for his doing what he did.' 'yes; there was,' she said in a strangely decisive tone. 'may i ask----' 'i do not know if i ought to tell you. it would be better not to. you know,' she continued, speaking now with a nervous tremor in her voice, 'that i do not want you to think that i am so very disappointed. i do not know that i am disappointed at all. you have acted so generously, and it will be pleasanter to live here with you than with that old man.' the conversation fell; but the sweet meadow seemed to induce confidences, and they were so happy in their youth and the sorcery of the sunshine. 'five years ago i wrote to him,' said hubert, speaking very slowly, 'asking him to lend me fifty pounds, and he refused. since then i have not heard from him.' at the end of a long silence, the girl said-- 'so long as you know that i am no longer angry with him for having disinherited me, i do not mind telling you the reason. two months before he died he asked me to marry him, and i refused.' they walked several yards without speaking. 'do you not think i was right? i was only eighteen, and he was over sixty.' 'it seems to me quite shocking that he could have even contemplated such a thing.' 'but look at these poor ducks; they have followed us all the way, and i have forgotten to feed them!' taking out all the bread that remained in the basket, emily threw it to the ducks that had collected where the dammed-up stream that filled the lake trickled over a wooden sluice. there was a plank by which to cross the deep cutting. hubert and emily paused, and stood gazing at the large beech wood that swept over some rising ground. don had not been seen for some time, and they both shouted to him. presently a black mass was seen bounding through the flowers, and the panting animal once more ensconced himself by his mistress's side. 'i was very fond of mr. burnett,' she said, 'but i could not marry him. i could not marry any man i did not love.' 'and because you refused to marry him, he did not mention you in his will. i never heard of such selfishness before!' 'men are always selfish,' she said sententiously. 'but it really does not matter; things are just the same; he hasn't succeeded in altering anything--at least, not for the worse. we shall get on very well together.' the conversation paused. then emily went on: 'you won't tell any one i told you? i only told you because i did not want you to think me selfish. i was afraid that after the foolish way i behaved last night you might think i hated you. indeed, i do not. perhaps everything has happened for the best. i was very fond of the old man. i gave him my whole heart; no father ever had a daughter more attached; but i could not marry him. and it was the remembrance of my love for him that made me burst out crying. i do not think i realised until i saw you how cruelly i had been treated. but you won't tell any one? you won't tell mrs. bentley? she knows, of course; but do not tell her that i told you. i do not care that my feelings should be made a subject of discussion. you promise me?' 'i promise you.' they had now reached the tennis-lawn. the gong sounded, and emily said, 'that is lunch, and we shall find julia waiting for us in the dining-room.' it was as she said. mrs. bentley was standing by the sideboard, her basket of keys in her hand; she had not quite finished her housekeeping, and was giving some last instructions to the butler. hubert noticed that the place at the head of the table was for him, and he sat down a little embarrassed, to carve a chicken. so much home after so many years of homelessness seemed strange. xi on the third day, as soon as breakfast was over, hubert introduced the subject of his departure. julia waited, but as emily did not speak, she said, 'we thought you liked the country better than town.' 'so i do, but----' 'he's tired of us, and we had better leave,' emily said, abruptly. hubert started a little; he looked appealingly at julia, and seeing the look of genuine pain upon his face, she took pity on him. 'you should not speak like that, emily dear; i can see that you pain mr. price very much.' 'i hope, emily, that you will stay here as long as you like,' he said, in a low, gentle voice; 'as long as it is convenient and agreeable to you.' 'we cannot stay here without you,' emily replied; 'we are your guests.' 'and,' said julia, smiling, 'if there are guests, there must be a host. but if you have business in london, of course you must go.' 'i was not thinking of myself,' said hubert, 'but of you ladies. i was afraid that you were already tired of me; that you might like to be left alone; that you had business, preparations. i daresay i was all wrong; but if emily knew----' 'i'm sorry, hubert; i did not mean to offend you. i'm very unlucky. you'll forgive me.' 'i've nothing to forgive; i only hope that you'll never think again that i want to get rid of you. i hope that you'll stop at ashwood as long as ever it suits you to do so. i don't see how i can say more.' 'i like to stop here as long as you are here,' emily said, in a low voice. 'that is all i meant.' 'then we're all of one mind, i don't want to go back to london. if you don't find me in your way, i shall be delighted to stay.' 'of course,' said julia, 'we poor country folk can hardly hope to amuse you.' 'i don't know about that!' exclaimed emily. 'where would he find any one to play and sing to him in the evenings as you can?' the conversation paused, and all were happier that morning, though none knew why. days passed, desultory and sweet, and with a pile of books about him, he lay in a long cane chair under the trees; then the book would drop on his knees, and blowing smoke in curling wreaths, he lost himself in dramatic meditations. it was pleasant to see that emily had grown innocently, childishly fond of her cousin, and her fondness expressed itself in a number of pretty ways. 'now, hubert, hubert, get out of my way,' she would say, feigning a charming petulance; or she would come and drag him out of his chair, saying, 'come, hubert, i can't allow you to lie there any longer; i have to go to south water, and want you to come with me?' and walking together, they seemed like an italian greyhound and a tall, shaggy setter. a cloud only appeared on emily's face when julia spoke of their departure. julia had proposed that they should leave at the end of the month, and emily had consented to this arrangement. the end of the month had appeared to her indefinitely distant, but three weeks of the subscribed time had passed, and signs of departure had become more numerous and more peremptory. allusion had been made to the laundress, and julia had asked emily if she could get all her things into a single box; if not, they would have to send to brighton for another. emily had no notion of what her box would hold, and she showed little disposition to count her dresses or put her linen in order. she seemed entirely taken up thinking what books, what pictures, what china she could take away. she would like to have this bookcase, and might she not take the wardrobe from her own room? and she had known the clock all her life, and it did seem so hard to part with it. 'my dear girl, all these things belong to mr. price; you really cannot take them away without asking him.' 'but he won't refuse; he'll let me have anything i like.' 'he can't very well refuse, so i think it would be nicer on your part not to ask for anything.' 'i must have some of these things: i want to make the house we are going to live in, in london, look as much like ashwood as possible.' 'you'd like to take the whole house with you if you could.' 'yes; i think i should.' and emily turned and looked vaguely up and down the passage. 'i wonder if he'd give me the picture of the windmill?' 'the landing would look very bare without it.' 'it would indeed, and when we came down here on a visit--for i suppose we shall come down here sometimes on visits--i should miss the picture dreadfully, so i don't think i'll ask him for it. but i must take some pictures away with me. there are a lot of old things in the lumber-room at the top of the house, that no one knows anything about. i think i'll ask him to let me have them. i'll take him for a good long ramble through the house. he hasn't seen any of it yet, except just the rooms we live in down-stairs.' emily went straight to hubert. he was lying in the long wicker chair, his straw hat drawn over his eyes, for the sun was finding its sharp, white way through the leaves of the beeches. 'now, hubert, i want you. are you asleep?' 'asleep! no, i was only thinking.' he threw his legs over the edge of the low chair and stood up. 'if i tell you what i want, you won't refuse me, will you?' 'no,' he said smilingly; 'i don't think i shall.' 'are you sure?' she said, looking at him enigmatically. then in a lighter tone: 'i want you to give me a lot of things--oh, not a great many, nothing very valuable, but----' 'but what, emily?... you can have anything you want.' 'well, we shall see. you must come with me; i must show you what--i shan't want them unless you like to give them. come along. oh, you must come. i should not care about them unless you came with me, and let me point them out.' she passed her little hand into the arm of his rough coat, and led him towards the house. 'you know nothing of your own house, so before i go i intend to show you all over it. you have no idea what a funny old place it is up-stairs--endless old lumber-rooms which you would never think of going into if i didn't take you. when i was a little girl i wasn't often allowed down-stairs: the top of the house still seems to me more real than any other part.' throwing open a door at the head of the stairs, she said: 'this used to be my nursery. it is all bare and deserted now, but i remember it quite different. i used to spend hours looking out of that window. from it you can see all over the park, and the park used to be my great delight. i used to sit there and make resolutions that next time i went out i would be braver, and explore the hollows full of bushes and tall ferns.' 'did you never break your resolutions?' 'sometimes. i was afraid of meeting fairies or elves. there are glades and hollows that used to seem very wonderful. and they still seem very wonderful, only not quite in the same way. doesn't the world seem very wonderful to you? i'm always wondering at things. but i know i'm only a silly little girl, and yet i like to talk to you about my fancies. down there in the beech wood there is a beautiful glade. i loved to play there better than anywhere else. i used to lie there on a fur rug and play at paper dolls. i always fancied myself a duchess or a princess.' 'you are full of dreams, emily.' 'yes; i suppose i am. everything is pleasant and happy in dreams. i love dreaming. they thought i'd never learn to read; but it wasn't because i was stupid, but because i wouldn't study. i'd put my hands to my head, and, looking at the book, which i didn't see, i'd think of all sorts of things, imagine myself a fairy princess.' 'and it was in this room that you dreamed all those dreams?' 'yes; in this dear old room. you see that picture: that is one of the things i intended to ask you to give me.' 'what? that old, dilapidated print?' 'you mustn't abuse my picture. i used to spend hours wondering if those horsemen galloping so madly through the wood were robbers, and if they had robbed the castle shown between the trees. i used to wonder if they would succeed in escaping. they wouldn't gallop their horses like that unless they were being pursued.... can i have the picture?' 'of course you can. is that--that is not all you are going to ask me for?' 'i did think of asking you for a few more things. do you mind?' 'no, not the least. the more you ask for, the more i shall be pleased.' 'then you must come down-stairs.' they went down to the next landing. emily stopped before a bed-room, and, looking at hubert shyly and interrogatively, she said-- 'this is my room. i don't know if it is in a fit state to show you. i'm not a very tidy girl. i'll look first.' 'yes; it will do,' she said, drawing back. 'you can look in. i want you to give me that wardrobe. it isn't a very handsome one, but i've used it ever since i was a little girl; it has a hollow top, and i used to hide things there. do you think you can spare it?' 'yes; i think i can,' he said, smiling. then she led him up-stairs through the old lumber rooms, picking out here and there some generally broken and always worthless piece of furniture, pleading for it timidly, and strangely delighted when he nodded, granting her every request. she asked him to pull out what she had chosen from the _débris_, and a curious collection they made in the passage--dim and worm-eaten pictures, small book-cases, broken vases which she proposed mending. hubert wiped the dust from his hands and coat-sleeves. 'what a lot of things you have given me! now we shall be able to get on nicely with our furnishing.' 'what furnishing?' 'the furnishing of the little house in london where julia and i are going to live. you said you intended to add a hundred a year to the three hundred a year which mr. burnett should have left me; i don't see why you should do such a thing, but if you do we shall have four hundred a year to live upon. julia says that we shall then be able to afford to give fifty pounds a year for a house. we can get a very nice little house, she says, for that--of course, in one of the suburbs. the great expense will be the furnishing; we are going to do it on the hire system. i daresay one can get very nice things in that way, but i do want to make the place look a little like ashwood; that is why i'm asking you for these things. i was always fond of playing in these old lumber-rooms, and these dim old pictures, which i don't think any one knows anything of except myself, will remind me of ashwood. they will look very well, indeed, hanging round our little dining-room. you are sure you don't want them, do you?' 'no; i won't want them. i'm only too pleased to be able to give them to you.' 'you are very good, indeed you are. look at these old haymakers; i never saw but one little corner of this picture before; it was stowed away behind a lot of lumber, and i hadn't the strength to pull it out.... i'm afraid you've got yourself rather dusty.' 'oh no; it will brush off.' 'i shall hang this picture over the fireplace; it will look very well there. i daresay you don't see anything in it, but i'd sooner have these pictures than those down-stairs. i love the picture of the windmill on the first landing----' 'then why not have it? i'll have it taken down at once.' 'no; i could not think of taking it. how would the landing look without it? i should miss it dreadfully when i came here--for i daresay you will ask us to visit you occasionally, when you are lonely, won't you?' 'my dear emily, whenever you like, i hope you will come here.' 'and you will come and stay with us in london? your room will be always ready; i'll look after that. we shall feel very offended, indeed, if you ever think of going to an hotel. of course, you mustn't expect much; we shall only be able to keep one servant, but we shall try to make you comfortable, and, when you come, you'll take me to the theatres, to see one of your own plays.' 'if my play's being played, certainly. but would it be right for me to pay you visits in london?' 'they would be very wicked people indeed who saw anything wrong in it; you are my cousin. but why do you say such things? you destroy all my pleasure, and i was so happy just now.' 'i'm afraid, emily, your happiness hangs on a very slender thread.' she looked at him inquiringly, but feeling that it would be unwise to attempt an explanation, he said in a different tone-- 'but, emily, if you love ashwood so well, why do you go away?' 'why do i go away? we have been here now some time.... i can't live here always.' 'why not? why not let things go on just as they are?' 'and live here with you, i and julia?' 'yes; why not?' 'we should bore you; you want to write your plays, you'd get tired of me.' 'your being here would not prevent my writing my plays. i have been thinking all the while of asking you to remain, but was afraid you would not care to live here.' 'not care to live here! but you'll get tired of us; we might quarrel.' 'no; we shall never quarrel. you will be doing me a great favour by remaining. just fancy living alone in this great house, not a soul to speak to all day! i'm sure i should end by going out and hanging myself on one of those trees.' 'you wouldn't do that, would you?' hubert laughed. 'you and mrs. bentley will be doing me a great favour by remaining. if you go away i shall be robbed right and left, the gardens will go to rack and ruin, and when you come down here you won't know the place, and then, perhaps, we shall quarrel.' 'i shouldn't like ashwood to go to rack and ruin--and my poor flowers! and i'm sure you'd forget to feed the swans. if you did that, i could not forgive you.' 'well, let these grave considerations decide you to remain.' 'are you really serious?' 'i never was more serious in my life.' 'well then, may i run and tell julia?' 'certainly, and i'll--no, i won't. i'll look up the housemaids and tell them to restore this interesting collection of antiquities to their original dust.' xii he was, perhaps, a little too conscious of his happiness; and he feared to do anything that would endanger the pleasure of his present life. it seemed to him like a costly thing which might slip from his hand or be broken; and day by day he appreciated more and more the delicate comfort of this well-ordered house--its brightness, its ample rooms, the charm of space within and without, the health of regular and wholesome meals, the presence of these two women, whose first desire was to minister to his least wish or caprice. these, the first spoilings he had received, combined to render him singularly happy. bohemianism, he often thought, had been forced upon him--it was not natural to him, and though spiritual belief was dead, he experienced in church a resurrection of influences which misfortune had hypnotised, but which were stirring again into life. he was conscious again of this revival of his early life in the evenings when mrs. bentley went to the piano; and when playing a game of chess or draughts, remembrances of the old shropshire rectory came back, sudden, distinct, and sweet. in these days the disease of fame and artistic achievement only sang monotonously, plaintively, like the wind in the valleys where the wind never wholly rests. sometimes, when moved by the novel he was reading, he would discuss its merits and demerits with the two women who sat by him in the quiet of the dim drawing-room, their work on their knees, thinking of him. in the excitement of criticism his thoughts wandered to his own work, and the women's eyes filled with reveries, and their hands folded languidly over their knees. he spoke without emphasis, his words seeming to drop from the thick obsession of his dream. at ten the ladies gathered up their work, bade him good-night; and nightly these good-nights grew tenderer, and nightly they went up-stairs more deeply penetrated with a sense of their happiness. but at heart he was a man's man. he hardly perceived life from a woman's point of view; and in the long evenings which he spent with these women he sometimes had to force himself to appear interested in their conversation. he was as far removed from one as from the other. emily's wilfulness puzzled him, and he did not seem to have anything further to talk about to mrs. bentley. he missed the bachelor evenings of former days--the whisky and water, the pipes, and the literary discussion; and as the days went by he began to think of london; his thoughts turned affectionately towards the friends he had not seen for so long, and at the end of july he announced his intention of running up to town for a few days. so one morning breakfast was hurried through; emily was sure there was plenty of time; hubert looked at the clock and said he must be off; julia ran after him with parcels which he had forgotten; farewell signs were waved; the dog-cart passed out of sight, and, after lingering a moment, the women returned to the drawing-room thoughtfully. 'i wonder if he'll catch the train,' said emily, without taking her face from the window. 'i hope so; it will be very tiresome for him if he has to come back. there isn't another train before three o'clock.' 'if he missed this train he wouldn't go until to-morrow morning.... i wonder how long he'll stay away. supposing something happened, and he never came back!' emily turned round and looked at julia in dreamy wonderment. 'not come back at all? what nonsense you are talking, emily! he won't be away more than a fortnight or three weeks.' 'three weeks! that seems a very long while. how shall we get through our evenings?' emily had again turned towards the window. julia did not trouble to reply. she smiled a little, as she paused on the threshold, for she remembered that no more than a few weeks ago emily had addressed to her passionate speeches declaring her to be her only friend, and that they would like to live together, content in each other's companionship, always ignoring the rest of the world. although she had not mistaken these speeches for anything more than the nervous passion of a moment, the suddenness of the recantation surprised her a little. three or four days after, the girl was in a different mood, and when they came into the drawing-room after dinner she threw her arms about julia's neck, saying, 'isn't this like old times? here we are, living all alone together, and i'm not boring myself a bit. i never shall have another friend like you, julia.' 'but you'll be very glad when hubert comes back.' 'there's no harm in that, is there? i should be very ungrateful if i wasn't. think how good he has been to us.... i'm afraid you don't like him, julia.' 'oh, yes, i do, emily.' 'not so much as i do.' and raising herself--she was sitting on julia's knees--emily looked at julia. 'perhaps not,' julia replied, smiling; 'but then i never hated him as much as you did.' a cloud came over emily's face. 'i did hate him, didn't i? you remember that first evening? you remember when you came up-stairs and found me trembling in the passage--i was afraid to go to bed. ... i begged you to allow me to sleep with you. you remember how we listened for his footstep in the passage, as he went up to bed, and how i clung to you? then the dreams of that night. i never told you what my dreams were, but you remember how i woke up with a cry, and you asked me what was the matter?' 'yes, i remember.' 'i dreamt i was with him in a garden, and was trying to get away; but he held me by a single hair, and the hair would not break. how absurd dreams are! and the garden was full of flowers, but every time i tried to gather them, he pulled me back by that single hair. i don't remember any more, only something about running wildly away from him, and losing myself in a dark forest, and there the ground was soft like a bog, and it seemed as if i were going to be swallowed up every moment. it was a terrible sensation. all of a sudden i woke with a cry. the room was grey with dawn, and you said: "emily dear, what have you been dreaming, to cry out like that?" i was too tired and frightened to tell you much about my dream, and next morning i had forgotten it. i did not remember it for a long time after, but all the same some of it came true. don't you remember how i met hubert next morning on the lawn? we went into the garden and spent the best part of the morning walking about the lake.... i don't know if i told you--i ran away when i heard him coming, and should have got away had it not been for this tiresome dog. he called after me, using my christian name. i was so angry i think i hated him then more than ever. we walked a little way, and the next thing i remember was thinking how nice he was. i don't know how it all happened. now i think of it, it seems like magic. it was the day that my old donkey ran away with the mowing machine and broke the flower-vase, the dear old thing; we had a long talk about "jack." and then i took hubert into the garden and showed him the flowers. i don't think he cares much about flowers; he pretended, but i could see it was only to please me. then i knew that he liked me, for when i told him i was going to feed the swans, he said he loved swans and begged to be allowed to come too. i don't think a man would say that if he didn't like you, do you?' emily's mind seemed to contain nothing but memories of hubert. what he had said on this occasion, how he had looked at her on another. the conversation paused and emily sunned herself in the enchantment of recollection, until at last breaking forth again, she said-- 'have you noticed how ethel eastwick goes after him? and the odd part of it is, that she can't see that he dislikes her. he thinks nothing of her singing; he remained talking to me in the conservatory the whole time. i asked him to come into the drawing-room, but he pretended to misunderstand me, and asked me if i felt a draught. he said, "let me get you a shawl." i said, "i assure you, hubert, i don't feel any draught." but he would not believe me, and said he could not allow me to sit there without something on my shoulders. i begged of him not to move, for i knew that ethel would never forgive me if i interrupted her singing; but he said he could get me a wrap without interrupting any one. he opened the conservatory door, ran across the lawn round to the front door, and came back with--what do you think? with two wraps instead of one; one was mine, and the other belonged to--i don't know who it belonged to. so i said, "oh, what ever shall we do? i cannot let you go back again. if any one was to come in and find me alone, what ever would they think!" hubert said, "will you come with me? a walk in the garden will be pleasanter than sitting in the conservatory." i didn't like going at first, but i thought there couldn't be much harm.' it seemed to emily very terrible and very wonderful, and she experienced throughout her numbed sense a strange, thrilling pain, akin to joy, and she sat, her little fragile form lost in the arm-chair, her great eyes fixed in ecstasy, seeing still the dark garden with the great star risen like a phantom above the trees. that evening had been to her a wonder and an enchantment, and her pausing thoughts dwelt on the moment when the distant sound of a bell reached their ears, and the bell came nearer, clanging fiercely in the sonorous garden. then they saw a light--some one had come for them with a lantern--a joke, a suitable pleasantry, and amid joyous laughter, watching the setting moon, they had gone back to the tiled house, where dancers still passed the white-curtained windows. hubert had sat by her at supper, serving her with meat and drink. in the sway of memory she trembled and started, looking in the great arm-chair like a little bird that the moon keeps awake in its soft nest. she no longer wished to tell julia of that night in the garden; her sensation of it lay far beyond words; it was her secret, and it shone through her dreamy youth even as the star had shone through the heavens that night. suddenly she said-- 'i wonder what hubert is doing in london? i wonder where he is now?' 'now? it is just nine. i suppose he's in some theatre.' 'i suppose he goes a great deal to the theatre. i wonder who he goes with. he has lots of friends in london--actresses, i suppose; he knows them who play in his plays. he dines at his club----' 'or at a restaurant.' 'i wonder what a restaurant is like; ladies dine at restaurants, don't they?' as julia was about to make reply, the servant brought her a letter. she opened the envelope, and took out a long, closely-written letter; she turned it over to see the signature, and then looking toward emily, she said, with a pleasant smile-- 'now i shall be able to answer your questions better; this letter is from mr. price.' 'oh, what does he say? read it.' 'wait a moment, let me glance through it first; it is very difficult to read.' a few moments after, julia said, 'there's not much that would interest you in the letter, emily; it is all about his play. he says he would have written before if he had not been so busy looking out for a theatre, and engaging actors and actresses. he hopes to start rehearsing next week. "i say i hope, because there are still some parts of the play which do not satisfy me, particularly the third act. i intend to work steadily on the play till, next thursday, five or six hours every day; i am in perfect health and spirits, and ought to be able to get the thing right. should i fail to satisfy myself, or should any further faults appear when we begin to rehearse the piece, i shall dismiss my people, pack up my traps, and return to ashwood. there i shall have quiet; here, people are continually knocking at my door, and i cannot deny my friends the pleasure of seeing me, if that is a pleasure. but at ashwood, as i say, i shall be sure of quiet, and can easily finish the play this autumn, and february is a better time than september to produce a play."' 'then he goes on,' said julia, 'to explain the alterations he contemplates making. there's no use reading you all that.' 'i suppose you think i should not understand.' 'my dear emily, if you want to read the letter, there it is.' 'i don't want to see your letter.' 'what do you mean, emily?' 'nothing, only i think it rather strange that he didn't write to me.' some days after, emily took up the book that julia had laid down. '"shakespeare's plays." i suppose you are reading them so that you'll be able to talk to him better.' 'i never thought of such a thing, emily.' at the end of a long silence emily said-- 'do you think clever men like clever women?' 'i don't know. some say they do, some say they don't. i believe that really clever men, men of genius, don't.' 'i wonder if hubert is a man of genius. what do you think?' 'i really am not capable of expressing an opinion on the matter.' another week passed away, and emily began to assume an air of languor and timid yearning. one day she said-- 'i wonder he doesn't write. he hasn't answered my letter yet. has he answered yours?' 'he has not written to me again. he hasn't time for letter-writing. he is working night and day at his play.' 'i suppose he'd never think of coming down by the morning train. he'd be sure to come by the five o'clock.' 'he won't come without writing. he'd be sure to write for the dog-cart.' 'i suppose so. there's no use in looking out for him.' but, notwithstanding her certitude on the point, emily could not help choosing five o'clock as the time for a walk, and julia noticed that the girl's feet seemed to turn instinctively towards the lodge. often she would leave the flowers she was tending on the terrace, and stand looking through the dim, sun-smitten landscape toward the red-brown spot, which was southwater, in the middle of the long plain. xiii hubert felt called upon to entertain his friends, and one evening they all sat dining at hurlingham in the long room. the conversation, as usual, had been about books and pictures. it was the moment when strings of lanterns were hoisted from tree to tree. in front of a large space of sky the coloured globes were crude and trivial; but in the shadows of the trees by the river, where the mist rose into the branches, they had begun to awaken the first impression of melancholy and the sadness of _fête_. it was the moment when the great trees hung heavy and motionless, strangely green and solemn beneath a slate-coloured sky; and the plaintive waltz cried on hungarian fiddle-strings, till it seemed the soul of this feminine evening. the fashionable crowd had moved out upon the lawn; the white dresses were phantom blue, and the men's coats faded into obscure masses, darkening the gathering shadows. it was the moment when voices soften, and every heart, overpowered with yearning, is impelled to tell of grief and disillusion; and every moment the wail of the fiddles grew more unbearable, tearing the heart to its very depths. author and actor-manager walked up the lawn puffing at their cigars. the others sat watching, knowing that the opportunity had come for criticism of their friend. 'he does not change much,' said harding. 'circumstances haven't affected him. a year ago he lived in a garret re-writing his play _divorce_. he now rewrites _divorce_ in a handsome house in sussex.' 'i thought he had finished his play,' said thompson. 'i heard that he was going to take a theatre and produce it himself.' 'but did you not hear him say at dinner that he was re-writing as he rehearsed? i met one of the actors yesterday. he doesn't know what to make of it. he gets a new part every week to learn.' 'do you think he'll ever produce it?' 'i doubt it. at the last moment he'll find that the third act doesn't satisfy him, and will postpone the production till the spring.' 'what do you think of his work?' 'very intelligent, but a little insipid--like himself. look at him. _il est bien l'homme de ses ouvres_. there is something dry about him, and his writings are like himself--hard, dry and wanting in personal passion.' 'yet he talks charmingly, with vivacity and intelligence, and he is so full of appreciation of shakespeare, goethe, and such genuine love for antiquity.' 'i've heard him talk shakespeare, goethe, and ibsen,' said harding, 'but i never heard him say anything new, anything personal. it seems to me that you mistake quotation for perception. he assimilates, but he originates nothing. he has read a great deal; he is covered with literature like a rock with moss and lichen. he's appreciative, i will say that for him. he would make a capital editor, or a tutor, or a don, an oxford don. he would be perfectly happy as a don; he could read up the german critics and expound sophocles. he would be perfectly happy as a don. as it is, he is perfectly miserable.' 'there was a fellow who had a studio over mine,' said thompson. 'he had been in the army and used to paint a bit. the academy by chance hung a portrait, so he left the army and turned portrait-painter. one day he saw a picture by velasquez, and he understood how horrid were the red things he used to send to the academy. he used to come down to see me; he used to say, "i wish i had never seen a picture, by gad, it is driving me out of my mind." poor chap, i wanted him to go back to the army. i said, why paint? no one forces you to; it makes you miserable; don't do so any more. when you have anything to say, art is a joy; when you haven't, it is a curse to yourself and to others.' philipps, the editor of _the cosmopolitan_, turned towards harding, and he said-- 'i cannot follow you in your estimate of hubert price. i don't see him either mentally or physically as you do. it seems to me that you distort the facts to make them fit in with your theory. he is tall and thin, but i do not think that his nature is hard and dry. i should, on the contrary, say that he was of a soft rather than a hard nature. the expression of his face is mild and melancholy. i do not detect the dry, hard, rocky basis of which you speak. i should say that price was a sentimental man.' 'i have never heard of him being in love,' said harding. 'i should say that he had been entirely uninfluenced by women.' 'but love of women is only one form of sentimentality and not the highest, nor the deepest,' said philipps. 'i can imagine a man being exceedingly sentimental and not caring about women at all.' 'what you say is true,' said harding. his face showed that he felt the observation to be true and was interested in it. 'but i think i described him truly when i said he was like a rock overgrown with moss and lichen. there is not sufficient root-hold for any idea to grow in him, it withers and dies. examine his literature, and you'll see it is as i say. he has written some remarkable plays, i don't say he hasn't. but they seem to be better than they are. he gets a picturesque situation, but there is always something mechanical about it. there's a human emotion somewhere, but it's never really there; it might have been, but it is not.... it is very well done, it is very intelligent; but it does not seem to live, to palpitate.... in like manner there are men who have read everything, who understand everything, who can theorise; they can tell you all about the masterpiece, but when it comes to producing one, well, they're not on in that scene.' 'what an excellent character he would make in a novel! a drama of sterility,' said phillips. 'or the dramas which they bring about,' said harding. 'yes, or the dramas they bring about. but what drama can price bring about--he shuts himself up in a room and tries to write a play,' said phillips. 'i don't see how he can dramatise any life but his own.' 'all deviations from the normal tend to bring about drama,' said harding. 'then, why don't you do a hubert price in a book? it would be most interesting. do you think you ever will?' 'i don't think so.' 'why not? because he is a friend of yours, and you would not like----' 'i never allow my private life to interfere with my literature. no; for quite other reasons. i admit that he represents physically and mentally a great deal of the intellectual impotence current in our time. but it would be difficult, i think, to bring vividly before the reader that tall, thin, blonde man, with his pale gentle eyes and his insipid mind. i should take quite a different kind of man as my model.' 'what kind of man?' said phillips, and the five or six writers and painters leaned forward to listen to harding. 'i think i should imagine a man about the medium height. a nice figure, light, trim, neat. good-looking, straight nose, eyes bright and intelligent. i think he would have beard, a very close-cut beard. the turn of his mind would be metaphysical and poetic--an intense subtility of mind combined with much order. he would be full of little habits. he would have note-books of a special kind in which to enter his ideas. the tendency of his mind would be towards concision, and he would by degrees extend his desire for concision into the twilight and the night of symbolism.' 'a sort of constipated browning,' said phillips. 'exactly,' said harding. 'and would you have him married?' asked john norton. 'certainly. i imagine him living in a tiny little house somewhere near the river--westminster or chelsea. his wife would be a dreadful person, thin, withered, herring-gutted--a sort of red herring with a cap. but his daughter would be charming, she would have inherited her father's features. i can imagine these women living in admiration of this man, tending on him, speaking very little, removed from worldly influences, seeing only the young men who come every tuesday evening to listen to the poet's conversation--i don't hear them saying much--i can see them sitting in a corner listening for the ten thousandth time to aestheticisms not one word of which they understand, and about ten o'clock stealing away to some mysterious chamber. something of the poet's sterility would have descended upon them.' 'that is how you imagine _un génie raté_,' said phillips. 'your conception is clear enough; why don't you write the book?' 'because there is nothing more to say on the subject. it is a subject for a sketch, not for a book. but of this i'm sure, that the dry-rock man would come out more clearly in a book than the soft, insipid, gentle, companionable, red-bearded fellow.' 'if price were the dry, sterile nature you describe, we should feel no interest in him, we should not be discussing him as we are,' said phillips. 'yes, we should--price suffers; we're interested in him because he suffers--because he suffers in public--"i never was happy except on those rare occasions when i thought i was a great man." in that sentence you'll find the clew to his attractiveness. but in him there is nothing of the irresponsible passion which is genius. there's that little rose massey--that little baby who spends half her day dreaming, and who is as ignorant as a cod-fish. well, she has got that something--that undefinable but always recognisable something. it was price who discovered her. we used to laugh at him when he said she had genius. he was right; we were wrong. the other night i was standing in the wings; she was coming down from her dressing-room--she lingered on the stairs, looking the most insignificant little thing you can well imagine; but the moment her cue came a strange light came into her eyes and a strange life was fused in her limbs; she was transformed, and went on the stage a very symbol of passion and romance.' the slate colour of the sky did not seem to change, and yet the night grew visibly denser in the park; and there had come the sensation of things ended, a movement of wraps thrown over shoulders and thought of bedtime and home. the crowd was moving away, and nearly lost in the darkness hubert came towards his friends. he had just knocked the ash from his cigar, and as he drew in the smoke the glow of the lighted end fled over his blonde face. xiv one day a short letter came from hubert, asking mrs. bentley to send the dog-cart to the station to fetch him. he had decided to come home at once, and postpone the production of his play till the coming spring. every rehearsal had revealed new and serious faults of construction. these he had attempted to remove when he went home in the evening, but though he often worked till daybreak, he did not achieve much. the very knowledge that he must come to rehearsal with the re-written scene seemed to produce in him a sort of mental paralysis, and, striking the table with his fist, he would get up, and a thought would cross his mind of how he might escape from this torture. after one terrible night, in which he feared his brain was really giving way, he went down to the theatre and dismissed the company, for he had resolved to return to ashwood and spend another autumn and another winter re-writing _the gipsy_. if it did not come right then, he would bother no more about it. why should he? there was so much else in life besides literature. he had plenty of money, and was determined in any case to enjoy himself. so did his thoughts run as he leaned back on the cushions of a first-class carriage, glancing casually through the evening paper. presently his eye was caught by a paragraph narrating an odd calamity which had overtaken a scene carpenter, an honest, respectable, sober, hard-working man, who had fulfilled all social obligations as perfectly as the most exacting could desire, until the day he had conceived the idea of a machine for the better exhibition of advertisements on the hoardings. his system was based on the roller-towel. the roller was moved by clockwork, and the advertisements went round like the towel. at first he spent his spare time and his spare money upon it, but as the hobby took possession of him, he devoted all his time and all his money to it; then he pawned his clothes, and then he raised money on the furniture; the brokers came in, and finally the poor fellow was taken to a lunatic asylum, and his wife and family were thrown on the parish. the story impressed hubert strangely. he saw an analogy between himself and the crazy inventor, and he asked himself if he would go on re-writing _the gipsy_ until he went out of his mind. 'even if i do,' he thought, 'i can hurt no one but myself. no one else is dependent on me; my hobby can hurt no one but myself.' these forebodings passed away, and his mind filled up with schemes of work. he knew exactly what he wanted to do, and he looked forward to doing it. he wanted quiet, he wanted long days alone with himself. such were his thoughts in the dog-cart as he drove home, and it was therefore vaguely unpleasant to him to meet the two ladies waiting for him at the lodge gate. their smiles of welcome irritated him; he longed for the solitude of his study, the companionship of his work; and instead he had to sit with them in the drawing-room, and tell them how he liked london, what he had done there, whom he had seen there, and why he had been unable to finish his play to his satisfaction. in the morning emily or mrs. bentley was generally about to pour out his coffee for him and keep him company. one day hubert noticed that it was no longer mrs. bentley but emily who met him in the passage, and followed him into the dining-room. and while he was eating she sat with her feet on the fender, talking of some girls in the neighbourhood--their jealousies, and how edith eastwick could not think of anything for herself, but always copied her dresses. dandy drowsed at her feet, and very often she would take him to the window and make him go through all his tricks, calling on hubert to admire him. she had a knack of monopolising hubert, and since his return from london, her desire to do so had become almost a determination. hubert showed no disinclination, and after breakfast they were to be seen together in the gardens. hubert was a great catch, and there were other young ladies eager to be agreeable to him; but he did not seem to desire flirtation with any. so they came to speak of him as a very clever man, no doubt; but as they knew nothing about plays, he very probably did not care to talk to them. hubert was not attractive in general society, and he would soon have failed to interest them at all had it not been for emily. she was proud of her influence over him, and for the first time showed a desire to go into society. day by day her conversation turned more and more on tennis-parties, and she even spoke about a ball. he consented to take her; and he had to dance with her, and she refused nearly every one, saying she was tired, leading hubert away for long conversations in the galleries and on the staircases. hubert had positively nothing to say to her; but she seemed quite happy as long as she was with him. and as they drove through the dawn emily chattered of a hundred trifles,--what edith had said, what mabel wore, of the possibility of a marriage, and the arrival of a detachment of some cavalry regiment. hubert found it hard to affect interest in these conversations. his brain was weary with waltz tunes, the shape of shoulders, and the glare and rustle of silk; but as she chattered, rubbing the misted windows from time to time, so as to determine how far they were from home, he wondered if he should ever marry, and half playfully he thought of her as his wife. but without warning his dreams were broken by a sudden thought, and he said-- 'another time, i think it will be better, my dear emily, that mrs. bentley should take you out.' 'why should you not take me out?... i suppose you don't care to--i bore you.' 'no; on the contrary, i enjoy it--i like to see you amused; but i think you should have a proper chaperon.' emily did not answer; and a little cloud came over her face. hubert thought she looked even prettier in her displeasure than she had done in her joy; and he went to sleep thinking of her. never had he thought her so beautiful--never had she touched him with so personal an interest; and next morning, when he lounged in his study, he was glad to hear her knock at the door; and the half-hour he spent with her there, yielding to her pleading to come for a walk with her, or drive her over to southwater in the dog-cart, was one of unalloyed pleasure. but a few days after, as he lay in bed, a new idea came to him for his third act. so he said he would have breakfast in his study. he dressed, thinking the whole time how he could round off his idea and bring it into the act. so clear and precise did it seem in his mind that he sat down immediately after breakfast, forgetting even his matutinal cigar, and wrote with a flowing pen. he had left orders that he was not to be disturbed; and was annoyed when the door opened and emily entered. 'i am very sorry, but you must not be cross with me; i do so want you to come and see the eastwicks with me.' 'my dear emily, i could not think of such a thing this morning. i am very busy--indeed i am.' 'what are you doing? nothing very important, i can see. you are only writing your play. you might come with me.' 'my play is as important to me as a visit to the eastwicks is to you,' he answered, smiling. 'i have promised edith.... i really do wish you would come.' 'my dear emily, it is quite impossible: do let me get on with my work!' emily's face instantly changed expression; she turned to leave the room, and hubert had to go after her and beg her to forgive him--he really had not meant to be rude to her. 'you don't care to talk to me. i am not clever enough for you.' then pity took him, and he made amends by suggesting they should go for a walk in the park, and she often succeeded in leading him even to dry, uninteresting neighbours. but the burden grew heavier, and soon he could endure no longer the evenings of devotion to her in the drawing-room, where the presence of mrs. bentley seemed to fill her with incipient rebellion. one evening after dinner, as he was about to escape up-stairs, emily took his arm, pleading that he should play at least one game of backgammon with her. he played three; and then, thinking he had done enough, he took up a novel and began to read. emily was bitterly offended. she sat in a corner, a picture of deep misery; and whenever he spoke to mrs. bentley, he thought she would burst into tears. it was exasperating to be the perpetual victim of such folly; and, pressed by the desire to talk to mrs. bentley about the book he was reading, he suggested that she should come with him to the meet. the harriers met for the first time that season at not five miles from ashwood. mrs. bentley pleaded an engagement. she had promised to go over to tea at the rectory. 'oh, we shall be back in plenty of time; i'll leave you at the rectory on our way home.' 'thank you, mr. price; but i do not think i can go.' 'and why, may i ask?' 'well, perhaps emily would like to go.' 'emily has a cold, and it would be folly of her to venture a long drive on a cold morning.' 'my cold is quite well.' 'you were complaining before dinner how bad it was.' 'if you don't want to take me, say so.' tears were now streaming down her cheeks. 'my dear emily, i am only too pleased to have you with me; i was only thinking of your cold.' 'my cold is quite gone,' she said, with brightening face; and next morning she came down with her waterproof on her arm, and she had on a new cloth dress which she had just received from london. hubert recognised in each article of attire a sign that she was determined to carry her point. it seemed cruel to tell her to take her things off, and he glanced at mrs. bentley and wondered if she were offended. 'i hope the drive won't tire you; you know the meet is at least five miles from here.' emily did not answer. she looked charming with her great boa tied about her throat, and sprang into the dog-cart all lightness and joy. 'i hope you are well wrapped up about the knees,' said mrs. bentley. 'oh yes, thank you; hubert is looking after me.' mrs. bentley's calm, statuesque face, whereon no trace of envy appeared, caught hubert's attention as he gathered up the reins, and he thought how her altruism contrasted with the passionate egotism of the young girl. 'i hope julia was not disappointed. i know she wanted to come; but----' 'but what?' 'well, no one likes julia more than i do, and i don't want to say anything against her; but, having lived so long with her, i see her faults better than you can. she is horribly selfish! it never occurs to her to think of me.' hubert did not answer, and emily looked at him inquiringly. at last she said, 'i suppose you don't think so?' 'well, emily, since you ask me, i must say that i think she took it very good-humouredly. you said you were ill, and it was all arranged that i should drive her to the meet; then you suddenly interposed, and said you wanted to go; and the moment you mentioned your desire to go, she gave way without a word. i really don't know what more you want.' 'you don't know julia. you cannot read her face. she never forgets anything, and is storing it up, and will pay me out for it sooner or later.' 'my dear emily, how can you say such things? i never heard---- she is always ready to sacrifice herself for you.' 'you think so. she has a knack of pretending to be more unselfish than another; but she is in reality intensely selfish.' 'all i can say is that it does not strike me so. i never saw any one give way more good-humouredly than she did to-day.' 'i don't think that that is so wonderful, after all. she is only a paid companion; and i do not see why she should go driving about the country with you, and i be left at home.' hubert was somewhat shocked. the conversation paused. 'she gets on very well with men,' emily said at last, breaking an irritating silence somewhat suddenly. 'they say she is very good-looking. don't you think so?' 'oh yes, she is certainly a pretty woman--or, i should say, a good-looking woman. she is too tall to be what one generally understands as a pretty woman.' 'do you like tall women?' at that moment the hunt appeared in the field at the bottom of the hill. a grey horse had just got rid of his rider, and after galloping round and round, his head in the air, stopped and began to graze. the others jumped the hedge, and the greater part of the field got over the brook in capital style. emily and hubert watched them with delighted eyes, for the sight was indeed picturesque this fine autumn day. even their horse pricked up his ears and began neighing, and hubert had to hold him tight in hand, lest he should break away while they were enjoying the spectacle. at that moment a poor little animal, with fear-haunted eyes, and in all the agony of fatigue, appeared above the crest of the hill, and immediately after came the straining hounds, one within a dozen yards of the poor little beast, now running in a circle, uttering the most plaintive and pitiful cries. 'oh, they are not going to kill it!' cried emily. 'oh, save it, save it, hubert!' she hid her face in her hands. 'did it escape? is it killed?' she said, looking round. 'oh, it is too cruel!' the huntsman was calling to the hounds, holding something above them, and at every moment horses' heads appeared over the brow of the hill. there was more hunting; and when the october night began to gather, and the lurid sunset flared up in the west, hubert got out another wrap, and placed it about emily's shoulders. but although the chill night had drawn them close together in the dog-cart, they were as widely separated as if oceans were between them. so far as lay in his power he had hidden the annoyance that the intrusion of her society had occasioned him; and, to deceive her, very little concealment was necessary. so long as she saw him she seemed to live in a dream, unconscious of every other thought. they rolled through a gradual effacement of things, seeing the lights of the farmhouses in the long plain start into existence, and then remain fixed, like gold beetles pinned on a blue curtain. the chill evening drew her to him, till they seemed one; and full of the intimate happiness of the senses which comes of a long day spent in the open air, she chattered of indifferent things. he thought how pleasant the drive would be were he with mrs. bentley--or, for the matter of that, with any one with whom he could talk about the novel that had interested him. they rolled along the smooth wide road, watching the streak of light growing narrower in a veil of light grey cloud drawn athwart the sky. overpowered by her love, the girl hardly noticed his silence; and when they passed through the night of an overhanging wood her flesh thrilled, and a little faintness came over her; for the leaves that brushed her face had seemed like a kiss from her lover. xv one afternoon, about the end of september, hubert came down from his study about tea-time, and announced that he had written the last scene of his last act. emily was alone in the drawing-room. 'oh, how glad i am! then it is done at last. why not write at once and engage the theatre? when shall we go to london?' 'well, i don't mean that the play could be put into rehearsal to-morrow. it still requires a good deal of overhauling. besides, even if it were completely finished, i should not care to produce it at once. i should like to lay it aside for a couple of months, and see how it read then.' 'what a lot of trouble you do take! does every one who writes plays take so much trouble?' 'no, i'm afraid they do not, nor is it necessary they should. their plays are merely incidents strung together more or less loosely; whereas my play is the development of a temperament, of temperamental characteristics which cannot be altered, having been inherited through centuries; it must therefore pursue its course to a fatal conclusion. in shakespeare---- but no, no! these things have no interest for you. you shall have the nicest dress that money can buy; and if the play succeeds----' the girl raised her pathetic eyes. in truth, she cared not at all what he talked to her about; she was occupied with her own thoughts of him, and just to sit in the room with him, and to look at him occasionally, was sufficient. but for once his words had pained her. it was because she could not understand that he did not care to talk to her. why did she not understand? it was hard for a little girl like her to understand such things as he spoke about; but she would understand; and then her thoughts passed into words, and she said-- 'i understand quite as well as julia. she, knows the names of more books than i, and she is very clever at pretending that she knows more than she does.' at that moment mrs. bentley entered. she saw that emily was enjoying her talk with her cousin, and tried to withdraw. but hubert told her that he had written the last act; she pretended to be looking for a book, and then for some work which she said had dropped out of her basket. 'if emily would only continue the talking,' she thought, 'i should be able to get away.' but emily said not a word. she sat as if frozen in her chair; and at length mrs. bentley was obliged to enter, however cursorily, into the conversation. 'if you have written out _the gipsy_ from end to end, i should advise you to produce it without further delay. once it is put on the stage, you will be able to see better where it is wrong.' 'then it will be too late. the critics will have expressed their opinion; the work will be judged. there are only one or two points about which i am doubtful. i wish harding were here. i cannot work unless i have some one to talk to about my work. i don't mean to say that i take advice; but the very fact of reading an act to a sympathetic listener helps me. i wrote the first act of _divorce_ in that way. it was all wrong. i had some vague ideas about how it might be mended. a friend came in; i told him my difficulties; in telling them they vanished, and i wrote an entirely new act that very night.' 'i'm sorry,' said mrs. bentley, 'that i am not mr. harding. it must be very gratifying to one's feelings to be able to help to solve a literary difficulty, particularly if one cannot write oneself.' 'but you can--i'm sure you can. i remember asking your advice once before; it was excellent, and was of immense help to me. are you sure it will not bore you? i shall be so much obliged if you will.' 'bore me! no, it won't bore me,' said mrs. bentley. 'i'm sure i feel very much flattered.' the colour mounted to her cheek, a smile was on her lips; but it went out at the sight of emily's face. 'then come up to my study. we shall have just time to get through the first act before dinner.' mrs. bentley hesitated; and, noticing her hesitation, hubert looked surprised. at that moment emily said-- 'may i not come too?' 'well, i don't know, emily. you see that we wish to see if there is anything in the play that a young girl should not hear.' 'always an excuse to get rid of me. you want to be alone. i never come into the room that you do not stop speaking. oh, i can bear it no longer!' 'my dear emily!' 'don't touch me! go to her; shut yourself up together. don't think of me. i can bear it no longer!' and she fled from the room, leaving behind her a sensation of alarm and pity. hubert and mrs. bentley stood looking at each other, both at a loss for words. at last he said-- 'that poor child will cry herself into her grave. have you noticed how poorly she is looking?' 'not noticed! but you do not know half of it. it has been going on now a long time. you don't know half!' 'i have noticed that things are not settling down as i hoped they would. it really has become quite dreadful to see that poor face looking reproachfully at you all day long. and i am quite at a loss to know what's the right thing to do.' 'it is worse than you think. you have not noticed that we hardly speak now?' 'you--who were such friends--surely not!' then she told him hurriedly, in brief phrases, of the change that had taken place in emily in the last three months. 'it was only the other night she accused me of going after you, of having designs upon you. it is very painful to have to tell you these things, but i have no choice in the matter. she lay on her bed crying, saying that every one hated her, that she was thoroughly miserable. somehow she seems naturally an unhappy child. she was unhappy at home before she came here; but then i believe she had excellent reasons,--her mother was a very terrible person. however, all that is past; we have to consider the present now. she accused me of having designs on you, insisting all the while that every one was talking about it, and that she was fretting solely because of my good name. of course, it is very ridiculous; but it is very pitiful, and will end badly if we don't take means to put a stop to it. i shouldn't be surprised if she went off her head. we ought to have the best medical advice.' 'this is very serious,' he said. and then, at the end of a long silence, he said again, 'this is very serious--perhaps far more serious than we think.' 'not more serious than i think. i ought to have spoken about it to you before; but the subject is a delicate one. she hardly sleeps at all at night; she cries sometimes for hours; she works herself up into such fits of nervousness that she doesn't know what she is saying,--accuses me of killing her, and then repents, declaring that i am the only one who has ever cared for her, and begs of me not to leave her. i do assure you it is becoming very serious.' 'have you any proposal to make regarding her? i need hardly say that i'm ready to carry out any idea of yours.' 'you know what the cause of it is, i suppose?' 'i do not know; i am not certain. i daresay i'm mistaken.' 'no, you are not; i wish you were--that is to say, unless---- but i was saying that it is most serious. the child's health is affected; she is working herself up into an awful state of mind; she is losing all self-control. i'm sure i'm the last person who would say anything against her; but the time has come to speak out. well, the other day, when we were at the eastwicks, you took the chair next to mine when she left the room. when she returned, she saw that you had changed your place, and she said to ethel eastwick, "oh, i'm fainting. i cannot go in there; they are together." ethel had to take her up to her room. well, this morbid sensitiveness is most unhealthy. if i walk out on the terrace, she follows, thinking that i have made an appointment to meet you. jealousy of me fills up her whole mind. i assure you that i am most seriously alarmed. something occurs every day--trifles, no doubt; and in anybody else they would mean nothing, but in her they mean a great deal.' 'but what do you propose?' 'unless you intend to marry her--forgive me for speaking so plain--there is only one thing to do. i must leave.' 'no, no; you must not leave! she could not live alone with me. but does she want you to leave?' 'no; that is the worst of it. i have proposed it; she will not hear of it; to mention the subject is to provoke a scene. she is afraid if i left that you would come and see me; and the very thought of my escaping her vigilance is intolerable.' 'it is very strange.' 'yes, it is very strange; but, opposed though she be to all thoughts of it, i must leave.' 'as a favour i ask you to stay. do me this service, i beg of you. i have set my heart on finishing my play this autumn. if it isn't finished now, it never will be finished; and your leaving would create so much trouble that all thought of work would be out of the question. emily could not remain alone here with me. i should have to find another companion for her; and you know how difficult that would be. i'm worried quite enough as it is.' a look of pain passed through his eyes, and mrs. bentley wondered what he he could mean. 'no,' he said, taking her hands, 'we are good friends--are we not? do me this service. stay with me until i finish this play; then, if things do not mend, go, if you like, but not now. will you promise me?' 'i promise.' 'thank you. i am deeply obliged to you.' at the end of a long silence, hubert said, 'will you not come up-stairs, and let me read you the first act?' 'i should like to, but i think it better not. if emily heard that you had read me your play, she would not close her eyes to-night; it would be tears and misery all the night through.' xvi the study in which he had determined to write his masterpiece had been fitted up with taste and care. the floor was covered with a rare persian carpet, and the walls were lined with graceful bookcases of chippendale design; the volumes, half morocco, calf, and the yellow paper of french novels, showed through the diamond panes. the writing-table stood in front of the window; like the bookcases, it was chippendale, and on the dark mahogany the handsome silver inkstand seemed to invite literary composition. there was a scent of flowers in the room. emily had filled a bowl of old china with some pale september roses. the curtains were made of a modern cretonne--their colour was similar to the bowl of roses; and the large couch on which hubert lay was covered with the same material. on one wall there was a sea-piece by courbet, and upon another a river landscape, with rosy-tinted evening sky, by corot. the chimney-piece was set out with a large gilt timepiece, and candelabra in dresden china. hubert had bought these works of art on the occasion of his last visit to london, about two months ago. it was twelve o'clock. he had finished reading his second act, and the reading had been a bitter disappointment. the idea floated, pure and seductive, in his mind; but when he tried to reduce it to a precise shape upon paper, it seemed to escape in some vague, mysterious way. enticingly, like a butterfly it fluttered before him; he followed like a child, eagerly--his brain set on the mazy flight. it led him through a country where all was promise of milk and honey. he followed, sure that the alluring spirit would soon choose a flower; then he would capture it. often it seemed to settle. he approached with palpitating heart; but lo! when the net was withdrawn it was empty. a look of pain and perplexity came upon his face; he remembered the lodging at seven shillings a week in the tottenham court road. he had suffered there; but it seemed to him that he was suffering more here. he had changed his surroundings, but he had not changed himself. success and failure, despair and hope, joy and sorrow, lie within and not without us. his pain lay at his heart's root; he could not pluck it forth, and its gratification seemed more than ever impossible. he changed his position on the couch. suddenly his thoughts said, 'perhaps i am mistaken in the subject. perhaps that is the reason. perhaps there is no play to be extracted from it; perhaps it would be better to abandon it and choose another.' for a few seconds he scanned the literary horizon of his mind. 'no, no!' he said bitterly, 'this is the play i was born to write. no other subject is possible; i can think of nothing else. this is all i can feel or see.' it was the second act that now defied his efforts. it had once seemed clear and of exquisite proportions; now no second act seemed possible: the subject did not seem to admit of a second act; and, clasping his forehead with his hands, he strove to think it out. any distraction from the haunting pain, now become chronic, is welcome, and he answers with a glad 'come in!' the knock at the door. 'i'm sorry,' said mrs. bentley, 'for disturbing you, but i should like to know what fish you would like for your dinner--soles, turbot, or whiting? immersed in literary problems as you are, i daresay these details are very prosaic; but i notice that later in the day----' hubert laughed. 'i find such details far more agreeable than literature. i can do nothing with my play.' 'aren't you getting on this morning?' 'no, not very well.' 'what do you think of turbot?' 'i think turbot very nice. emily likes turbot.' 'very well, then. i'll order turbot.' as mrs. bentley was about to withdraw, she said, 'i'm sorry you are not getting on. what stops you now? that second act?' 'come, you are not very busy. i'll read you the act as it stands, and then tell you how i think it ought to be altered. nothing helps me so much as to talk it over; not only does it clear up my ideas, but it gives me desire to write. my best work has always been done in that way.' 'i really don't think i can stay. if emily heard that you had been reading your play to me----' 'i'm tired of hearing of what emily thinks. i can put up with a good deal, and i know that it is my duty to show much forbearance; but there is a limit to all things!' this was the first time mrs. bentley had seen him show either excitement or anger; she hardly knew him in this new aspect. in a moment the blonde calm of the saxon had dropped from him, and some celtic emphasis appeared in his speech. 'this hysterical girl,' he continued, 'is a sore burden. tears about this, and sighs about that; fainting fits because i happen to take a chair next to yours. you may depend upon it our lives are already the constant gossip of the neighbourhood.' 'i know it is very annoying; and i, i assure you, receive my share. every look and word is misinterpreted. i must not stay here.' 'you must not go! i really want you. i assure you that your opinion will be of value.' 'but think of emily. it will make her wretched if she hears of it. you do not know how it affects her. the slightest thing! you hardly see anything; i see it all.' 'but there is no sense in it; it is pure madness. i'm writing a play, trying to work out a most difficult problem, and am in want of an audience, and i ask you if you will be kind enough to let me read you the act, and you cannot listen to it because--because--yes, that's just it--because!' 'you do not know how she suffers. let me go; spare her the pain.' 'she is not the only one who suffers. do you think that i don't suffer? i've set my heart--my very life is set on this play. i must get through with it; they are all waiting for it. my enemies say i cannot write it, but i shall if you will help me.' [illustration: "sometimes, in an exciting passage, the hands were clasped."] 'poor emily's heart is equally broken. her life is equally set----' mrs. bentley did not finish. hubert just caught the words. their significance struck him; he looked questioningly into mrs. bentley's eyes; then, pretending not to have understood, he begged her to remain. with the air of one who yields to a temptation, she came into the room. he felt strangely happy, and, drawing over an arm-chair for her, he threw himself on the couch. he noticed that she wore a loose white jacket, and once during the reading of the act he was conscious of a beautiful hand hanging over the rail of the chair. sometimes, in an exciting passage, the hands were clasped. the black slippers and the slender black-stockinged ankles showed beneath the skirt; and when he raised his eyes from the manuscript, he saw the blonde face and hair, and the pale eyes were always fixed upon him. she listened with a keen and penetrating interest to his criticism of the act, agreeing with him generally, sometimes quietly contesting a point, and with some strange fascination drawing new and unexpected ideas from him; and in the intellectual warmth of her femininity his brain seemed to clear and his ideas took new shape. 'ah,' he said, after two hours' delightful talk, 'how much i'm indebted to you! at last i see my mistakes; in two days i shall have written the act. and he wrote rapidly for nearly two hours, reconstructing the opening scenes of his second act.' he then threw himself on the couch, smoked a cigar, and after half an hour's rest continued writing till dinner-time. when he came down-stairs, the thought of what he had been writing was still so vivid in him that he did not notice at once the silence of those with whom he was dining. he complimented mrs. bentley on the freshness of the turbot; she hardly answered; and then he became aware that something had gone wrong. what? only one thing was possible. emily had heard that mrs. bentley had been in his study. looking from the woman to the girl, he saw that the latter had been weeping. she was still in a highly hysterical state, and might burst into tears and fly from the dinner-table at any moment. his face changed expression, and it was with difficulty that he restrained his temper. his life had been made up of a constant recurrence of these scenes, and he was wholly weary of them; and the thought of the absolute want of reason in the causeless jealousy, and the misery that these little bickerings made of his life, exasperated him beyond measure. the dinner proceeded in silence, and every slight remark was a presage of storm. hubert hoped the girl would say nothing until the servant left the room, and with that view he never spoke a word except to ask the ladies what they would take to eat. these tactics might have succeeded if mrs. bentley had not unfortunately said that next week she intended to go to london for a couple of days. 'the eastwicks are there now, and they've asked me to stay with them.' 'i think i shall go up with you. i want to go to london,' said emily. 'it will be very nice if you'll come; but we cannot both stay with the eastwicks; they have only one spare room.' 'i suppose you'd like me to go to an hotel.' 'my dear emily, how can you think of such a thing? a young girl like you could not stay at an hotel alone. i shall be only too pleased if you will go to the eastwicks; i will go to the hotel.' emily's lip quivered, and in the irritating silence both hubert and mrs. bentley saw that she was trying to overcome her passion. they fervently hoped she would succeed; for at that moment the servant was handing round the wine, and the time he took to accomplish this service seemed endless. he had filled the last glass, had handed round the dessert, and was preparing to leave the room when emily said-- 'the hotel will suit you very well. you'll be free to see hubert whenever you like.' hubert looked up quickly, hoping mrs. bentley would not answer, but before he could make a sign she said-- 'what do you mean, emily? i did not know that hubert was going to london.' 'you hardly expect me to believe that, do you?' the servant was still in the room; but no look of astonishment appeared on his face, and hubert hoped he had not heard. an awful silence glowered upon the dinner-table. the moment the door closed hubert said, turning angrily to emily-- 'really, i am quite surprised, emily, that you should make such observations in the presence of servants! this has been going on quite long enough; you are making the house intolerable. i shall not be able to live here any longer.' emily burst into a passionate flood of tears. she declared she was wretchedly miserable, and that she fully understood that hubert had begun to regret that he had asked her to stay at ashwood. everything had been taken from her; every one was against her. her sobs shook her frail little frame as if they would break it, and hubert's heart was wrung at the sight of such genuine suffering. 'my dear emily, i assure you you are mistaken. we both love you very much.' he got up from his chair, and, putting his arm about her, besought her to dry her eyes; but she shook him passionately from her, and fled from the room. three days after, emily tore up one of her songs, because mrs. bentley had sung it without her leave. and so on and so on, week after week. no sooner was one quarrel allayed than signs of another began to appear. hubert despaired. 'how is this to end?' he asked himself every day. mrs. bentley begged him to cancel her promise, and allow her to go. but that was impossible. he could not remain alone with emily; if he left her she would not fail to believe that he had gone after her rival. the situation had become so tense that they ended by discussing these questions almost without reserve. to make matters worse, emily had begun visibly to lose her health. there was neither colour in her cheeks nor light in her eyes; she hardly slept at all, and had grown more than ever like a little shadow. the doctor had been summoned, and, after prescribing a tonic, had advised quiet and avoidance of all excitement. therefore hubert and mrs. bentley agreed never to meet except when emily was present, and then strove to speak as little as possible to each other. but the very fact of having to restrain themselves in looks, glances, and every slightest word--for emily misinterpreted all things--whetted their appetites for each other's society. in the misery of his study, when he watched the sheet of paper, he often sought relief in remembrance of her sweet manner, and the happy morning he had spent in her companionship. what he had written under the direct influence of her inspiration still seemed to him to be less bad than the rest of his play; and he began to feel sure that, if ever this play were written, it would be written in the benign charm of her sweet encouragement, in the reposeful shadow of her presence. but that presence was forbidden him--that presence that seemed so necessary; and for what reason? turning on the circumstances of his life, he raged against them, declaring that it would be folly to allow his very life's desire to be frittered away to gratify a young girl's caprice,--a caprice which in a few years she would laugh at. and whenever he was not thinking of his play, he remembered the charm of mrs. bentley's company, and the beneficent effect it had on his work. he had never known a woman he had liked so much, and he felt--he started at the thought, so like an inspiration did it seem to him--that the only possible solution of the present situation was his marriage with her. once he was married, emily would soon learn to forget him. they would take her up to london for the season; and, amid the healthy excitement of balls and parties, her girlish fancy would evaporate. no doubt she would meet again the young cavalry officer whose addresses she had received so coldly. she would be sure to meet him again--be sure to think him the most charming man in the world; they would marry, and she would make him the best possible wife. the kindest action they could do emily would be to marry. there was nothing else to do, and they must do something, or else the girl would die. it seemed wonderful to hubert that he had not thought of all this before. 'it is the very obvious solution of the problem,' he said; and his heart beat as he heard mrs. bentley's step in the corridor. it died away in the distance; but a few days after, when he heard it again, he jumped from his chair, and ran to the door. 'come,' he said, 'i want to speak to you.' 'no, no, i beg of you!' 'i must speak to you!' he laid his hand upon her arm, and said, 'i beg of you. i have something to say--it is of great importance. come in.' they looked at each other a moment, and it seemed as if they could see into each other's souls. then a look of yielding passed into her eyes, and she said-- 'well, what is it?' the familiarity of the words struck her, and she saw by the kindling tenderness in his eyes that they had given him pleasure. she almost knew he was going to tell her that he loved her. he looked towards the open door, and, guessing his intention, she said-- 'don't shut it! speak quickly. remember that she may pass at any moment. were she to find us together, she would suffer; it would be tears and reproaches. what you have to say to me is about her?' 'of course; we never speak of anything else. but we must not be overheard. i must shut the door.' she noticed a certain embarrassment in his manner. suddenly relinquishing his intention to take her hands, he said-- 'this cannot go on; our lives are being made unbearable. you agree with me--do you not?' 'yes,' she said, with a curious inquiring look in her eyes. 'you had better let me leave. it is the only way out of the difficulty.' 'you know very well, julia, that that is impossible.' it was the first time he had used her christian name, and she knew now he was going to ask her to marry him. a frightened look passed into her face; she turned from him; he took her hands. 'no, julia,' he said; 'there is another and better way out of the difficulty. you will stop here--you will be my wife?' reading the look of pain that had come into her eyes, he said, 'you will not refuse me? i want you--i can do nothing without you. if you leave me, i shall never be able to write my play; it can only be written under your influence. i love you, julia!' she allowed him to draw her towards him, and then she broke away. 'oh,' she said, 'why do you say these things? you only make my task harder. you know that i cannot betray my friend. why do you tempt me to do a dishonourable action?' 'a dishonourable action! what do you mean? it is the only way to save her. once we are married, she will forget. no doubt she will shed a few tears; but to save the body we must often lose a limb. it is even so. things cannot go on as they are. we cannot watch her withering away under our very eyes; and that is what is actually happening. i have thought it all over, considered it from every point of view, and have come to the conclusion that--that, well, that we had better marry. you must have seen that i always liked you. i did not myself know how much until a few days ago. say that i am not wholly disagreeable to you.' 'no; i will not listen to you! my conscience tells me plainly where my duty lies. not for all the world will i play emily false. i shudder to think of such a thing; it would be the basest ingratitude. i owe everything to her. when i hadn't a penny in the world, and when in my homelessness i wrote to mr. burnett, she pleaded in my favour, and decided him to take me as a companion. no, no! a thousand times no! let go my hands. do you not know what it is to be loyal?' 'i hope i do. but, as i have explained, it is the only solution. the romantic attachments of young girls, unless nipped in the bud, often end fatally. do you not see how ill she is looking? she is wearing her life away. we shall be acting in her best interests. besides, she is not the only person to be considered. do i not love you? are you not the very woman whose influence, whose guidance, is necessary, so that i should succeed? without your help i shall never write my play. a woman's influence is necessary to every undertaking. the greatest writers owe their best inspiration to----' 'her heart is as closely set upon you as yours is upon your play.' 'but,' cried hubert, 'i do not love her! under no circumstances would i marry her. that i swear to you. if she and i were alone on a desert island----' julia looked at him one moment doubtingly, inquiringly. then she said-- 'hers is no evanescent fancy, but a passion that goes to the very roots of her nature, and will kill her if it be not satisfied.' 'or cut out in time.' 'i must leave.' 'that will not mend matters.' 'my departure will, at all events, remove all cause for jealousy; and when i am gone you may learn to love her.' 'no; that i swear is impossible!' 'you very likely think so now; but i'm bound to give her every chance of winning you.' 'i say again that that is impossible! i have never seen a woman except yourself i could marry. i tell you so: believe me as you like.... in this matter you are acting like a woman,--you allow your emotions and not your intellect to lead you. by acting thus, you are certainly sacrificing two lives--hers and mine. of your own i do not speak, not knowing what is passing in your heart; but if by any chance you should care for me, you are adding your own happiness to the general holocaust.' neither spoke again for some time. 'why should you not marry her?' julia said, at the end of a long silence. 'some people think her quite a pretty girl.' the lovers looked at each other and smiled sadly. and then, in pathetic phrases, hubert tried to explain why he could never love emily. he spoke of his age, and of difference of tastes,--he liked clever women. the conversation fell. at the end of a long silence, julia said-- 'there is nothing for it but my departure, and the sooner the better.' 'you are not in earnest? you are surely not in earnest?' 'yes, indeed i am.' 'then, if you go, you must take her with you. she cannot remain here alone with me. and even if she could, i could not live with her. her folly has destroyed any liking i may have ever had for her. you'll have to take her with you.' 'she would not come with me. i spoke to her once of a trip abroad.' 'and she refused?' 'she said she only wanted things to go on just as they are.' xvii in some trepidation julia knocked. receiving no reply, she opened the door, and her candle burnt in what a moment before must have been inky darkness. emily lay on her bed--on the edge of it; and the only movement she made was to avert her eyes from the light. 'what! all alone in this darkness, emily!... shall i light your candles?' she had to repeat the question before she could get an answer. 'no, thank you; i want nothing; i have no wish to see anything. i like the dark.' 'have you been asleep?' 'no; i have not.... why do you come to torment me? it cannot matter to you whether i lie in the dark or the light. oh, take that candle away! it is blinding me.' julia put the candle on the washstand. then full of pity for the grieving girl, she stood, her hand resting on the bed-rail. 'aren't you coming down to dinner, emily? come, let me pour out some water for you. when you have bathed your eyes----' 'i don't want any dinner.' 'it will look very strange if you remain in your room the whole evening. you do not want to vex him, do you?' 'i suppose he is very angry with me. but i did not mean to vex him. is he very angry?' 'no, he is not angry at all; he is merely distressed. you distress him dreadfully when----' 'i don't know why i should distress him. i'm sure i don't mean to. you know more about it than i. you are always whispering together--talking about me.' 'i assure you, emily, you are mistaken. mr. price and i have no secrets whatever.' 'why should you tell me these falsehoods? they make me so miserable.' 'falsehoods, emily! when did you ever know me to tell a falsehood?' 'you say you have no secrets! do you think i am blind? you think, i suppose, i did not see you showing him a ring? you took it off, too; and i suppose you gave it to him,--an engagement ring, very likely.' 'i lost a stone from my ring, and i asked mr. price if he would take the ring to london and have the stone replaced.... that is all. so you see how your imagination has run away with you.' emily did not answer. at last she said, breaking the silence abruptly-- 'is he very angry? has he gone to his study? do you think he will come down to dinner?' 'i suppose he'll come down for dinner.' 'will you go and ask him?' 'i hardly see how i can do that. he is very busy.... and if you would listen to any advice of mine, it would be to leave him to himself as much as possible for the present. he is so taken up with his play; i know he's most anxious about it.' 'is he? i don't know. he never speaks to me about it. i hate that play, and i hate to see him go up to that study! i cannot understand why he should trouble himself about writing plays; he doesn't want the money, and it can't be agreeable sitting up there all alone thinking.... it is easy to see that it only makes him unhappy. but you encourage him to go on with it. oh yes, you do; there's no use saying you don't. you are always talking to him about it; you bring the conversation up. you think i don't see how you do it, but i do; and you like doing it, because then you have him all to yourself. i can't talk to him about that play; and i wouldn't if i could, for it only makes him unhappy. but you don't care whether he's unhappy or not; you only think of yourself.' 'you surely don't believe what you are saying is true? to-morrow you will be sorry for what you have said. you cannot think that i would deceive you, emily? remember what friends we have been.' 'i remember everything. you think i don't; but i do. and you think also that there's no reason why i should be miserable; but there is. because you do not feel my misery, you think it doesn't exist. i daresay you think, too, that you are very good and kind; but you aren't. you think you deceive me; but you don't. i know all that is passing between you and hubert. i know a great deal more than i can explain....' 'but tell me, emily, what is it you suspect? what do you accuse me of?' 'i accuse you of nothing. can't you understand that things may go wrong without it being any one's fault in particular?' julia wondered how emily could think so wisely. she seemed to have grown wiser in her grief. but grief helped her no further in her instinctive perception of the truth, and she resumed her puerile attack on her friend. 'nothing has gone well with me ever since you came here. i was disinherited; and i daresay you were glad, for you knew that if the money did not come to me it would go to hubert, and i do know----' 'what are you saying, emily? i never heard of such wild accusations before! you know very well that i never set eyes on mr. price until he came down here.' 'how should i know what you know or don't know? but i know that all my life every one has been plotting against me. and i cannot make out why. i never did harm to any one.' the conversation paused. emily flung herself back on the pillow. not even a sob. the candle burned like a long yellow star in the shadows, yielding only sufficient light for julia to see the outlines of a somewhat untidy room,--an old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe, cloudy and black, upon old-fashioned grey paper, some cardboard boxes, and a number of china ornaments, set out on a small table covered with a tablecloth in crewel-work. 'i would do anything in the world for you, emily. i am your best friend, and yet----' 'i have no friend. i don't believe in friends. you think people are your friends, and then you find they are not.' 'how can i convince you of the injustice of your suspicions?' 'i see all plainly enough; it is fate, i suppose.... selfishness. we all think of ourselves--we can't help it; and that's what makes life so miserable.... he would be a very good match. you have got him to like you. perhaps you didn't intend to; but you have done it all the same.' 'but, emily dear, listen! there is no question of marriage between me and mr. price. if you will only have patience, things will come right in the end.' 'for you, perhaps.' 'emily, emily! ... you should try to understand things better.' 'i feel them, even if i don't understand.' 'admit that you were wrong about the ring. have i not convinced you that you were wrong?' emily did not answer. but at the end of a long silence, in which she had been pursuing a different train of thought, she said, 'then you mean that he has never asked you to marry him?' the directness of the question took julia by surprise, and, falsehood being unnatural to her, she hesitated, hardly knowing what to answer. her hesitation was only momentary; but in that moment there came up such a wave of pity for the grief-stricken girl that she lied for pity's sake, 'no, he never asked me to marry him. i assure you that he never did. if you do not believe me----' as she was about to say, 'i will swear it if you like,' an irresponsible sensation of pride in her ownership of his love surged up through her, overwhelming her will, and she ended the sentence, 'i am very sorry, but i cannot help it.' the words were still well enough; it was in the accent that the truth transpired. and then yielding still further to the force which had subjugated her will, she said-- 'i admit that we have talked about a great many things.' (again she strove not to speak, but the words rose red-hot to her lips.) 'he has said that he would like to marry, but i should not think of accepting----' 'then it is just as i thought!' emily cried; 'he wants to get rid of me!' julia was shocked and surprised at the depth of disgraceful vanity and cowardice which special circumstances had brought within her consciousness. the julia bentley of the last few moments was not the julia bentley she was accustomed to meet and interrogate, and she asked herself how she might exorcise the meanness that had so unexpectedly appeared in her. should she pile falsehood on falsehood? she felt it would be cruel not to do so; but emily said, 'he wants to marry to get rid of me, and not because he loves you.' then it was hard to deny herself the pleasure of telling the whole truth; but she mastered her desire of triumph, and, actuated by nothing but sincerest love and pity, she said-- 'oh, emily dear, he never asked me to marry him; he does not love me at all! why will you not believe me?' 'because i cannot!' she cried passionately. 'i only ask to be left alone.' 'a little patience, emily, and all will come right. mr. price does not want to get rid of you. you wrong him just as you wrong me. he has often said how much he likes you; indeed he has.' although speaking from the bottom of her heart, it seemed to julia that she was playing the part of a cruel, false woman, who was designingly plotting to betray a helpless girl; and not understanding why this was so, she was at once puzzled and confused. it seemed to her that she was being borne on in a wind of destiny, and her will seemed to beat vainly against it, like a bird's wings when a storm is blowing. she was conscious of a curious powerlessness; it surprised her, and she could not understand why she continued talking, so vain and useless did words seem to her--an idle patter. she continued-- 'you think that i stand between you and mr. price. now, i assure you that it is not so. i tell you i should refuse mr. price, even if he were to ask me to marry him, here, at this very moment. i pledge you my word on this. give me your hand, emily. you will not refuse it?' emily gave her hand. 'it is quite ridiculous to promise, for he will never ask me; but i promise not to marry him even if he should ask me.' she gave the promise, determined to keep it; and yet she knew she would not keep it. she argued passionately with herself, a prey to an inward dread; for no matter how firmly she forced resolution upon resolution, they all seemed to melt in her soul like snow on a blazing fire. then, determined to rid herself of a numb sensation of powerlessness, and achieve the end she desired, she said, 'i'll tell you, emily, what i'll do. i'll not stay here; i will go away. let me go away, dear, and then it will be all right.' 'no, no! you mustn't leave; i don't want you to leave. it would be said everywhere that i had you sent away.... you promise me not to leave?' raising herself, emily clung to julia's arm, detaining her until she had extorted the desired promise. 'very well; i promise,' she said sadly. 'but i think you are wrong; indeed i do. i have always thought that "the only solution of the problem" was my departure.' memory had betrayed her into hubert's own phrase. 'why should you go? you think, i suppose, that i'm in love with hubert? i'm not. all i want is for things to go on just the same--for us to be friends as we were before.' 'very well, emily--very well.... but in the meantime you must not neglect your meals as you have been doing lately. if you don't take care, you'll lose your health and your looks. i have been noticing how thin you are looking.' 'i suppose you have told him that i am looking thin and ill.... men like tall, big, healthy women like you--don't they?' 'i see, emily, that it is hopeless; every word one utters is misinterpreted. dinner will be ready in a few minutes; or, if you like, i will dine up-stairs; and you and mr. price----' 'but is he coming down to dinner? i thought you said he had gone to his study; sometimes he dines there.' 'i can tell you nothing about mr. price. i don't know whether he'll dine up-stairs or down.' at that moment a knock was heard at the door, and the servant announced that dinner was ready. 'mr. price has sent down word, ma'am, that he is very busy writing; he hopes you'll excuse him, and he'll be glad if you will send him his dinner up on a tray.' 'very well; i shall be down directly.' the slight interruption had sufficed to calm julia's irritation, and she stood waiting for emily. but seeing that she showed no signs of moving, she said, 'aren't you coming down to dinner, emily?' it was a sense of strict duty that impelled the question, for her heart sank at the prospect of spending the evening alone with the girl. but seeing the tears on emily's cheeks, she sat down beside her, and said, 'dearest emily, if you would only confide in me!' 'there's nothing to confide....' 'you mustn't give way like this; you really mustn't. come down and have some dinner.' 'it is no use; i couldn't eat anything.' 'he may come into the drawing-room in the course of the evening, and will be so disappointed and grieved to hear that you have not been down.' 'no; he will spend the whole evening in his room; we shall not see him again.' 'but if i go and ask him to come; if i tell him----' 'no; do not speak to him about me; he'd only say that i was interfering with his work.' 'that is unjust, emily; he has never reproached you with interfering with his work. shall i go and tell him that you won't come down because you think he is angry with you?' ten minutes passed, and no answer could be obtained from emily--only passionate and illusive refusals, denials, prayer to be left alone; and these mingled with irritating suggestions that julia had better go at once, that hubert might be waiting for her. but julia bore patiently with her and did not leave her until hubert sent to know why his dinner was delayed. emily had begun to undress; and, tearing off her things, she hardly took more than five minutes to get into bed. 'shall i light a candle?' julia asked before leaving. 'no, thank you.' 'shall i send you up some soup?' 'no; i could not touch it.' 'you are not going to remain in the dark? let me light a night-light?' 'no, thank you; i like the dark.' xviii hubert and mrs. bentley stood by the chimney-piece in the drawing-room, waiting for the doctor; they had left him with emily, and stood facing each other absorbed in thought, when the door opened, and the doctor entered. hubert said-- 'what do you think, doctor? is she seriously ill?' 'there is nothing, so far as i can make out, organically the matter with her, but the system is running down. she is very thin and weak. i shall prescribe a tonic, but----' 'but what, doctor?' 'she seems to be suffering from extreme depression of spirits. do you know of any secret grief--any love affair? at her age, anything of that sort fills the entire mind, and the consequences are often grave.' 'and supposing it were so, what would be your advice? change of air and scene?' 'certainly.' 'have you spoken to her on the subject?' 'yes; but she says she will not leave ashwood.' 'we cannot send her away by force. what would you advise us to do?' 'there's nothing to be done. we must hope for the best. there is no immediate cause for fear.... but, by the way, she looks as if she suffered from sleeplessness.' 'yes, she does; but she has been ordered chloral. any harm in that?' 'in her case, it is a necessity; but do you think she takes it?' 'oh yes, she has been taking choral.' the conversation paused; the doctor went over to the writing-table, wrote a prescription, made a few remarks, and took his leave, announcing his intention of returning that day fortnight. hubert said, and his tone implied reference to some anterior conversation, 'we are powerless in this matter. you see we can do nothing. we only succeed in making ourselves unhappy; we do not change in anything. i am wretchedly unhappy!' 'believe me,' she said, raising her arms in a beautiful feminine movement, 'i do not wish to make you unhappy.' 'then why do you persist? why do you refuse to take the only step that may lead us out of this difficulty?' 'how can you ask me? oh, hubert, i did not think you could be so cruel! it would be a shameful action.' it was the first time she had used his christian name, and his face changed expression. 'i cannot,' she said, 'and i will not, and i do not understand how you can ask me--you who are so loyal, how can you ask me to be disloyal?' 'spare me your reproaches. fate has been cruel. i have never told you the story of my life. i have suffered deeply; my pride has been humiliated, and i have endured hunger and cold; but those sufferings were light compared to this last misfortune.' she looked at him with sublime pity in her eyes. 'i do not conceal from you,' she said, 'that i love you very much. i, too, have suffered, and i had thought for one moment that fate had vouchsafed me happiness; but, as you would say--the irony of life.' 'julia, do not say you never will?' 'we cannot look into the future. but this i can say--i will not do emily any wrong, and so far as is in my power i will avoid giving her pain. there is only one way out of this difficulty. i must leave this house as soon as i can persuade her to let me go.' the door opened; involuntarily the speakers moved apart; and though their faces and attitudes were strictly composed when emily entered, she knew they had been standing closer together. 'i'm afraid i'm interrupting you,' she said. 'no, emily; pray do not go away. we were only talking about you.' 'if i were to leave every time you begin to talk about me, i should spend my life in my room. i daresay you have many faults to find. let me hear all about your fresh discoveries.' it was a thin november day: leaves were whirling on the lawn, and at that moment one blew rustling down the window-pane. and, even as it, she seemed a passing thing. her face was like a plate of fine white porcelain, and the deep eyes filled it with a strange and magnetic pathos; the abundant chestnut hair hung in the precarious support of a thin tortoiseshell; and there was something unforgetable in the manner in which her aversion for the elder woman betrayed itself--a mere nothing, and yet more impressive than any more obvious and therefore more vulgar expression of dislike would have been. 'a little patience, emily. you will not have me here much longer.' 'i suppose that i am so disagreeable that you cannot live with me. why should you go away?' 'my dear emily, you must not excite yourself. the doctor----' 'i want to know why she said she was going to leave. has she been complaining about me to you? what is her reason for wanting to go?' 'we do not get on together as we used to--that is all, emily. i can please you no longer.' 'it is not my fault if we do not get on. i don't see why we shouldn't, and i do not want you to go.' 'emily, dear, everything shall be as you like it.' the girl looked at him with the shy, doubting look of an animal that would like, and still does not dare, to go to the beckoning hand. how frail seemed the body in the black dress! and how thin the arms in the black sleeves! hubert took the little hand in his. at his touch a look of content and rest passed into her eyes, and she yielded herself as the leaf yields to the wind. she was all his when he chose. mrs. bentley left the room; and, seeing her go, a light of sudden joy illuminated the thin, pale face; and when the door closed, and she was alone with him, the bleak, unhappy look, which had lately grown strangely habitual to her, faded out of her face and eyes. he fetched her shawl, and took her hand again in his, knowing that by so doing he made her happy. he could not refuse her the peace from pain that these attentions brought her, though he would have held himself aloof from all women but one. she knew the truth well enough; but they who suffer much think only of the cessation of pain. he wondered at the inveigling content that introduced itself into her voice, face, and gesture. settling herself comfortably on the sofa, she said-- 'now tell me what the doctor said. did he say i would soon recover? did he say that i was very bad? tell me all.' 'he said that you ought to have a change--that you should go south somewhere.' 'and you agree with him that i ought to go away?' 'is he not the best judge?--the doctor's orders!' 'then you, too, have learnt to hate me. you, too, want to send me away?' 'my dear emily, i only want to do as you like. you asked me what the doctor said, and i told you.' hubert got up and walked aside. he passed his hand across his eyes. he could hardly contain himself; the emotion that discussion with this sick girl caused him went to his head. she looked at him curiously, watching his movement, and he failed to understand what pleasure it could give her to have him by her side, knowing, as she clearly did, that his heart was elsewhere. turning suddenly, he said-- 'but tell me, emily, how are you feeling? you are, after all, the best judge.' 'i feel rather weak. i should get strong enough if----' she paused, as if waiting for hubert to ask her to finish the sentence. but he hurriedly turned the conversation. 'the doctor said you looked as if you had not had any sleep for several nights. i told him that that was strange, for you were taking chloral.' 'i sleep well enough,' she said. 'but sometimes life seems so sad, that i do not think i shall be able to bear with it any longer. you do not know how unfortunate i have been. when i was a child, father and mother used to quarrel always, and i was the only child. that was why mr. burnett asked me to come and live at ashwood. i came at first on a visit; and when father and mother died, he said he wished to adopt me. i thought he loved me; but his love was only selfishness. no one has ever loved me. i feel so utterly alone in this world--that is why i am unhappy.' her eyes filled with tears, and at the sight of her tears hubert's feelings were overwrought, and again he had to walk aside. he would give her all things; but she was dying for him, and he could not save her. no longer was there any disguisement between them. the words they uttered were as nothing, so clearly did the thought shine out of their eyes, 'i am dying of love for you,' and then the answer, 'i know that is so, and i cannot help it.' her whole soul was spoken in her eyes, and he felt that his eyes betrayed him equally plainly. they stood in a sort of mental nakedness. the woman no longer sought for words to cover herself with; the man did, but he did not find them. they had not spoken for some time; they had been thinking of each other. at last she said, and with the querulous perversity of the sick--- 'but even if i wished to go abroad, with whom could i go?' hubert fell into the trap, and, noticing the sudden brightness in his eyes, a cloud of disappointment shadowed hers. 'of course, with mrs. bentley. i assure you, my dear emily, that you----' 'no, no, i am not mistaken! she hates me, and i cannot bear her. it is she who is making me ill.' 'hate you! why should she hate you?' emily did not reply. hubert watched her, noticing the pallor of her cheek, so entirely white and blue, hardly a touch of warm colour anywhere, even in the shadow of the heavy hair. 'i would give anything to see you friends again.' 'that is impossible! i can never be friends with julia as i once was. she has---- no, never can we be friends again. but why do you always take her part against me? that is what grieves me most. if only you thought----' 'emily dear, these are but idle fancies. you are mistaken.' the conversation fell. the girl lay quite still, her hands clasped across the shawl, her little foot stretched beyond the limp black dress, the hem of which fell over the edge of the grey sofa. hubert sat by her on a low chair, and he looked into the fire, whose light wavered over the walls, now and again bringing the face of one of the pictures out of the darkness. the wind whined about the windows. then, speaking as if out of a dream, emily said-- 'julia and i can never be friends again--that is impossible.' 'but what has she done?' hubert asked incautiously, regretting his words as soon as he had uttered them. 'what has she done?' she said, looking at him curiously. 'well, one thing, she has got it reported that--that i am in love with you, and that that is the reason of my illness.' 'i am sure she never said any such thing. you are entirely mistaken. mrs. bentley is incapable of such wickedness.' 'a woman, when she is jealous, will say anything. if she did not say it, can you tell me how it got about?' 'i don't believe any one ever said such a thing.' 'oh yes, lots have said so--things come back to me. julia always was jealous of me. she cannot bear me to speak to you. have you not noticed how she follows us? do you think she would have left the room just now if she could have helped it?' 'if you think this is so, had she not better leave?' emily did not answer at once. motionless she lay on the sofa, looking at the grey november day with vague eyes that bespoke an obsession of hallucination. suddenly she said, 'i do not want her to go away. she would spread a report that i was jealous of her, and had asked you to send her away. no; it would not be wise to send her away. besides,' she said, fixing her eyes, now full of melancholy reproach, 'you would like her to remain.' 'i have said before, emily, and i assure you i am speaking the truth, i want you to do what you like. say what you wish to be done, and it shall be done.' 'is that really true? i thought no one cared for me. you must care for me a little to speak like that.' 'of course i care for you, emily.' 'i sometimes think you might have if it had not been for that play; for, of course, i'm not clever, and cannot discuss it with you.... julia, i suppose, can--that is the reason why you like her. am i not right?' 'mrs. bentley is a clever woman, who has read a great deal, and i like to talk an act over with her before i write it.' 'is that all? then why do people say you are going to marry her?' 'but nobody ever said so.' 'oh yes, they have. is it true?' 'no, emily; it is not true.' 'are you quite sure?' 'yes, quite sure.' 'if that is so,' she said, turning her eyes on hubert, and looking as if she could see right down into his soul, 'i shall get well very soon. then we can go on just the same; but if you married her, i----' 'i what?' 'nothing! i feel quite happy now. i did not want you to marry her. i could not bear it. it would be like having a step-mother--worse, for she would not have me here at all; she would drive me away.' hubert shook his head. 'you don't know julia as well as i do. however, it is no use discussing what is not going to be. you have been very nice to-day. if you would be always nice, as you are to-day, i should soon get well.' her pale profile seemed very sharp in the fading twilight, and her delicate arms and thin bosom were full of the charm and fascination of deciduous things. she turned her face and looked at hubert. 'you have made me very happy. i am content.' he was afraid to look back at her, lest she should, in her subtle, wilful manner, read the thought that was passing in his soul. even now she seemed to read it. she seemed conscious of his pity for her. so little would give her happiness, and that little was impossible. his heart was irreparably another's. but though emily's eyes seemed to know all, they seemed to say, 'what matter? i regret nothing, only let things remain as they are.' and then her voice said-- 'i think i could sleep a little; happiness has brought me sleep. don't go away. i shall not be asleep long.' she looked at him, and dozed, and then fell asleep. hubert waited till her breathing grew deeper; then he laid the hand he held in his by her side, and stole on tiptoe from the room. the strain of the interview had become too intense; the house was unbearable. he went into the air. the november sky was drawing into wintry night; the grey clouds darkened, clinging round the long plain, overshadowing it, blotting out colour, leaving nothing but the severe green of the park, and the yellow whirling of dishevelled woods. 'i must,' he said to himself, 'think no more about it. i shall go mad if i do. nature will find her own solution. god grant that it may be a merciful one! i can do nothing.' and to escape from useless consideration, to release his overwrought brain, he hastened his steps, extending his walk through the farthest woods. as he approached the lodge gate he came upon mrs. bentley. she stood, her back turned from him, leaning on the gate, her thoughts lost in the long darkness of autumnal fields and woods. 'julia!' 'you have left emily. how did you leave her?' 'she is fast asleep on the sofa. she fell asleep. then why should i remain? the house was unbearable. she went to sleep, saying she felt very happy.' 'really! what induced such a change in her? did you----' 'no; i did not ask her to marry me; but i was able to tell her that i was not going to marry you, and that seemed entirely to satisfy her.' 'did she ask you?' 'yes. and when i told her i was not, she said that that was all she wanted to know--that she would soon get well now. how we human beings thrive in each other's unhappiness!' 'quite true, and we have been reproaching ourselves for our selfishness.' 'yes, and hers is infinitely greater. she is quite satisfied not to be happy herself, so long as she can make sure of our unhappiness. and what is so strange is her utter unconsciousness of her own fantastic and hardly conceivable selfishness.... it is astonishing!' 'she is very young, and the young are naturally egotistic.' 'possibly. still, it is hardly more agreeable to encounter. come, let's go for a walk; and, above all things, let's talk no more about emily.' the roads were greasy, and the hedges were torn and worn with incipient winter, and when they dipped the town appeared, a reddish-brown mass in the blue landscape. hubert thought of his play and his love; but not separately--they seemed to him now as one indissoluble, indivisible thing; and he told her that he never would be able to write it without her assistance. that she might be of use to him in his work was singularly sweet to hear, and the thought reached to the end of her heart, causing her to smile sadly, and argue vainly, and him to reply querulously. they walked for about a mile; and then, wearied with sad expostulation, the conversation fell, and at the end of a long silence julia said-- 'i think we had better turn back.' the suggestion filled hubert's heart with rushing pain, and he answered-- 'why should we return? i cannot go back to that girl. oh, the miserable life we are leading!' 'what can we do? we must go back; we cannot live in a tent by the wayside. we have no tent to set up.' 'come to london, and be my wife.' 'no,' she said; 'that is impossible. let us not speak of it.' hubert did not answer; and, turning their faces homeward, they walked some way in silence. suddenly hubert said-- 'no; it is impossible. i cannot return. there is no use. i'm at the end of my tether. i cannot.' she looked at him in alarm. 'hubert,' she said, 'this is folly! i cannot return without you.' 'you ruin my life; you refuse me the only happiness. i'm more wretched than i can tell you!' 'and i! do you think that i'm not wretched?' she raised her face to his; her eyes were full of tears. he caught her in his arms, and kissed her. the warm touch of her lips, the scent of her face and hair, banished all but desire of her. 'you must come with me, julia. i shall go mad if you don't. i can care for no one but you. all my life is in you now. you know i cannot love that girl, and we cannot continue in this wretched life. there is no sense in it; it is a voluntary, senseless martyrdom!' 'hubert, do not tempt me to be disloyal to my friend. it is cruel of you, for you know i love you. but no, nothing shall tempt me. how can i? we do not know what might happen. the shock might kill her. she might do away with herself.' 'you must come with me,' said hubert, now completely lost in his passion. 'nothing will happen. girls do not do away with themselves; girls do not die of broken hearts. nothing happens in these days. a few more tears will be shed, and she will soon become reconciled to what cannot be altered. a year or so after, we will marry her to a nice young man, and she will settle down a quiet mother of children.' 'perhaps you are right.' an empty fly, returning to the town, passed them. the fly-man raised his whip. 'take you to the railway station in ten minutes!' hubert spoke quietly; nevertheless there was a strange nervousness in his eyes when he said-- 'fate comes to help me; she offers us the means of escape. you will not refuse, julia?' her upraised face was full of doubt and pain, and she was perplexed by the fly-man's dull eyes, his starved horse, his ramshackle vehicle, the wet road, the leaden sky. it was one of those moments when the familiar appears strange and grotesque. then, gathering all her resolution, she said-- 'no, no; it is impossible! come back, come back.' he caught her arm: quietly and firmly he led her across the road. 'you must listen to me.... we are about to take a decisive step. are you sure that----' 'no, no, hubert, i cannot; let us return home.' 'i go back to ashwood! if i did, i should commit suicide.' 'don't speak like that.... where will you go?' 'i shall travel.... i shall visit italy and greece.... i shall live abroad.' 'you are not serious?' 'yes, i am, julia. that cab may not take both, but it certainly will take one of us away from ashwood, and for ever.' 'take you to southwater, sir--take you to the station in ten minutes,' said the fly-man, pulling in his horse. a zig-zag fugitive thought passed: why did the fly-man speak of taking them to the station? how was it that he knew where they wanted to go? they stopped and wondered. the poor horse's bones stood out in strange projections, the round-shouldered little fly-man sat grinning on his box, showing three long yellow fangs. the vehicle, the horse, and the man, his arm raised in questioning gesture, appeared in strange silhouette upon the grey clouds, assuming portentous aspect in their tremulous and excited imaginations. 'take you to southwater in ten minutes!' the voice of the fly-man sounded hard, grating, and derisive in their ears. he had stopped in the middle of the road, and they walked slowly past, through a great puddle, which drenched their feet. 'get in, julia. shall i open the door?' 'no, no; think of emily. i cannot, hubert,--i cannot; it would kill her.' the conversation paused, and in a long silence they wondered if the fly-man had heard. then they walked several yards listening to the tramp of the hoofs, and then they heard the fly-man strike his horse with the whip. the animal shuffled into a sort of trot, and as the carriage passed them the fly-man again raised his arm and again repeated the same phrase, 'drive you to the station in ten minutes!' the carriage was her temptation, and julia hoped the man would linger no longer. for the promise she had given to emily lay like a red-hot coal upon her heart; its fumes rose to her head, and there were times when she thought they would choke her, and she grew so sick with the pain of self-denial that she could have thrown herself down in the wet grass on the roadside, and laid her face on the cold earth for relief. would nothing happen? what madness! night was coming on, and still they followed the road to southwater. rain fell in heavy drops. 'we shall get wet,' she murmured, as if she were answering the fly-man, who had said again, 'drive you to the station in ten minutes!' she hated the man for his persistency. 'say you will come with me!' hubert whispered; and all the while the rain came down heavier. 'no, no, hubert.... i cannot; i promised emily that i never would. i am going back.' 'then we must say good-bye. i will not go back.' 'you don't mean it. you don't really intend me to go back to emily and tell her?... she will not believe me; she will think i have sent you away to gain my own end. hubert, you mustn't leave me ... and in all this wet. see how it rains! i shall never be able to get home alone.' 'i will drive you on as far as the lodge-gate; farther than the lodge i will not go. nothing in the world shall tempt me to pass it.' at a sign from hubert the little fly-man scrambled down from his box. he was a little old man, almost hunchbacked, with small mud-coloured eyes and a fringe of white beard about his sallow, discoloured face. he was dressed in a pale yellow jacket and waistcoat, and they both noticed that his crooked little legs were covered with a pair of pepper-and-salt trousers. they felt sure he must have overheard a large part of their conversation, for as he opened the carriage door he grinned, showing his three yellow fangs.... his appearance was not encouraging. julia wished he were different, and then she looked at hubert. she longed to throw herself into his arms and weep. but at that moment the heavens seemed to open, and the rain came down like a torrent, thick and fast, splashing all along the road in a million splashes. 'horrible weather, sir; shan't be long a-takin' you to southwater. what part of the town be yer going to--the railway station?' julia still hesitated. the rain beat on their faces, and when some chilling drops rolled down her neck she instinctively sought shelter in the carriage. 'drive me to the station as fast as you can. catch the half-past five to london, and i'll give you five shillings.' the leather thong sounded on the starved animal's hide, the crazy vehicle rocked from side to side, and the wet country almost disappeared in the darkness. hedges and fields swept past them in faintest outline, here and there a blurred mass, which they recognised as a farm building. his arm was about her, and she heard him murmur over and over again-- 'dearest julia, you are what i love best in the world.' the words thrilled her a little, but all the while she saw emily's eyes and heard her voice. hubert, however, was full of happiness--the sweet happiness of the quiet, docile creature that has at last obtained what it loves. xix emily awoke shivering; the fire had gone out, the room was in darkness, and the house seemed strange and lonely. she rang the bell, and asked the servant if he had seen mr. price. mr. price had gone out late in the afternoon, and had not come in. where was mrs. bentley? mrs. bentley had gone out earlier in the afternoon, and had not come in. she suspected the truth at once. they had gone to london to be married. the servant lighted a candle, made up the fire, and asked if she would wait dinner. emily made no answer, but sat still, her eyes fixed, looking into space. the man lingered at the door. at that moment her little dog bounded into the room, and, in a paroxysm of delight, jumped on his mistress's lap. she took him in her arms and kissed him, and this somewhat reassured the alarmed servant, who then thought it was no more than one of miss emily's queer ways. dandy licked his mistress's face, and rubbed his rough head against her shoulder. he seemed more than usually affectionate that evening. suddenly she caught him up in her arms, and kissed him passionately. 'not even for your sake, dearest dandy, can i bear with it any longer! we are all very selfish, and it is selfish of me to leave you, but i cannot help it.' then a doubt crossed her mind, and she raised her head and listened to it. it seemed difficult to believe that he had told her a falsehood--cruel, wicked falsehood--he who had been so kind. and yet---- ah! yes, she knew well enough that it was all true; something told her so. the lancinating pain of doubt passed away, and she remained thinking of the impossibility of bearing any longer with the life. an hour passed, and the servant came with the news that mr. price and mrs. bentley had gone to london; they had taken the half-past five train. 'yes,' she said, 'i know they have.' her voice was calm. there was a strange hollow ring in it, and the servant wondered. a few minutes after, dinner was announced; and to escape observation and comment she went into the dining-room, tasted the soup, and took a slice of mutton on her plate. she could not eat it. she gave it to dandy. it was the last time she should feed him. how hungry he was! she hoped he would not care to eat it; he would not if he knew she was going to leave him. in the drawing-room he insisted on being nursed; and alone, amid the faded furniture, watched over by the old portraits, her pale face fixed and her pale hands clasping her beloved dog, she sat thinking, brooding over the unhappiness, the incurable unhappiness, of her little life. she was absorbed in self, and did not rail against hubert, or even julia. their personalities had somehow dropped out of her mind, and merely represented forces against which she found herself unable any longer to contend. nor was she surprised at what had happened. there had always been in her some prescience of her fate. she and unhappiness had always seemed so inseparable, that she had never found it difficult to believe that this last misfortune would befall her. she had thought it over, and had decided that it would be unendurable to live any longer, and had borne many a terrible insomnia so that she might collect sufficient chloral to take her out of her misery; and now, as she sat thinking, she remembered that she had never, never been happy. oh! the miserable evenings she used to spend, when a child, between her father and mother, who could not agree--why, she never understood. but she used to have to listen to her mother addressing insulting speeches to her father in a calm, even voice that nothing could alter; and, though both were dead and years divided her from that time, the memory survived, and she could see it all again--that room, the very paper on the wall, and her father being gradually worked up into a frenzy. when she was left an orphan, mr. burnett had adopted her, and she remembered the joy of coming to ashwood. she had thought to find happiness there; but there, as at home, fate had gone against her, and she was hardly eighteen when mr. burnett had asked her to marry him. she had loved that old man, but he had not loved her; for when she had refused to marry him he had broken all his promises and left her penniless, careless of what might become of her. then she had given her whole heart to julia, and julia, too, had deceived her. and had she not loved hubert?--no one would ever know how much; she did not know herself,--and had he not lied to her? oh, it was very cruel to deceive a poor little girl in this heartless way! there was no heart in the world, that was it--and she was all heart; and her heart had been trampled on ever since she could remember. and when they came back they would revenge themselves upon her--insult her with their happiness; perhaps insist on sending her away. dandy drowsed on her lap. the servant brought in the tea, and when he returned to the kitchen he said he had never seen any one look so ghost-like as miss emily. the clock ticked loudly in the silence of the old room, the hands moving slowly towards ten. she waited for the hour to strike; it was then that she usually went to bed. her thoughts moved as in a nightmare; and paramount in this chaotic mass of sensation was an acute sense of the deception that had been practised on her; with the consciousness, now firm and unalterable, that it had become impossible for her to live. when the clock struck she got up from her chair, and the movement seemed to react on her brain; her thoughts unclouded, and she went up-stairs thinking clearly of her love of this old house. the old gentleman in the red coat, his hand on his sword, looked on her benignly; and the lady playing the spinet smiled as sweetly as was her wont. emily held up the candle to the picture of the windmill. she had always loved that picture, and the sad thought came that she should never see it again. dandy, who had galloped up-stairs, stood looking through the banisters, wagging his tail. the moment she got into her room she wrote the following note: 'i have taken an overdose of chloral. my life was too miserable to be borne any longer. i forgive those who have caused my unhappiness, and i hope they will forgive me any unhappiness i have caused them.' they were nothing to her now; they were beyond her hate, and the only pang she felt was parting with her beloved dandy. there he stood looking at her, standing on the edge of the bed, waiting for her to cover him up and put him to sleep in his own corner. 'yes, dandy, in a moment, dear--have patience.' she looked round the little room, and, remembering all that she had suffered there, thought that the walls must be saturated with grief, like a sponge. it was a common thing at that time for her to stand before the glass and address such words as these to herself: 'my poor girl, how i pity you, how i pity you!' and now, looking at herself very sadly, she said, 'my poor girl, i shall never pity you any more!' having hung up her dress, she fetched a chair and took various doses of chloral out of the hollow top of her wardrobe, where she had hidden things all her life--sweets, novels, fireworks. they more than half-filled the tumbler; and, looking at the sticky, white liquid, she thought with repugnance of drinking so much of it. but, wanting to make quite sure of death, she resolved to take it all, and she undressed quickly. she was very cold when she got into bed. then a thought struck her, and she got out of bed to add a postscript to her letter. 'i have only one request to make. i hope dandy will always be taken care of.' surprised that she had not wrapped him up and told him he was to go to sleep, the dog stood on the edge of the bed, watching her so earnestly that she wondered if he knew what she was going to do. 'no, you don't know, dear--do you? if you did, you wouldn't let me do it; you'd bark the house down, i know you would, my own darling.' clasping him to her breast, she smothered him with kisses, then put him away in his corner, covering him over for the night. she felt neither grief nor fear. through much suffering, thought and sensation were, to a great extent, dead in her; and, in a sort of emotive numbness, she laid her candlestick in its usual place on the chair by her bedside; and, sitting up in bed, her night-dress carefully buttoned, holding the tumbler half-filled with chloral, she tried to take a dispassionate survey of her life. she thought of what she had endured, and what she would have to endure if she did not take it. then she felt she must go, and without hesitation drank off the chloral. she placed the tumbler by the candlestick, and lay down, remembering vaguely that a long time ago she had decided that suicide was not wrong in itself. the last thing she remembered was the clock striking eleven. for half an hour she slept like stone. then her eyes opened, and they told of sickness now in motion within her. and, strangely enough, through the overpowering nausea rising from her stomach to her brain, the thought that she was not going to die appeared perfectly clear, and with it a sense of disappointment; she would have to begin it all over again. it was with great difficulty that she struck a match and lighted a candle. it seemed impossible to get up. at last she managed to slip her legs out of bed, and found she could stand, and through the various assaults of retching she thought of the letter: it must be destroyed; and, leaning in the corner against the wall and the wardrobe, she tried to recover herself. a dull, deep sleep was pressing on her brain, and she thought she would never be able to cross the room to where the letter was. dandy looked out of his rug; she caught sight of his bright eyes. on cold and shaky feet she attempted to make her way towards the letter; but the room heaved up at her, and, fearing she should fall, and knowing if she did that she would not be able to regain her feet, she clung to the toilette-table. she must destroy that letter: if it were found, they would watch her; and, however impossible her life might become, she would not be able to escape from it. this consideration gave her strength for a final effort. she tore the letter into very small pieces, and then, clinging to a chair, strove to grasp the rail of the bed; but the bed rolled worse than any ship. making a supreme effort, she got in; and then, neither dreams nor waking thoughts, but oblivion complete. hours and hours passed, and when she opened her eyes her maid stood over the bed, looking at her. 'oh, miss, you looked so tired and ill that i didn't wake you. you do seem poorly, miss. it is nearly two o'clock. should you like to sleep a little longer, or shall i bring you up some breakfast?' 'no, no, no, thank you. i couldn't touch anything. i'm feeling wretched; but i'll get up.' the maid tried to dissuade her; but emily got out of bed, and allowed herself to be dressed. she was very weak--so weak that she could hardly stand up at the washstand; and the maid had to sponge her face and neck. but when she had drunk a cup of tea and eaten a little piece of toast, she said she felt better, and was able to walk into the drawing-room. she thought no more of death, nor of her troubles; thought drowned in her; and in a passive, torpid state she sat looking into the fire till dinner-time, hardly caring to bestow a casual caress on dandy, who seemed conscious of his mistress's neglect, for, in his sly, coaxing way, he sometimes came and rubbed himself against her feet. she went into the dining-room, and the servant was glad to see that she finished her soup, and, though she hardly tasted it, she finished a wing of a chicken, and also the glass of wine which the man pressed upon her. half an hour after, when he brought out the tea, he found her sitting on her habitual chair nursing her dog, and staring into the fire so drearily that her look frightened him, and he hesitated before he gave her the letter which had just come up from the town; but it was marked 'immediate.' when he left the room she opened it. it was from mrs. bentley:-- 'dearest emily,--i know that hubert told you that he was not going to marry me. he thought he was not, for i had refused to marry him; but a short time after we met in the park quite accidentally, and--well, fate took the matter out of our hands, and we are to be married to-morrow. hubert insists on going to italy, and i believe we shall remain there two months. we have made arrangements for your aunt to live with you until we come back; and when we do come back, i hope all the little unpleasantnesses which have marred our friendship for this last month or two will be forgotten. so far as i am concerned, nothing shall be left undone to make you happy. your will shall be law at ashwood so long as i am there. if you would like to join us in italy, you have only to say the word. we shall be delighted to have you.' emily could read no more. 'join them in italy!' she dashed the letter into the fire, and an intense hatred of them both pierced her heart and brain. it was the kiss of judas. oh, those hateful, lying words! to live here with her aunt until they came back, to wait here quietly until she returned in triumph with him--him who had been all the world to her. oh no; that was not possible. death, death--escape she must. but how? she had no more chloral. suddenly she thought of the lake. 'yes, yes; the lake, the lake!' and then a keen, swift, passionate longing for death, such as she had not felt at all the night before, came upon her. there was the knowledge too that by killing herself she would revenge herself on those who had killed her. she was just conscious that her suicide would have this effect, but hardly a trace of such intention appeared in the letter she wrote; it was as melancholy and as brief as the letter she had torn up, and ended, like it, with a request that dandy should be well looked after. she had only just directed the envelope when she heard the servant coming to take away the tea-things. she concealed the letter; and when his steps died away in the corridor and the house-door closed, she knew she could slip out unobserved. instinctively she thought of her hat and jacket, and, without a shudder, remembered she would not need them. she sped down the pathway through the shadow of the firs. it was one of those warm nights of winter when a sulphur-coloured sky hangs like a blanket behind the wet, dishevelled woods; and, though there was neither moon nor star, the night was strangely clear, and the shadow of the bridge was distinct in the water. when she approached the brink the swans moved slowly away. they reminded her of the cold; but the black obsession of death was upon her; and, hastening her steps, she threw herself forward. she fell into shallow water and regained her feet, and for a moment it seemed uncertain if she would wade to the bank or fling herself into a deeper place. suddenly she sank, the water rising to her shoulders. she was lifted off her feet. a faint struggle, a faint cry, and then nothing--nothing but the whiteness of the swans moving through the sultry night slowly towards the island. xx its rich, inanimate air proclaimed the room to be an expensive bedroom in a first-class london hotel. interest in the newly-married couple, who were to occupy the room, prompted the servants to see that nothing was forgotten; and as they lingered steps were heard in the passage, and hubert and julia entered. the maid-servants stood aside to let them pass, and one inquired if madame wanted anything, so that her eyes might be gratified with a last inquisition of the happy pair. 'how wonderful! oh, how wonderful! i don't think i ever saw any one act before like that--did you?' 'she certainly had three or four moments that could not be surpassed. her entrance in the sleep-walking scene--what vague horror! what pale presentiment! how she filled the stage! nothing seemed to exist but she.' 'and ford; what did you think of ford's macbeth?' 'very good. everything he does is good. talent; but the other has genius.' 'i shall never forget this evening. what an awful tragedy!' 'perhaps i should have taken you to see something more cheerful; but i wanted to see miss massey play lady macbeth. but let us talk of something else. splendid fire--is it not?' hubert threw off his overcoat, the movement attracted julia's attention, and it startled her to see how old he seemed to have grown. she noticed as she had not noticed before the grey in his beard and the pathetic weary look that haunted his eyes. and she understood in that instant that the look his face wore was the look of those who have failed in their vocation. and at that very moment he was wondering if he really loved her, if his marriage were a mistake. the passion he had felt when walking with her on the wet country road he felt no longer, only an undefinable sadness and a weariness which he could not understand. he looked at his wife, and fearing that she divined his thoughts, he kissed her. she returned his kiss coldly and he wondered if she loved him. he thought that it was improbable that she did. why should she love him? he had never loved any one. he had never inspired love in any one, except perhaps emily. 'i wonder if you really wished to be married,' she said. 'i always wished to be married,' he replied. 'i hated the bohemianism i was forced to live in. i longed for a home, for a wife.' 'you were very poor once?' 'yes: i've lived on tenpence and a shilling a day. i've worked in the docks as a labourer. i went down there hoping to get a clerkship on board one of the transatlantic steamers. i had had enough of england, and thought of seeking fortune elsewhere.' 'i can hardly believe you worked as a labourer in the docks.' 'yes; i did. i saw some men going to work, and i joined them. i don't think i thought much about it at the time. a very little misery rubs all the psychology out of us, and we return more easily than one thinks to the animal.' 'and then?' 'at the end of a week the work began to tell upon me, and i drifted back in search of my manuscript.' 'but you must have been in a dreadful condition; your clothes----' 'ah! thereby hangs a tale. an actress lived in one of the houses i had been lodging in.' 'oh, tell me about her! this is getting very interesting.' then passing his arm round his wife's neck, and with her sweet blonde face looking upon him, and the insinuating warmth of the fire about them, he told her the story of his failure. 'but,' she said, her voice trembling, 'you would not have committed suicide?' 'no man knows beforehand whether he will commit suicide. i can only say that every other issue was closed.' at the end of a long silence julia said, 'i wish you hadn't spoken about suicide. i cannot but think of emily. if she were to make away with herself! the very possibility turns my heart to ice. what should i do--what should we do? i ought never to have given way; we were both abominably selfish. i can see that poor girl sitting alone in that house grieving her heart out.' 'you think that we ought never to have given way!' 'i suppose we ought not. i tried very hard, you know i did.... but do you regret?' she said, looking at him suddenly. 'no; i don't regret, but i wish it had happened otherwise.' 'you don't fear anything. nothing will happen. what can happen?' 'the most terrible things often happen--have happened.' 'emily may have been fond of me--i think she was; but it was no more than the hysterical caprice of a young girl. besides, people do not die for love; and i assure you it will be all right. this is not a time for gloomy thoughts.' 'i'll try not to think of her. well, what were we talking about? i know: about the actress who lived in fitzroy street. tell me about her.' 'she was a real good girl. if she hadn't lent me that five shillings, i don't know where i should be now.' 'were you very fond of her?' 'no; there never was anything of that sort between us. we were merely friends.' 'and what has become of this actress?' 'you saw her to-night?' 'was she acting in the piece we saw to-night?' 'it was she who played lady macbeth.' 'you are joking.' 'no, i'm not. i always knew she had genius, and they have found it out; but i must say they have taken their time about it.' 'how wonderful! she has succeeded!' 'yes, _she_ has succeeded!' 'and she is really the girl you intended to play lady hayward?' 'yes; and i hope she will play the part one of these days.' 'of course, she is just the woman for it. what a splendid success she has had! all london is talking about her.' 'and i remember when ford refused to cast her for the adventuress in _divorce_. if he had, there is no doubt she would have carried the piece through. life is but a bundle of chances; she has succeeded, whatever that may mean.' 'but you will let her have the part of lady hayward?' 'yes, of course--that is to say, if----' 'why "if"?' 'my thoughts are with you, dear; literature seems to have passed out of sight.' 'but you must not sacrifice your talent in worship of me. i shall not allow you. for my sake, if not for hers, you must finish that play. i want you to be famous. i should be for ever miserable if my love proved a upas-tree.' 'a upas-tree! it will be you who will help me; it will be your presence that will help me to write my play. i was always vaguely conscious that you were a necessary element in my life; but i did not wake up to any knowledge of it until that day--do you remember?--when you came into my study to ask me what fish i'd like for dinner, and i begged of you to allow me to read to you that second act. it is that second act that stops me.' 'i thought you had written the second act to your satisfaction. you said that after the talk we had that afternoon you wrote for three hours without stopping, and that you had never done better work.' 'yes, i wrote a great deal; but on reading it over i found that--i don't mean to say that none of it will stand; some still seems to me to be all right, but a great deal will require alteration.' the conversation fell. at the end of a long silence hubert said-- 'what are you thinking of, dearest?' 'i was thinking that supposing you were mistaken--if i failed to help you in your work.' 'and i never succeeded in writing my play?' 'no; i don't mean that. of course you will write your play; all you have to do is to be less critical.' 'yes, i know--i have heard that before; but, unfortunately, we cannot change ourselves. i'll either carry my play through completely, realise my ideal, or----' 'remain for ever unsatisfied?' 'whether i write it or no, i shall be happy in your love.' 'yes, yes; let us be happy.' they looked at each other. he did not speak, but his thought said-- 'there is no happiness on earth for him who has not accomplished his task.' 'shall we be happy? i wonder. we have both suffered,' she said, 'we are both tired of suffering, and it is only right that we should be happy.' 'yes, we shall be happy, i will be happy. it shall be my pleasure to attend to you, to give you all your desire. but you said just now that you had suffered. i have told you my past. tell me yours. i know nothing except that you were unhappily married.' 'there is little else to know; a woman's life is not adventurous, like a man's. i have not known the excitement of "first nights," nor the striving and the craving for an artistic ideal. my life has been essentially a woman's life,--suppression of self and monotonous duty, varied by heart-breaking misfortune. i married when i was very young; before i had even begun to think about life i found---- but why distress these hours with painful memories?' 'it is pleasant to look back on the troubles we have passed through.' 'well, i learnt in one year the meaning of three terrible words--poverty, neglect, and cruelty. in the second year of my marriage my husband died of drink, and i was left a widow at twenty, entirely penniless. i went to live with my sister, and she was so poor that i had to support myself by giving music-lessons. you think you know the meaning of poverty: you may; but you do not know what a young woman who wants to earn her bread honestly has to put up with, trudging through wet and cold, mile after mile, to give a lesson, paid for at the rate of one-and-sixpence or two shillings an hour.' julia took her eyes from her husband's face, and looked dreamily into the fire. then, raising her face from the flame, she looked around with the air of one seeking for some topic of conversation. at that moment she caught sight of the corner of a letter lying on the mantelpiece. reaching forth her hand, she took it. it was addressed to her husband. 'here is a letter for you, hubert.... why, it comes from ashwood. yes, and it is in the hand-writing of one of the servants. oh, it is black's writing! it may be about emily. something may have happened to her. open it quickly.' 'that is not probable. nothing can have happened to her.' 'look and see. be quick!' hubert opened the letter, and he had not read three lines when julia's face caught expression from his, which had become overcast. 'it is bad news, i know. something has happened. what is it? don't keep me waiting. the suspense is worse than the truth.' 'it is very awful, julia. don't give way.' 'tell me what it is. is she dead? 'yes; she is dead.' julia got up from her husband's knees and stood by the mantelpiece, leaning upon it. 'it is more than mere death.' 'what do you mean? she killed herself--is that it?' 'yes; she drowned herself the night before last in the lake.' 'oh, it is too horrible! then we have murdered her. our unpardonable selfishness! i cannot bear it!' her eyes closed and her lips trembled. hubert caught her in his arms, laid her on the chair, and, fetching some water in a tumbler, sprinkled her face; then he held it to her lips; she drank a little, and revived. 'i'm not going to faint. tell me--tell me when the unfortunate child----' 'they don't know exactly. she was in the drawing-room at tea-time, and the drawing-room was empty when black went round three-quarters of an hour after to lock up. he thought she had gone to her room. it was the gardener who brought in the news in the morning about nine.' 'oh, good god!' 'black says he noticed that she looked very depressed the day before, but he thought she was looking better when he brought in the tea.' 'it was then she got my letter. does black say anything about giving her a letter?' 'yes, that is to say----' 'i knew it! i knew it!' said julia; and her eyes were wild with grief, and she rocked herself to and fro. 'it was that letter that drove her to it. it was most ill-advised. i told you so. you should have written. she would have borne the news better had it come from you. my instinct told me so, but i let myself be persuaded. i told you how it would happen. i told you. you can't say i didn't. oh! why did you persuade me--why--why--why?' 'julia dear, we are not responsible. we were in nowise bound to sacrifice our happiness to her----' 'don't say a word! i say we were bound. life can never be the same to me again.' hubert did not answer. nothing he could say would be of the slightest avail, and he feared to say anything that might draw from her expressions which she would afterwards regret. he had never seen her moved like this, nor did he believe her capable of such agitation, and the contrast of her present with her usual demeanour made it the more impressive. 'oh,' she said, leaning forward and looking at him fixedly, 'take this nightmare off my brain, or i shall go mad! it isn't true; it cannot be true. but--oh! yes, it's true enough.' 'like you, julia, i am overwhelmed; but we can do nothing.' 'do nothing!' she cried; 'do nothing! we can do nothing but pray for her--we who sacrificed her.' and she slipped on her knees and burst into a passionate fit of weeping. 'the best thing that could have happened,' thought hubert; and his thought said, clearly and precisely, 'yes; it is awful, shocking, cruel beyond measure!' the fire was sinking, and he built it up quietly, ashamed of this proof of his regard for physical comfort, and hoping it would pass unnoticed. his pain expressed itself less vehemently than julia's; but for all that his mind ached. he remembered how he had taken everything from her--fortune, happiness, and now life itself. it was an appalling tragedy--one of those senseless cruelties which we find nature constantly inventing. a thought revealed an unexpected analogy between him and his victim. in both lives there had been a supreme desire, and both had failed. 'hers was the better part,' he said bitterly. 'those whose souls are burdened with desire that may not be gratified had better fling the load aside. they are fools who carry it on to the end.... if it were not for julia----' then he sought to determine what were his exact feelings. he knew he was infinitely sorry for poor emily; but he could not stir himself into a paroxysm of grief, and, ashamed of his inability to express his feelings, he looked at julia, who still wept. 'no doubt,' he thought, 'women have keener feelings than we have.' at that moment julia got up from her knees. she had brushed away her tears. her face was shaken with grief. 'my heart is breaking,' she said. 'this is too cruel--too cruel! and on my wedding night.' their eyes met; and, divining each other's thought, each felt ashamed, and julia said-- 'oh, what am i saying? this dreadful selfishness, from which we cannot escape, that is with us even in such a moment as this! that poor child gone to her death, and yet amid it all we must think of ourselves.' 'my dear julia, we cannot escape from our human nature; but, for all that, our grief is sincere. we can do nothing. do not grieve like that.' 'and why not? she was my best friend. how have i repaid her? alas! as woman always repays woman for kindness done. the old story. i cannot forgive myself. no, no! do not kiss me! i cannot bear it. leave me. i can see nothing but emily's reproachful face.' she covered her face in her hands and sobbed again. the same scenes repeated themselves over and over again. the same fits of passionate grief; the same moment of calm, when words impregnated with self dropped from their lips. the same nervous sense that something of the dead girl stood between them. and still they sat by the fire, weary with sorrow, recrimination, long regret, and pain. they could grieve no more; and before dawn sleep pressed upon their eyelids, and at the end of a long silence he dozed--a pale, transparent sleep, through which the realities of life appeared almost as plainly as before. suddenly he awoke, and he shivered in the chill room. the fire was sinking; dawn divided the window-curtains. he looked at his wife. she seemed to him very beautiful as she slept, her face turned a little on one side, and again he asked himself if he loved her. then, going to the window, he drew the curtains softly, so as not to awaken her; and as he stood watching a thin discoloured day breaking over the roofs, it again seemed to him that emily's suicide was the better part. 'those who do not perform their task in life are never happy.' the words drilled themselves into his brain with relentless insistency. he felt a terrible emptiness within him which he could not fill. he looked at his wife and quailed a little at the thought that had suddenly come upon him. she was something like himself--that was why he had married her. we are attracted by what is like ourselves. emily's passion might have stirred him. now he would have to settle down to live with julia, and their similar natures would grow more and more like one another. then, turning on his thoughts, he dismissed them. they were the morbid feverish fancies of an exceptional, of a terrible night. he opened the window quietly so as not to awaken his wife. and in the melancholy greyness of the dawn he looked down into the street and wondered what the end would be. he did not think that he would live long. disappointed men--those who have failed in their ambition--do not live to make old bones. there were men like him in every profession--the arts are crowded with them. he had met barristers and soldiers and clergy-men, just like himself. one hears of their deaths--failure of the heart's action, paralysis of the brain, a hundred other medical causes--but the real cause is, lack of appreciation. he would hang on for another few years, no doubt; during that time he must try to make his wife happy. his duty was now to be a good husband, at all events, there was that. his wife lay asleep in the arm-chair, and fearing she might catch cold, he came into the room closing the window very gently behind him. the end printed by t. and a. constable, printers to her majesty at the edinburgh university press. the frogs of aristophanes by aristophanes the harvard classics edited by charles w eliot lld nine greek dramas by Æschylus, sophocles, euripides and aristophanes translations by e d a morshead e h plumptre gilbert murray and b b rogers with introductions and notes volume introductory note aristophanes, _the greatest of comic writers in greek and in the opinion of many, in any language, is the only one of the attic comedians any of whose works has survived in complete form he was born in athens about the middle of the fifth century b c, and had his first comedy produced when he was so young that his name was withheld on account of his youth. he is credited with over forty plays, eleven of which survive, along with the names and fragments of some twenty-six others. his satire deal with political, religious, and literary topics, and with all its humor and fancy is evidently the outcome of profound conviction and a genuine patriotism. the attic comedy was produced at the festivals of dionysus, which were marked by great license, and to this, rather than to the individual taste of the poet, must be ascribed the undoubted coarseness of many of the jests. aristophanes seems, indeed, to have been regarded by his contemporaries as a man of noble character. he died shortly after the production of his "plutus," in b. c. "the frogs" was produced the year after the death of euripides, and laments the decay of greek tragedy which aristophanes attributed to that writer. it is an admirable example of the brilliance of his style, and of that mingling of wit and poetry with rollicking humor and keen satirical point which is his chief characteristic. here, as elsewhere, he stands for tradition against innovation of all kinds, whether in politics, religion, or art. the hostility to euripides displayed here and in several other plays, like his attacks on socrates, is a result of this attitude of conservatism. the present play is notable also as a piece of elaborate if not over-serious literary criticism from the pen of a great poet._ the frogs of aristophanes dramatis personÆ the god dionysus xanthias, _his slave_ aeschylus euripides heracles pluto charon aeacus, _house porter to pluto_ a corpse a maidservant of persephone a landlady in hades plathane, _her servant_ a chorus of frogs a chorus of initiated persons _attendants at a funeral; women worshipping iacchus; servants of pluto, &c._ ***** _xanthias_ shall i crack any of those old jokes, master, at which the audience never fail to laugh? dionysus. aye, what you will, except _i'm getting crushed:_ fight shy of that: i'm sick of that already. xan. nothing else smart? dio. aye, save _my shoulder's aching._ xan. come now, that comical joke? dio. with all my heart. only be careful not to shift your pole, and-- xan. what? dio. and vow that you've a bellyache. xan. may i not say i'm overburdened so that if none ease me, i must ease myself? dio. for mercy's sake, not till i'm going to vomit. xan. what! must i bear these burdens, and not make one of the jokes ameipsias and lycis and phrynichus, in every play they write, put in the mouths of all their burden-bearers? dio. don't make them; no! i tell you when i see their plays, and hear those jokes, i come away more than a twelvemonth older than i went. xan. o thrice unlucky neck of mine, which now is _getting crushed_, yet must not crack its joke! dio. now is not this fine pampered insolence when i myself, dionysus, son of--pipkin, toil on afoot, and let this fellow ride, taking no trouble, and no burden bearing? xan. what, don't i bear? dio. how can you when you're riding? xan. why, i bear these. dio. how? xan. most unwillingly. dio. does not the donkey bear the load you're bearing? xan. not what i bear myself: by zeus, not he. dio. how can you bear, when you are borne yourself? xan. don't know: but anyhow _my shoulder's aching_. dio. then since you say the donkey helps you not, you lift him up and carry him in turn. xan. o hang it all! why didn't i fight at sea? you should have smarted bitterly for this. dio. get down, you rascal; i've been trudging on till now i've reached the portal, where i'm going first to turn in. boy! boy! i say there, boy! heracles. who banged the door? how like a prancing centaur he drove against it! mercy o' me, what's this? dio. boy. xan. yes. dio. did you observe? xan. what? dio. how alarmed he is. xan. aye truly, lest you've lost your wits. her. o by demeter, i can't choose but laugh. biting my lips won't stop me. ha! ha! ha! dio. pray you, come hither, i have need of you. her. i vow i can't help laughing, i can't help it. a lion's hide upon a yellow silk, a club and buskin! what's it all about? where were you going? dio. i was serving lately aboard the--cleisthenes. her. and fought? dio. and sank more than a dozen of the enemy's ships. her. you two? dio. we two. her. and then i awoke, and lo! dio. there as, on deck, i'm reading to myself the andromeda, a sudden pang of longing shoots through my heart, you can't conceive how keenly. her. how big a pang. dio. a small one, molon's size. her. caused by a woman? dio. no. her. a boy? dio. no, no. her. a man? dio. ah! ah! her. was it for cleisthenes? dio. don't mock me, brother; on my life i am in a bad way: such fierce desire consumes me. her. aye, little brother? how? dio. i can't describe it. but yet i'll tell you in a riddling way. have you e'er felt a sudden lust for soup? her. soup! zeus-a-mercy, yes, ten thousand times. dio. is the thing clear, or must i speak again? her. not of the soup: i'm clear about the soup. dio. well, just that sort of pang devours my heart for lost euripides. her. a dead man too. dio. and no one shall persuade me not to go after the man. her. do you mean below, to hades? dio. and lower still, if there's a lower still. her. what on earth for? dio. i want a genuine poet, "for some are not, and those that are, are bad." her. what! does not iophon live? dio. well, he's the sole good thing remaining, if even he is good. for even of that i'm not exactly certain. her. if go you must, there's sophocles--he comes before euripides--why not take _him_? dio. not till i've tried if iophon's coin rings true when he's alone, apart from sophocles. besides, euripides the crafty rogue, will find a thousand shifts to get away, but _he_ was easy here, is easy there. her. but agathon, where is he? dio. he has gone and left us, a genial poet, by his friends much missed. her. gone where? dio. to join the blessed in their banquets. her. but what of xenocles? dio. o he be hanged! her. pythangelus? xan. but never a word of me, not though my shoulder's chafed so terribly. her. but have you not a shoal of little songsters, tragedians by the myriad, who can chatter a furlong faster than euripides? dio. those be mere vintage-leavings, jabberers, choirs of swallow-broods, degraders of their art, who get one chorus, and are seen no more, the muses' love once gained. but o my friend, search where you will, you'll never find a true creative genius, uttering startling things. her. creative? how do you mean? dio. i mean a man who'll dare some novel venturesome conceit, _air, zeus's chamber_, or _time's foot_, or this, _'twas not my mind that swore: my tongue committed a little perjury on its own account._ her. you like that style? dio. like it? i dote upon it. her. i vow it's ribald nonsense, and you know it. dio. "rule not my mind": you've got a house to mind. her. really and truly though 'tis paltry stuff. dio. teach me to dine! xan. but never a word of me. dio. but tell me truly--'twas for this i came dressed up to mimic you--what friends received and entertained you when you went below to bring back cerberus, in case i need them. and tell me too the havens, fountains, shops, roads, resting-places, stews, refreshment rooms, towns, lodgings, hostesses, with whom were found the fewest bugs. xan. but never a word of me. her. you are really game to go? dio. o drop that, can't you? and tell me this: of all the roads you know which is the quickest way to get to hades? i want one not too warm, nor yet too cold. her. which shall i tell you first? which shall it be? there's one by rope and bench: you launch away and--hang yourself. dio. no thank you: that's too stifling. her. then there's a track, a short and beaten cut. by pestle and mortar. dio. hemlock, do you mean? her. just so. dio. no, that's too deathly cold a way; you have hardly started ere your shins get numbed. her. well, would you like a steep and swift descent? dio. aye, that's the style: my walking powers are small. her. go down to the cerameicus. dio. and do what? her. climb to the tower's top pinnacle-- dio. and then? her. observe the torch-race started, and when all the multitude is shouting _let them go_, let yourself go. dio. go whither? her. to the ground. dio. o that would break my brain's two envelopes. i'll not try that her. which will you try? dio. the way you went yourself. her. a parlous voyage that, for first you'll come to an enormous lake of fathomless depth. dio. and how am i to cross? her. an ancient mariner will row you over in a wee boat, _so_ big. the fare's two obols. dio. fie! the power two obols have, the whole world through! how came they thither? her. theseus took them down. and next you'll see great snakes and savage monsters in tens of thousands. dio. you needn't try to scare me, i'm going to go. her. then weltering seas of filth and ever-rippling dung: and plunged therein, whoso has wronged the stranger here on earth, or robbed his boylove of the promised pay, or swinged his mother, or profanely smitten his father's cheek, or sworn an oath forsworn, or copied out a speech of morsimus. dio. there too, perdie, should _he_ be plunged, whoe'er has danced the sword-dance of cinesias. her. and next the breath of flutes will float around you, and glorious sunshine, such as ours, you'll see, and myrtle groves, and happy bands who clap their hands in triumph, men and women too. dio. and who are they? her. the happy mystic bands. xan. and i'm the donkey in the mystery show. but i'll not stand it, not one instant longer. her. who'll tell you everything you want to know. you'll find them dwelling close beside the road you are going to travel, just at pluto's gate. and fare thee well, my brother. dio. and to you good cheer. (_to xan._) now sirrah, pick you up the traps. xan. before i've put them down? dio. and quickly too. xan. no, prithee, no; but hire a body, one they're carrying out, on purpose for the trip. dio. if i can't find one? xan. then i'll take them. dio. good. and see! they are carrying out a body now. hallo! you there, you deadman, are you willing to carry down our little traps to hades? corpse. what are they? dio. these. corp. two drachmas for the job? dio. nay, that's too much. corp. out of the pathway, you! dio. beshrew thee, stop: may-be we'll strike a bargain. corp. pay me two drachmas, or it's no use talking. dio. one and a half. corp. i'd liefer live again! xan. how absolute the knave is! he be hanged! i'll go myself. dio. you're the right sort, my man. now to the ferry. charon. yoh, up! lay her to. xan. whatever's that? dio. why, that's the lake, by zeus, whereof he spake, and yon's the ferry-boat. xan. poseidon, yes, and that old fellow's charon. dio. charon! o welcome, charon! welcome, charon. char. who's for the rest from every pain and ill? who's for the lethe's plain? the donkey-shearings? who's for cerberia? taenarum? or the ravens? dio. i. char. hurry in. dio. but where are you going really? in truth to the ravens? char. aye, for your behoof. step in. dio. (_to xan._) now, lad. char. a slave? i take no slave, unless he has fought for his bodyrights at sea. xan. i couldn't go. i'd got the eye-disease. char. then fetch a circuit round about the lake. xan. where must i wait? char. beside the withering stone, hard by the rest. dio. you understand? xan. too well. o, what ill omen crost me as i started! char. (_to dio._) sit to the oar. (_calling._) who else for the boat? be quick. (_to dio._) hi! what are you doing? dio. what am i doing? sitting on to the oar. you told me to, yourself. char. now sit you there, you little potgut. dio. so? char. now stretch your arms full length before you. dio. so? char. come, don't keep fooling; plant your feet, and now pull with a will. dio. why, how am _i_ to pull? i'm not an oarsman, seaman, salaminian. i can't! char. you can. just dip your oar in once, you'll hear the loveliest timing songs. dio. what from? char. frog-swans, most wonderful. dio. then give the word. char. heave ahoy! heave ahoy!! frogs. brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax! brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax! we children of the fountain and the lake let us wake our full choir-shout, as the flutes are ringing out, our symphony of clear-voiced song. the song we used to love in the marshland up above, in praise of dionysus to produce, of nysaean dionysus, son of zeus, when the revel-tipsy throng, all crapulous and gay, to our precinct reeled along on the holy pitcher day. brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax. dio. o, dear! o dear! now i declare i've got a bump upon my rump. fr. brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax. dio. but you, perchance, don't care. fr. brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax. dio. hang you, and your ko-axing too! there's nothing but ko-ax with you. fr. that is right, mr. busybody, right! for the muses of the lyre love us well; and hornfoot pan who plays on the pipe his jocund lays; and apollo, harper bright, in our chorus takes delight for the strong reed's sake which i grow within my lake to be girdled in his lyre's deep shell. brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax. dio. my hands are blistered very sore; my stern below is sweltering so, 'twill soon, i know, upturn and roar brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax. o tuneful race, o pray give o'er, o sing no more. fr. ah, no! ah, no! loud and louder our chant must flow. sing if ever ye sang of yore, when in sunny and glorious days through the rushes and marsh-flags springing on we swept, in the joy of singing myriad-divine roundelays. or when fleeing the storm, we went down to the depths, and our choral song wildly raised to a loud and long bubble-bursting accompaniment. fr. and dio. brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax. dio. this timing song i take from you. fr. that's a dreadful thing to do. dio. much more dreadful, if i row till i burst myself, i trow. fr. and dio. brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax. dio. go, hang yourselves; for what care i? fr. all the same we'll shout and cry, stretching all our throats with song, shouting, crying, all day long. fr. and dio. brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax. dio. in this you'll never, never win. fr. this you shall not beat us in. dio. no, nor ye prevail o'er me. never! never! i'll my song shout, if need be, all day long, until i've learned to master your ko-ax. brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax. i thought i'd put a stop to your ko-ax. char. stop! easy! take the oar and push her to now pay your fare and go. dio. here 'tis: two obols. xanthias! where's xanthias? is it xanthias there? xan. hoi, hoi! dio. come hither. xan. glad to meet you, master. dio. what have you there? xan. nothing but filth and darkness. dio. but tell me, did you see the parricides and perjured folk he mentioned? xan. didn't you? dio. poseidon, yes. why look! (_pointing to the audience_) i see them now. what's the next step? xan. we'd best be moving on. this is the spot where heracles declared those savage monsters dwell. dio. o hang the fellow. that's all his bluff: he thought to scare me off, the jealous dog, knowing my plucky ways. there's no such swaggerer lives as heracles. why, i'd like nothing better than to achieve some bold adventure, worthy of our trip. xan. i know you would. hallo! i hear a noise. dio. where? what? xan. behind us, there. dio. get you behind. xan. no, it's in front. dio. get you in front directly. xan. and now i see the most ferocious monster. dio. o, what's it like? xan. like everything by turns. now it's a bull: now it's a mule: and now the loveliest girl. dio. o, where? i'll go and meet her. xan. it's ceased to be a girl: it's a dog now. dio. it is empusa! xan. well, its face is all ablaze with fire. dio. has it a copper leg? xan. a copper leg, yes, one; and one of cow dung. dio. o, whither shall i flee? xan. o, whither i? dio. my priest, protect me, and we'll sup together. xan. king heracles, we're done for. dio. o, forbear, good fellow, call me anything but that. xan. well then, dionysus. dio. o, that's worse again. xan. (_to the spectre_.) aye, go thy way. o master, here, come here. dio. o, what's up now? xan. take courage; all's serene. and, like hegelochus, we now may say "out of the storm there comes a new fine wether." empusa's gone. dio. swear it. xan. by zeus she is. dio. swear it again. xan. by zeus. dio. again xan. by zeus. o dear, o dear, how pale i grew to see her, but he, from fright has yellowed me all over. dio. ah me, whence fall these evils on my head? who is the god to blame for my destruction? air, zeus's chamber, or the foot of time? (_a flute is played behind the scenes_.) dio. hist! xan. what's the matter. dio. didn't you hear it? xan. what? dio. the breath of flutes. xan. aye, and a whiff of torches breathed o'er me too; a very mystic whiff. dio. then crouch we down, and mark what's going on. chorus. (_in the distance_.) o iacchus! o iacchus! o iacchus! xan. i have it, master: 'tis those blessed mystics, of whom he told us, sporting hereabouts. they sing the iacchus which diagoras made. dio. i think so too: we had better both keep quiet and so find out exactly what it is. (_the calling forth of iacchus_.) chor. o iacchus! power excelling, here in stately temple dwelling, o iacchus! o iacchus! come to tread this verdant level, come to dance in mystic revel, come whilst round thy forehead hurtles many a wreath of fruitful myrtles, come with wild and saucy paces mingling in our joyous dance, pure and holy, which embraces all the charms of all the graces when the mystic choirs advance. xan. holy and sacred queen, demeter's daughter, o, what a jolly whiff of pork breathed o'er me! dio. hist! and perchance you'll get some tripe yourself. _(the welcome to iacchus.)_ chor. come, arise, from sleep awaking, come the fiery torches shaking, o iacchus! o iacchus! morning star that shinest nightly. lo, the mead is blazing brightly, age forgets its years and sadness, aged knees curvet for gladness, lift thy flashing torches o'er us, marshal all thy blameless train, lead, o lead the way before us; lead the lovely youthful chorus to the marshy flowery plain. _(the warning-off of the profane.)_ all evil thoughts and profane be still: far hence, far hence from our choirs depart, who knows not well what the mystics tell, or is not holy and pure of heart; who ne'er has the noble revelry learned, or danced the dance of the muses high; or shared in the bacchic rites which old bull-eating cratinus's words supply; who vulgar coarse buffoonery loves, though all untimely the jests they make; or lives not easy and kind with all, or kindling faction forbears to slake, but fans the fire, from a base desire some pitiful gain for himself to reap; or takes, in office, his gifts and bribes, while the city is tossed on the stormy deep; who fort or fleet to the foe betrays; or, a vile thorycion, ships away forbidden stores from aegina's shores, to epidaurus across the bay transmitting oarpads and sails and tar, that curst collector of five per cents; the knave who tries to procure supplies for the use of the enemy's armaments; the cyclian singer who dares befoul the lady hecate's wayside shrine; the public speaker who once lampooned in our bacchic feast, would, with heart malign, keep nibbling away the comedians' pay;--to these i utter my warning cry, i charge them once, i charge them twice, i charge them thrice, that they draw not nigh to the sacred dance of the mystic choir. but ye, my comrades, awake the song, the night-long revels of joy and mirth which ever of right to our feast belong. (_the start of the procession_.) advance, true hearts, advance! on to the gladsome bowers, on to the sward, with flowers embosomed bright! march on with jest, and jeer, and dance, full well ye've supped to-night. (_the processional hymn to persephone_.) march, chanting loud your lays, your hearts and voices raising, the saviour goddess praising who vows she'll still our city save to endless days, whate'er thorycion's will. break off the measure, and change the time; and now with chanting and hymns adorn demeter, goddess mighty and high, the harvest-queen, the giver of corn. (_the processional hymn to demeter_.) o lady, over our rites presiding, preserve and succour thy choral throng, and grant us all, in thy help confiding, to dance and revel the whole day long; and much in earnest, and much in jest, worthy thy feast, may we speak therein. and when we have bantered and laughed our best, the victor's wreath be it ours to win. call we now the youthful god, call him hither without delay, him who travels amongst his chorus, dancing along on the sacred way. (_the processional hymn to iacchus_.) o, come with the joy of thy festival song, o, come to the goddess, o, mix with our throng untired, though the journey be never so long. o lord of the frolic and dance, iacchus, beside me advance! for fun, and for cheapness, our dress thou hast rent, through thee we may dance to the top of our bent, reviling, and jeering, and none will resent. o lord of the frolic and dance, iacchus, beside me advance! a sweet pretty girl i observed in the show, her robe had been torn in the scuffle, and lo, there peeped through the tatters a bosom of snow. o lord of the frolic and dance, iacchus, beside me advance! dio. wouldn't i like to follow on, and try a little sport and dancing? xan. wouldn't i? (_the banter at the bridge of cephisus_.) chor. shall we all a merry joke at archedemus poke, who has not cut his guildsmen yet, though seven years old; yet up among the dead he is demagogue and head, and contrives the topmost place of the rascaldom to hold? and cleisthenes, they say, is among the tombs all day, bewailing for his lover with a lamentable whine. and callias, i'm told, has become a sailor bold, and casts a lion's hide o'er his members feminine. dio. can any of you tell where pluto here may dwell, for we, sirs, are two strangers who were never here before? chor. o, then no further stray, nor again enquire the way, for know that ye have journeyed to his very entrance-door dio. take up the wraps, my lad. xan. now is not this too bad? like "zeus's corinth," he "the wraps" keeps saying o'er and o'er. chor. now wheel your sacred dances through the glade with flowers bedight, all ye who are partakers of the holy festal rite; and i will with the women and the holy maidens go where they keep the nightly vigil, an auspicious light to show. (_the departure for the thriasian plain_) now haste we to the roses, and the meadows full of posies, now haste we to the meadows in our own old way, in choral dances blending, in dances never ending, which only for the holy the destinies array. o happy mystic chorus, the blessed sunshine o'er us on us alone is smiling, in its soft sweet light: on us who strove for ever with holy, pure endeavour, alike by friend and stranger to guide our steps aright. dio. what's the right way to knock? i wonder how the natives here are wont to knock at doors. xan. no dawdling: taste the door. you've got, remember, the lion-hide and pride of heracles. dio. boy! boy! aeacus. who's there? dio. i, heracles the strong! aeac. o, you most shameless desperate ruffian, you! o, villain, villain, arrant vilest villain! who seized our cerberus by the throat, and fled, and ran, and rushed, and bolted, haling off the dog, my charge! but now i've got thee fast. so close the styx's inky-hearted rock, the blood-bedabbled peak of acheron shall hem thee in: the hell-hounds of cocytus prowl round thee; whilst the hundred-headed asp shall rive thy heart-strings: the tartesian lamprey, prey on thy lungs: and those tithrasian gorgons mangle and tear thy kidneys, mauling them, entrails and all, into one bloody mash. i'll speed a running foot to fetch them hither. xan. hallo! what now? dio. i've done it: call the god. xan. get up, you laughing-stock; get up directly, before you're seen. dio. what, _i_ get up? i'm fainting. please dab a sponge of water on my heart. xan. here! dio. dab it, you. xan. where? o, ye golden gods, lies your heart there? dio. it got so terrified it fluttered down into my stomach's pit. xan. cowardliest of gods and men! dio. the cowardliest? i? what i, who asked you for a sponge, a thing a coward never would have done! xan. what then? dio. a coward would have lain there wallowing; but i stood up, and wiped myself withal. xan. poseidon! quite heroic. dio. 'deed i think so. but weren't _you_ frightened at those dreadful threats and shoutings? xan, frightened? not a bit. i cared not. dio. come then, if you're so _very_ brave a man, will you be i, and take the hero's club and lion's skin, since you're so monstrous plucky? and i'll be now the slave, and bear the luggage. xan. hand them across. i cannot choose but take them. and now observe the xanthio-heracles if i'm a coward and a sneak like you. dio. nay, you're the rogue from melite's own self. and i'll pick up and carry on the traps. maid. o welcome, heracles! come in, sweetheart. my lady, when they told her, set to work, baked mighty loaves, boiled two or three tureens of lentil soup, roasted a prime ox whole, made rolls and honey-cakes. so come along. xan. (declining.) you are too kind. maid. i will not let you go. i will not let you! why, she's stewing slices of juicy bird's-flesh, and she's making comfits, and tempering down her richest wine. come, dear, come along in. xan. (still declining.) pray thank her. maid. o you're jesting, i shall not let you off: there's such a lovely flute-girl all ready, and we've two or three dancing-girls also. xan. eh! what! dancing-girls? maid. young budding virgins, freshly tired and trimmed. come, dear, come in. the cook was dishing up the cutlets, and they are bringing in the tables. xan. then go you in, and tell those dancing-girls of whom you spake, i'm coming in myself. pick up the traps, my lad, and follow me. dio. hi! stop! you're not in earnest, just because i dressed you up, in fun, as heracles? come, don't keep fooling, xanthias, but lift and carry in the traps yourself. xan. why! what! you are never going to strip me of these togs you gave me! dio. going to? no, i'm doing it now. off with that lion-skin. xan. bear witness all the gods shall judge between us. dio. gods indeed! why how could _you_ (the vain and foolish thought!) a slave, a mortal, act alcmena's son? xan. all right then, take them; maybe, if god will, you'll soon require my services again. chor. this is the part of a dexterous clever man with his wits about him ever, one who has travelled the world to see; always to shift, and to keep through all close to the sunny side of the wall; not like a pictured block to be, standing always in one position; nay but to veer, with expedition, and ever to catch the favouring breeze, this is the part of a shrewd tactician, this is to be a--theramenes! dio. truly an exquisite joke 'twould be, him with a dancing girl to see, lolling at ease on milesian rugs; me, like a slave, beside him standing, aught that he wants to his lordship handing; then as the damsel fair he hugs, seeing me all on fire to embrace her, he would perchance (for there's no man baser), turning him round like a lazy lout, straight on my mouth deliver a facer, knocking my ivory choirmen out. hostess. o plathane! plathane! here's that naughty man, that's he who got into our tavern once, and ate up sixteen loaves. plathane. o, so he is! the very man. xan. bad luck for somebody! hos. o and, besides, those twenty bits of stew, half-obol pieces. xan. somebody's going to catch it! hos. that garlic too. dio. woman, you're talking nonsense. you don't know what you're saying. hos. o, you thought i shouldn't know you with your buskins on! ah, and i've not yet mentioned all that fish, no, nor the new-made cheese: he gulped it down, baskets and all, unlucky that we were. and when i just alluded to the price, he looked so fierce, and bellowed like a bull. xan. yes, that's his way: that's what he always does. hos. o, and he drew his sword, and seemed quite mad. pla. o, that he did. hos. and terrified us so we sprang up to the cockloft, she and i. then out he hurled, decamping with the rugs. xan. that's his way too; but something must be done. hos. quick, run and call my patron cleon here! pla. o, if you meet him, call hyperbolus! we'll pay you out to-day. hos. o filthy throat, o how i'd like to take a stone, and hack those grinders out with which you chawed my wares. pla. i'd like to pitch you in the deadman's pit. hos. i'd like to get a reaping-hook and scoop that gullet out with which you gorged my tripe. but i'll to cleon: he'll soon serve his writs; he'll twist it out of you to-day, he will. dro. perdition seize me, if i don't love xanthias. xan. aye, aye, i know your drift: stop, stop that talking. i won't be heracles. dro. o, don't say so, dear, darling xanthias. xan. why, how can i, a slave, a mortal, act alcmena's son! dro. aye, aye, i know you are vexed, and i deserve it, and if you pummel me, i won't complain. but if i strip you of these togs again, perdition seize myself, my wife, my children, and, most of all, that blear-eyed archedemus. xan. that oath contents me: on those terms i take them. chor. now that at last you appear once more, wearing the garb that at first you wore, wielding the club and the tawny skin, now it is yours to be up and doing, glaring like mad, and your youth renewing, mindful of him whose guise you are in. if, when caught in a bit of a scrape, you suffer a word of alarm to escape you, showing yourself but a feckless knave, then will your master at once undrape you, then you'll again be the toiling slave. xan. there, i admit, you have given to me a capital hint, and the like idea, friends, had occurred to myself before. truly if anything good befell he would be wanting, i know full well, wanting to take to the togs once more. nevertheless, while in these i'm vested, ne'er shall you find me craven-crested, no, for a dittany look i'll wear, aye and methinks it will soon be tested, hark! how the portals are rustling there. aeac. seize the dog-stealer, bind him, pinion him, drag him to justice! dio. somebody's going to catch it. xan. (_striking out_.) hands off! get away! stand back! abac. eh? you're for fighting. ho! ditylas, sceblyas, and pardocas, come hither, quick; fight me this sturdy knave. dio. now isn't it a shame the man should strike and he a thief besides? aeac. a monstrous shame! dio. a regular burning shame! xan. by the lord zeus, if ever i was here before, if ever i stole one hair's-worth from you, let me die! and now i'll make you a right noble offer, arrest my lad: torture him as you will, and if you find i'm guilty, take and kill me. aeac. torture him, how? xan. in any mode you please. pile bricks upon him: stuff his nose with acid: flay, rack him, hoist him; flog him with a scourge of prickly bristles: only not with this, a soft-leaved onion, or a tender leek. aeac. a fair proposal. if i strike too hard and maim the boy, i'll make you compensation. xan. i shan't require it. take him out and flog him. abac. nay, but i'll do it here before your eyes. now then, put down the traps, and mind you speak the truth, young fellow. dio. (_in agony_.) man! don't torture me! i am a god. you'll blame yourself hereafter if you touch me. aeac. hillo! what's that you are saying? dio. i say i'm bacchus, son of zeus, a god, anid _he's_ the slave. aeac. you hear him? xan. hear him? yes. all the more reason you should flog him well. for if he is a god, he won't perceive it. dio. well, but you say that you're a god yourself. so why not _you_ be flogged as well as i? xan. a fair proposal. and be this the test, whichever of us two you first behold flinching or crying out--he's not the god. aeac. upon my word you're quite the gentleman, you're all for right and justice. strip then, both. xan. how can you test us fairly? aeac. easily, i'll give you blow for blow. xan. a good idea. we're ready! now! (_aeacus strikes him_), see if you catch me flinching. aeac. i struck you. xan. (_incredulously_.) no! abac well, it seems "no," indeed. now then i'll strike the other (_strikes dio_.). dio. tell me when? aeac. i struck you. dio. struck me? then why didn't i sneeze? aeac. don't know, i'm sure. i'll try the other again. xan. and quickly too. good gracious! aeac. why "good gracious"? not hurt you, did i? xan. no, i merely thought of the diomeian feast of heracles. aeac. a holy man! 'tis now the other's turn. dio. hi! hi! aeac. hallo! dio. look at those horsemen, look! aeac. but why these tears? dio. there's such a smell of onions. aeac. then you don't mind it? dio. (_cheerfully_.) mind it? not a bit. aeac. well, i must go to the other one again. xan. o! o! aeac. hallo! xan. do pray pull out this thorn. aeac. what does it mean? 'tis this one's turn again. dio. (_shrieking_.) apollo! lord! (_calmly_) of delos and of pytho. xan. he flinched! you heard him? dio. not at all; a jolly verse of hipponax flashed across my mind. xan. you don't half do it: cut his flanks to pieces. aeac. by zeus, well thought on. turn your belly here. dio. (_screaming_.) poseidon! xan. there! he's flinching. dio. (singing) who dost reign amongst the aegean peaks and creeks and o'er the deep blue main. aeac. no, by demeter, still i can't find out which is the god, but come ye both indoors; my lord himself and persephassa there, being gods themselves, will soon find out the truth. dio. right! right! i only wish you had thought of that before you gave me those tremendous whacks. chor. come, muse, to our mystical chorus, o come to the joy of my song, o see on the benches before us that countless and wonderful throng, where wits by the thousand abide, with more than a cleophon's pride-- on the lips of that foreigner base, of athens the bane and disgrace, there is shrieking, his kinsman by race, the garrulous swallow of thrace; from that perch of exotic descent, rejoicing her sorrow to vent, she pours to her spirit's content, a nightingale's woeful lament, that e'en though the voting be equal, his ruin will soon be the sequel. well it suits the holy chorus evermore with counsel wise to exhort and teach the city: this we therefore now advise-- end the townsmen's apprehensions; equalize the rights of all; if by phrynichus's wrestlings some perchance sustained a fall, yet to these 'tis surely open, having put away their sin, for their slips and vacillations pardon at your hands to win. give your brethren back their franchise. sin and shame it were that slaves, who have once with stern devotion fought your battle on the waves, should be straightway lords and masters, yea plataeans fully blown-- not that this deserves our censure; there i praise you; there alone has the city, in her anguish, policy and wisdom shown-- nay but these, of old accustomed on our ships to fight and win, (they, their father too before them), these our very kith and kin, you should likewise, when they ask you, pardon for their single sin. o by nature best and wisest, o relax your jealous ire, let us all the world as kinsfolk and as citizens acquire, all who on our ships will battle well and bravely by our side if we cocker up our city, narrowing her with senseless pride now when she is rocked and reeling in the cradles of the sea, here again will after ages deem we acted brainlessly. and o if i'm able to scan the habits and life of a man who shall rue his iniquities soon! not long shall that little baboon, that cleigenes shifty and small, the wickedest bathman of all who are lords of the earth--which is brought from the isle of cimolus, and wrought with nitre and lye into soap-- not long shall he vex us, i hope. and this the unlucky one knows, yet ventures a peace to oppose, and being addicted to blows he carries a stick as he goes, lest while he is tipsy and reeling, some robber his cloak should be stealing. often has it crossed my fancy, that the city loves to deal with the very best and noblest members of her commonweal, just as with our ancient coinage, and the newly-minted gold. yea for these, our sterling pieces, all of pure athenian mould, all of perfect die and metal, all the fairest of the fair, all of workmanship unequalled, proved and valued every-where both amongst our own hellenes and barbarians far away, these we use not: but the worthless pinchbeck coins of yesterday, vilest die and basest metal, now we always use instead. even so, our sterling townsmen, nobly born and nobly bred, men of worth and rank and metal, men of honourable fame, trained in every liberal science, choral dance and manly game, these we treat with scorn and insult, but the strangers newliest come, worthless sons of worthless fathers, pinchbeck townsmen, yellowy scum, whom in earlier days the city hardly would have stooped to use even for her scapegoat victims, these for every task we choose. o unwise and foolish people, yet to mend your ways begin; use again the good and useful: so hereafter, if ye win 'twill be due to this your wisdom: if ye fall, at least 'twill be not a fall that brings dishonour, falling from a worthy tree. aeac. by zeus the saviour, quite the gentleman your master is. xan. gentleman? i believe you. he's all for wine and women, is my master. aeac. but not to have flogged you, when the truth came out that you, the slave, were passing off as master! xan. he'd get the worst of that. aeac. bravo! that's spoken like a true slave: that's what i love myself. xan. you love it, do you? aeac. love it? i'm entranced when i can curse my lord behind his back. xan. how about grumbling, when you have felt the stick, and scurry out of doors? aeac. that's jolly too. xan. how about prying? aeac. that beats everything! xan. great kin-god zeus! and what of overhearing your master's secrets? aeac. what? i'm mad with joy. xan. and blabbing them abroad? aeac. o heaven and earth! when i do that, i can't contain myself. xan. phoebus apollo! clap your hand in mine, kiss and be kissed: and prithee tell me this, tell me by zeus, our rascaldom's own god, what's all that noise within? what means this hubbub and row? aeac. that's aeschylus and euripides. xan. eh? aeac. wonderful, wonderful things are going on. the dead are rioting, taking different sides. xan. why, what's the matter? aeac. there's a custom here with all the crafts, the good and noble crafts, that the chief master of his art in each shall have his dinner in the assembly hall, and sit by pluto's side. xan. i understand. aeac. until another comes, more wise than he in the same art: then must the first give way. xan. and how has this disturbed our aeschylus? aeac. 'twas he that occupied the tragic chair, as, in his craft, the noblest. xan. who does now? aeac. but when euripides came down, he kept flourishing off before the highwaymen, thieves, burglars, parricides--these form our mob in hades--till with listening to his twists and turns, and pleas and counterpleas, they went mad on the man, and hailed him first and wisest: elate with this, he claimed the tragic chair where aeschylus was seated. xan. wasn't he pelted? aeac. not he: the populace clamoured out to try which of the twain was wiser in his art. xan. you mean the rascals? aeac. aye, as high as heaven! xan. but were there none to side with aeschylus? aeac. scanty and sparse the good, (_regards the audience_) the same as here. xan. and what does pluto now propose to do? aeac. he means to hold a tournament, and bring their tragedies to the proof. xan. but sophocles, how came not he to claim the tragic chair? aeac. claim it? not he! when _he_ came down, he kissed with reverence aeschylus, and clasped his hand, and yielded willingly the chair to him. but now he's going, says cleidemides, to sit third-man: and then if aeschylus win, he'll stay content: if not, for his art's sake, he'll fight to the death against euripides. xan. will it come off? aeac. o yes, by zeus, directly. and then, i hear, will wonderful things be done, the art poetic will be weighed in scales. xan. what! weigh out tragedy, like butcher's meat? aeac. levels they'll bring, and measuring-tapes for words, and moulded oblongs. xan. is it bricks they are making? aeac. wedges and compasses: for euripides vows that he'll test the dramas, word by word. xan. aeschylus chafes at this, i fancy. aeac. well, he lowered his brows, upglaring like a bull. xan. and who's to be the judge? aeac. there came the rub. skilled men were hard to find: for with the athenians aeschylus, somehow, did not hit it off. xan. too many burglars, i expect, he thought. aeac. and all the rest, he said, were trash and nonsense to judge poetic wits. so then at last they chose your lord, an expert in the art. but go we in: for when our lords are bent on urgent business, that means blows for us. chor. o surely with terrible wrath will the thunder-voiced monarch be filled, when he sees his opponent beside him, the tonguester, the artifice-skilled, stand, whetting his tusks for the fight! o surely, his eyes rolling-fell will with terrible madness be fraught! o then will be charging of plume-waving words with their wild-floating mane, and then will be whirling of splinters, and phrases smoothed down with the plane, when the man would the grand-stepping maxims, the language gigantic, repel of the hero-creator of thought. there will his shaggy-born crest upbristle for anger and woe, horribly frowning and growling, his fury will launch at the foe huge-clamped masses of words, with exertion titanic up--tearing great ship-timber planks for the fray. but here will the tongue be at work, uncoiling, word-testing refining, sophist-creator of phrases, dissecting, detracting, maligning, shaking the envious bits, and with subtle analysis paring the lung's large labour away. euripides. don't talk to me; i won't give up the chair, i say i am better in the art than he. dio. you hear him, aeschylus: why don't you speak? eur. he'll do the grand at first, the juggling trick he used to play in all his tragedies. dio. come, my fine fellow, pray don't talk too big. eur. i know the man, i've scanned him through and through, a savage-creating stubborn-pulling fellow, uncurbed, unfettered, uncontrolled of speech, unperiphrastic, bombastiloquent. aeschylus. hah! sayest thou so, child of the garden quean! and this to me, thou chattery-babble-collector, thou pauper-creating rags-and-patches-stitcher? thou shalt abye it dearly! dio. pray, be still; nor heat thy soul to fury, aeschylus. aesch. not till i've made you see the sort of man this cripple-maker is who crows so loudly. dio. bring out a ewe, a black-fleeced ewe, my boys: here's a typhoon about to burst upon us. aesch. thou picker-up of cretan monodies, foisting thy tales of incest on the stage-- dio. forbear, forbear, most honoured aeschylus; and you, my poor euripides, begone if you are wise, out of this pitiless hail, lest with some heady word he crack your scull and batter out your brain-less telephus. and not with passion. aeschylus, but calmly test and be tested. 'tis not meet for poets to scold each other, like two baking-girls. but you go roaring like an oak on fire. eur. i'm ready, i! i don't draw back one bit. i'll lash or, if he will, let him lash first the talk, the lays, the sinews of a play: aye and my peleus, aye and aeolus, and meleager, aye and telephus. dio. and what do _you_ propose? speak, aeschylus. aesch. i could have wished to meet him otherwhere. we fight not here on equal terms. dio. why not? aesch. my poetry survived me: his died with him: he's got it here, all handy to recite. howbeit, if so you wish it, so we'll have it. dio. o bring me fire, and bring me frankincense. i'll pray, or e'er the clash of wits begin, to judge the strife with high poetic skill. meanwhile (_to the chorus_) invoke the muses with a song. chor. o muses, the daughters divine of zeus, the immaculate nine, who gaze from your mansions serene on intellects subtle and keen, when down to the tournament lists, in bright-polished wit they descend, with wrestling and turnings and twists in the battle of words to contend, o come and behold what the two antagonist poets can do, whose mouths are the swiftest to teach grand language and filings of speech: for now of their wits is the sternest encounter commencing in earnest. dio. ye two, put up your prayers before ye start. aesch. demeter, mistress, nourisher of my soul, o make me worthy of thy mystic rites! dio. (_to eur_.) now put on incense, you. eur. excuse me, no; my vows are paid to other gods than these. dio. what, a new coinage of your own? eur. precisely. dio. pray then to them, those private gods of yours. eur. ether, my pasture, volubly-rolling tongue, intelligent wit and critic nostrils keen, o well and neatly may i trounce his plays! chor. we also are yearning from these to be learning some stately measure, some majestic grand movement telling of conflicts nigh. now for battle arrayed they stand, tongues embittered, and anger high. each has got a venturesome will, each an eager and nimble mind; one will wield, with artistic skill, clearcut phrases, and wit refined; then the other, with words defiant, stern and strong, like an angry giant laying on with uprooted trees, soon will scatter a world of these superscholastic subtleties. dio. now then, commence your arguments, and mind you both display true wit, not metaphors, nor things which any fool could say. eur. as for myself, good people all, i'll tell you by-and-by my own poetic worth and claims; but first of all i'll try to show how this portentous quack beguiled the silly fools whose tastes were nurtured, ere he came, in phrynichus's schools. he'd bring some single mourner on, seated and veiled, 'twould be achilles, say, or niobe--the face you could not see-- an empty show of tragic woe, who uttered not one thing. dio. tis true. eur. then in the chorus came, and rattled off a string of four continuous lyric odes: the mourner never stirred. dio. i liked it too. i sometimes think that i those mutes preferred to all your chatterers now-a-days. eur. because, if you must know, you were an ass. dio. an ass, no doubt: what made him do it though? eur. that was his quackery, don't you see, to set the audience guessing when niobe would speak; meanwhile, the drama was progressing. dio. the rascal, how he took me in! 'twas shameful, was it not? (_to aesch_.) what makes you stamp and fidget so? eur. he's catching it so hot. so when he had humbugged thus awhile, and now his wretched play was halfway through, a dozen words, great wild-bull words, he'd say, fierce bugaboos, with bristling crests, and shaggy eyebrows too, which not a soul could understand. aesch. o heavens! dio. be quiet, do. eur. but not one single word was clear. dio. st! don't your teeth be gnashing. eur. 'twas all scamanders, moated camps, and griffin-eagles flashing in burnished copper on the shields, chivalric-precipice-high expressions, hard to comprehend. dio. aye, by the powers, and i full many a sleepless night have spent in anxious thought, because i'd find the tawny cock-horse out, what sort of bird it was! aesch. it was a sign, you stupid dolt, engraved the ships upon. dio. eryxis i supposed it was, philoxenus's son. eur. now really should a cock be brought into a tragic play? aesch. you enemy of gods and men, what was _your_ practice, pray? eur. no cock-horse in _my_ plays, by zeus, no goat-stag there you'll see, such figures as are blazoned forth in median tapestry. when first i took the art from you, bloated and swoln, poor thing, with turgid gasconading words and heavy dieting, first i reduced and toned her down, and made her slim and neat with wordlets and with exercise and poultices of beet, and next a dose of chatterjuice, distilled from books, i gave her, and monodies she took, with sharp cephisophon for flavour. i never used haphazard words, or plunged abruptly in; who entered first explained at large the drama's origin and source. dio. its source, i really trust, was better than your own. eur. then from the very opening lines no idleness was shown; the mistress talked with all her might, the servant talked as much, the master talked, the maiden talked, the beldame talked. aesch. for such an outrage was not death your due? eur. no, by apollo, no: that was my democratic way. dio. ah, let that topic go. your record is not there, my friend, particularly good. eur. then next i taught all these to speak. aesch. you did so, and i would that ere such mischief you had wrought, your very lungs had split. eur. canons of verse i introduced, and neatly chiselled wit; to look, to scan: to plot, to plan: to twist, to turn, to woo: on all to spy; in all to pry. aesch. you did: i say so too. eur. i showed them scenes of common life, the things we know and see, where any blunder would at once by all detected be. i never blustered on, or took their breath and wits away by cycnuses or memnons clad in terrible array, with bells upon their horses' heads, the audience to dismay. look at _his_ pupils, look at mine: and there the contrast view. uncouth megaenetus is his, and rough phormisius too; great long-beard-lance-and-trumpet-men, flesh-tearers with the pine: but natty smart theramenes, and cleitophon are mine. dio. theramenes? a clever man and wonderfully sly: immerse him in a flood of ills, he'll soon be high and dry, "a kian with a kappa, sir, not chian with a chi." eur. i taught them all these knowing ways by chopping logic in my plays, and making all my speakers try to reason out the how and why. so now the people trace the springs, the sources and the roots of things, and manage all their households too far better than they used to do, scanning and searching _what's amiss?_ and, _why was that?_ and, _how is this?_ dio. ay, truly, never now a man comes home, but he begins to scan; and to his household loudly cries, _why, where's my pitcher? what's the matter? 'tis dead and gone my last year's platter. who gnawed these olives? bless the sprat, who nibbled off the head of that? and where's the garlic vanished, pray, i purchased only yesterday?_ --whereas, of old, our stupid youths would sit, with open mouths and eyes, like any dull-brained mammacouths. chor. "all this thou beholdest, achilles our boldest." and what wilt thou reply? draw tight the rein lest that fiery soul of thine whirl thee out of the listed plain, past the olives, and o'er the line. dire and grievous the charge he brings. see thou answer him, noble heart, not with passionate bickerings. shape thy course with a sailor's art, reef the canvas, shorten the sails, shift them edgewise to shun the gales. when the breezes are soft and low, then, well under control, you'll go quick and quicker to strike the foe. o first of all the hellenic bards high loftily-towering verse to rear, and tragic phrase from the dust to raise, pour forth thy fountain with right good cheer. aesch. my wrath is hot at this vile mischance, and my spirit revolts at the thought that i must bandy words with a fellow like _him_: but lest he should vaunt that i can't reply-- come, tell me what are the points for which a noble poet our praise obtains. eur. for his ready wit, and his counsels sage, and because the citizen folk he trains to be better townsmen and worthier men. aesch. if then you have done the very reverse, found noble-hearted and virtuous men, and altered them, each and all, for the worse, pray what is the need you deserve to get? dio. nay, ask not _him_. he deserves to die. aesch. for just consider what style of men he received from me, great six-foot-high heroical souls, who never would blench from a townsman's duties in peace or war; not idle loafers, or low buffoons, or rascally scamps such as now they are. but men who were breathing spears and helms, and the snow-white plume in its crested pride the greave, and the dart, and the warrior's heart in its seven-fold casing of tough bull-hide. dio. he'll stun me, i know, with his armoury-work; this business is going from bad to worse. eur. and how did you manage to make them so grand, exalted, and brave with your wonderful verse? dio. come, aeschylus, answer, and don't stand mute in your self-willed pride and arrogant spleen. aesch. a drama i wrote with the war-god filled. dio. its name? aesch. 'tis the "seven against thebes" that i mean. which who so beheld, with eagerness swelled to rush to the battlefield there and then. dio. o that was a scandalous thing you did! you have made the thebans mightier men, more eager by far for the business of war. now, therefore, receive this punch on the head. aesch. ah, _ye_ might have practised the same yourselves, but ye turned to other pursuits instead. then next the "persians" i wrote, in praise of the noblest deed that the world can show, and each man longed for the victor's wreath, to fight and to vanquish his country's foe. dio. i was pleased, i own, when i heard their moan for old darius, their great king, dead; when they smote together their hands, like this, and _evir alake_ the chorus said. aesch. aye, such are the poet's appropriate works: and just consider how all along from the very first they have wrought you good, the noble bards, the masters of song. first, orpheus taught you religious rites, and from bloody murder to stay your hands: musaeus healing and oracle lore; and hesiod all the culture of lands, the time to gather, the time to plough. and gat not homer his glory divine by singing of valour, and honour, and right, and the sheen of the battle-extended line, the ranging of troops and the arming of men? dio. o ay, but he didn't teach _that_, i opine, to pantacles; when he was leading the show i couldn't imagine what he was at, he had fastened his helm on the top of his head, he was trying to fasten his plume upon that. aesch. but others, many and brave, he taught, of whom was lamachus, hero true; and thence my spirit the impress took, and many a lion-heart chief i drew, parocluses, teucers, illustrious names; for i fain the citizen-folk would spur to stretch themselves to _their_ measure and height, when-ever the trumpet of war they hear. but phaedras and stheneboeas? no! no harlotry business deformed my plays. and none can say that ever i drew a love sick woman in all my days. eur. for _you_ no lot or portion had got in queen aphrodite. aesch. thank heaven for that. but ever on you and yours, my friend, the mighty goddess mightily sat; yourself she cast to the ground at last. dio. o ay, that came uncommonly pat. you showed how cuckolds are made, and lo, you were struck yourself by the very same fate. eur. but say, you cross-grained censor of mine, how _my_ stheneboeas could harm the state. aesch. full many a noble dame, the wife of a noble citizen, hemlock took, and died, unable the shame and sin of your bellerophonscenes to brook. eur. was then, i wonder, the tale i told of phaedra's passionate love untrue? aesch. not so: but tales of incestuous vice the sacred poet should hide from view, nor ever exhibit and blazon forth on the public stage to the public ken. for boys a teacher at school is found, but we, the poets, are teachers of men. we are bound things honest and pure to speak. eur. and to speak great lycabettuses, pray, and massive blocks of parnassian rocks, is _that_ things honest and pure to say? in human fashion we ought to speak. aesch. alas, poor witling, and can't you see that for mighty thoughts and heroic aims, the words themselves must appropriate be? and grander belike on the ear should strike the speech of heroes and godlike powers, since even the robes that invest their limbs are statelier, grander robes than ours. such was _my_ plan: but when _you_ began, you spoilt and degraded it all. eur. how so? aesch. your kings in tatters and rags you dressed, and brought them on, a beggarly show, to move, forsooth, our pity and ruth. eur. and what was the harm, i should like to know. aesch. no more will a wealthy citizen now equip for the state a galley of war. he wraps his limbs in tatters and rags, and whines _he is poor, too poor by far_. dio. but under his rags he is wearing a vest, as woolly and soft as a man could wish. let him gull the state, and he's off to the mart; an eager, extravagant buyer of fish. aesch. moreover to prate, to harangue, to debate, is now the ambition of all in the state. each exercise-ground is in consequence found deserted and empty: to evil repute your lessons have brought our youngsters, and taught our sailors to challenge, discuss, and refute the orders they get from their captains and yet, when _i_ was alive, i protest that the knaves knew nothing at all, save for rations' to call, and to sing "rhyppapae" as they pulled through the waves. dio. and bedad to let fly from their sterns in the eye of the fellow who tugged at the undermost oar, and a jolly young messmate with filth to besmirch, and to land for a filching adventure ashore; but now they harangue, and dispute, and won't row, and idly and aimlessly float to and fro. aesch. of what ills is he not the creator and cause? consider the scandalous scenes that he draws, his bawds, and his panders, his women who give give birth in the sacredest shrine, whilst others with brothers are wedded and bedded, and others opine that "not to be living" is truly "to live." and therefore our city is swarming to-day with clerks and with demagogue-monkeys, who play their jackanape tricks at all times, in all places, deluding the people of athens; but none has training enough in athletics to run with the torch in his hand at the races. dio. by the powers, you are right! at the panathenaea i laughed till i felt like a potsherd to see a pale, paunchy young gentleman pounding along, with his head butting forward, the last of the throng, in the direst of straits; and behold at the gates, the ceramites flapped him, and smacked him, and slapped him, in the ribs, and the loin, and the flank, and the groin, and still, as they spanked him, he puffed and he panted, till at one mighty cuff, he discharged such a puff that he blew out his torch and levanted. chor. dread the battle, and stout the combat, mighty and manifold looms the war. hard to decide in the fight they're waging, one like a stormy tempest raging, one alert in the rally and skirmish, clever to parry and foin and spar. nay but don't be content to sit always in one position only: many the fields for your keen-edged wit. on then, wrangle in every way, argue, battle, be flayed and flay, old and new from your stores display, yea, and strive with venturesome daring something subtle and neat to say. fear ye this, that to-day's spectators lack the grace of artistic lore, lack the knowledge they need for taking all the points ye will soon be making? fear it not: the alarm is groundless: that, be sure, is the case no more. all have fought the campaign ere this: each a book of the words is holding; never a single point they'll miss. bright their natures, and now, i ween, newly whetted, and sharp, and keen. dread not any defect of wit, battle away without misgiving, sure that the audience, at least, are fit. eur. well then i'll turn me to your prologues now, beginning first to test the first beginning of this fine poet's plays. why he's obscure even in the enunciation of the facts. dio. which of them will you test? eur. many: but first give as that famous one from the oresteia. dio. st! silence all! now, aeschylus, begin. aesch. _grave hermes, witnessing a father's power. be thou my saviour and mine aid to-day, for here i come and hither i return._ dio. any fault there? eur. a dozen faults and more. dio. eh! why the lines are only three in all. eur. but every one contains a score of faults. dio. now aeschylus, keep silent; if you don't you won't get off with three iambic lines. aesch. silent for _him_! dio. if _my_ advice you'll take. eur. why, at first starting here's a fault sky high. aesch. (_to dio_.) you see your folly. dio. have your way; i care not. aesch. (_to eur_.) what is my fault? eur. begin the lines again. aesch. _grave hermes, witnessing a father's power_-- eur. and this beside his murdered father's grave orestes speaks? aesch. i say not otherwise. eur. then does he mean that when his father fell by craft and violence at a woman's hand, the god of craft was witnessing the deed? aesch. it was not he: it was the helper hermes he called the grave: and this he showed by adding it was his sire's prerogative he held. eur. why this is worse than all. if from his father he held this office grave, why then-- dio. he was a graveyard rifler on his father's side. aesch. bacchus, the wine you drink is stale and fusty. dio. give him another: (_to eur_.) you, look out for faults. aesch. _be thou my saviour and mine aid to-day, for here i come, and hither i return_. eur. the same thing twice says clever aeschylus. dio. how twice? eur. why, just consider: i'll explain. "i come," says he; and "i return," says he: it's the same thing, to "come" and to "return." dio. aye, just as if you said, "good fellow, lend me a kneading trough: likewise, a trough to knead in." aesch. it is not so, you everlasting talker, they're not the same, the words are right enough. dio. how so? inform me how you use the words. aesch. a man, not banished from his home, may "come" to any land, with no especial chance. a home-bound exile both "returns" and "comes." dio. o good, by apollo! what do you say, euripides, to that? eur. i say orestes never did "return." he came in secret: nobody recalled him. dio. o good, by hermes! (_aside_.) i've not the least suspicion what he means. eur. repeat another line. dio. ay, aeschylus, repeat one instantly: _you_, mark what's wrong. aesch. _now on this funeral mound i call my father to hear, to hearken._ eur. there he is again. to "hear," to "hearken"; the same thing, exactly. dio. aye, but he's speaking to the dead, you knave, who cannot hear us though we call them thrice. aesch. and how do you make _your_ prologues? eur. you shall hear; and if you find one single thing said twice, or any useless padding, spit upon me. dio. well, fire away: i'm all agog to hear your very accurate and faultless prologues. eur. _a happy man was oedipus at first_-- aesch. not so, by zeus; a most unhappy man. who, not yet born nor yet conceived, apollo foretold would be his father's murderer. how could he be a happy man at first. eur. _then he became the wretchedest of men._ aesch. not so, by zeus; he never ceased to be. no sooner born, than they exposed the babe (and that in winter), in an earthen crock, lest he should grow a man, and slay his father. then with both ankles pierced and swoln, he limped away to polybus: still young, he married an ancient crone, and her his mother too. then scratched out both his eyes. dio. happy indeed had he been erasinides's colleague! eur. nonsense; i say my prologues are first rate. aesch. nay then, by zeus, no longer line by line i'll maul your phrases: but with heaven to aid i'll smash your prologues with a bottle of oil. eur. you mine with a bottle of oil? aesch. with only one. you frame your prologues so that each and all fit in with a "bottle of oil," or "coverlet-skin," or "reticule-bag." i'll prove it here, and now. eur. you'll prove it? you? aesch. i will. dio. well then, begin. eur. _'aegyptus, sailing with his fifty sons, as ancient legends mostly tell the tale, touching at argos_, aesch. lost his bottle of oil. eur. hang it, what's that? confound that bottle of oil! dio. give him another: let him try again. eur. _bacchus, who, clad in fawnskins, leaps and bounds with torch and thyrsus in the choral dance along parnassus_. aesch. lost his bottle of oil. dio. ah me, we are stricken--with that bottle again! eur. pooh, pooh, that's nothing. i've a prologue here, he'll never tack his bottle of oil to this: _no man is blest in every single thing. one is of noble birth, but lacking means. another, baseborn_, aesch. lost his bottle of oil. dio. euripides! eur. well? dio. lower your sails, my boy; this bottle of oil is going to blow a gale. eur. o, by demeter, i don't care one bit; now from his hands i'll strike that bottle of oil. dio. go on then, go; but ware the bottle of oil. eur. _once cadmus, quitting the sidonian town, agenor's offspring_ aesch. lost his bottle of oil. dio. o pray, my man, buy off that bottle of oil, or else he'll smash our prologues all to bits. eur. i buy of _him_? dio. if my advice you'll take. eur. no, no, i've many a prologue yet to say, to which he can't tack on his bottle of oil. _pelops, the son of tantalus, while driving his mares to pisa_ aesch. lost his bottle of oil. dio. there! he tacked on the bottle of oil again. o for heaven's sake, pay him its price, dear boy; you'll get it for an obol, spick and span. eur. not yet, by zeus; i've plenty of prologues left. _oeneus once reaping_ aesch. lost his bottle of oil. eur. pray let me finish one entire line first. _oeneus once reaping an abundant harvest, offering the firstfruits_ aesch. lost his bottle of oil. dio. what in the act of offering? fie! who stole it? eur. o don't keep bothering! let him try with this! _zeus, as by truth's own voice the tale is told,_ dio. no, he'll cut in with "lost his bottle of oil!" those bottles of oil on all your prologues seem to gather and grow, like styes upon the eye. turn to his melodies now for goodness' sake. eur. o i can easily show that he's a poor melody-maker; makes them all alike. chor. what, o what will be done! strange to think that he dare blame the bard who has won, more than all in our days, fame and praise for his lays, lays so many and fair. much i marvel to hear what the charge he will bring 'gainst our tragedy king; yea for himself do i fear. eur. wonderful lays! o yes, you'll see directly. i'll cut down all his metrical strains to one. dio. and i, i'll take some pebbles, and keep count. (_a slight pause, during which the music of a flute is heard. the music continues to the end of line as an accompaniment to the recitative_.) eur. lord of phthia, achilles, _why hearing the voice of the hero-dividing. hah! smiting! approachest thou not to the rescue_? we, by the lake who _abide, are adoring our ancestor hermes. hah! smiting! approachest thou not to the rescue?_ dio. o aeschylus, twice art thou smitten! eur. hearken to me, great king; yea, hearken _atreides, thou noblest of all the achaeans. hah! smiting! approachest thou not to the rescue_? dio. thrice, aeschylus, thrice art thou smitten! eur. hush! the bee-wardens are here: they _will quickly the temple of artemis open. hah! smiting! approachest thou not to the rescue?_ i will expound (for _i know it_) _the omen the chieftains encountered. hah! smiting! approachest thou not to the rescue?_ dio. o zeus and king, the terrible lot of smitings! i'll to the bath: i'm very sure my kidneys are quite inflamed and swoln with all these smitings. eur. wait till you've heard another batch of lays culled from his lyre-accompanied melodies. dio. go on then, go: but no more smitings, please. eur. how the twin-throned powers of _achaea, the lords of the mighty hellenes_. o phlattothrattophlattothrat! sendeth _the sphinx, the unchancy, the chieftainess blood-hound._ o phlattothrattophlattothrat! launcheth fierce with brand _and hand the avengers the terrible eagle_. o phlattothrattophlattothrat! so for the swift-_winged hounds of the air he provided a booty._ o phlattothrattophlattothrat! the throng down-bearing on aias. o phlattothrattophlattothrat! dio. whence comes that phlattothrat? from marathon, or where picked you up these cable-twister's strains? aesch. from noblest source for noblest ends i brought them, unwilling in the muses' holy field the self-same flowers as phrynichus to cull. but _he_ from all things rotten draws his lays, from carian flutings, catches of meletus, dance-music, dirges. you shall hear directly. bring me the lyre. yet wherefore need a lyre for songs like these? where's she that bangs and jangles her castanets? euripides's muse, present yourself: fit goddess for fit verse. dio. the muse herself can't be a wanton? no! aesch. halcyons, who by the ever-rippling waves of the sea are babbling, dewing your plumes with the drops that fall from wings in the salt spray dabbling. spiders, ever with twir-r-r-r-r-rling fingers weaving the warp and the woof, little, brittle, network, fretwork, under the coigns of the roof. the minstrel shuttle's care. where in the front of the dark-prowed ships yarely the flute-loving dolphin skips. races here and oracles there. and the joy of the young vines smiling, and the tendril of grapes, care-beguiling. o embrace me, my child, o embrace me. (_to dio_.) you see this foot? dio. i do. aesch. and this? dio. and that one too. aesch. (_to eur_.) you, such stuff who compile, dare my songs to upbraid; you, whose songs in the style of gyrene's embraces are made. so much for them: but still i'd like to show the way in which your monodies are framed. o darkly-light mysterious night, what may this vision mean, sent from the world unseen with baleful omens rife; a thing of lifeless life, a child of sable night, a ghastly curdling sight, in black funereal veils, with murder, murder in its eyes, and great enormous nails? light ye the lanterns, my maidens, and dipping your jugs in the stream, draw me the dew of the water, and heat it to boiling and steam, so will i wash me away the ill effects of my dream. "god of the sea! my dream's come true. ho, lodgers, ho, this portent view. glyce has vanished, carrying off my cock, my cock that crew! o mania, help! o reads of the rock pursue! pursue! for i poor girl, was working within, holding my distaff heavy and full, twir-r-r-r-r-rling my hand as the threads i spin, weaving an excellent bobbin of wool: thinking 'to-morrow i'll go to the fair, in the dusk of the morn, and be selling it there.' but he to the blue upflew, upflew, on the lightliest tips of his wings outspread; to me he bequeathed but woe, but woe, and tears, sad tears, from my eyes o'erflow, which i, the bereaved, must shed, must shed. o children of ida, sons of crete, grasping your bows to the rescue come; twinkle about on your restless feet, stand in a circle around her home. o artemis, thou maid divine, dictynna, huntress, fair to see, o bring that keen-nosed pack of thine, and hunt through all the house with me. o hecate, with flameful brands, o zeus's daughter, arm thine hands, those swiftliest hands, both right and left; thy rays on glyce's cottage throw that i serenely there may go and search by moonlight for the theft." dio. enough of both your odes. aesch. enough for me. now would i bring the fellow to the scales. that, that alone, shall test our poetry now, and prove whose words are weightiest, his or mine. dio. then both come hither, since i needs must weigh the art poetic like a pound of cheese. chor. o the labour these wits go through! o the wild, extravagant, new, wonderful things they are going to do! who but they would ever have thought of it? why, if a man had happened to meet me out in the street, and intelligence brought of it, i should have thought he was trying to cheat me; thought that his story was false and deceiving. that were a tale i could never believe in. dio. each of you stand beside his scale. aesch. and eur. we're here. dio. and grasp it firmly whilst ye speak your lines, and don't let go until i cry "cuckoo." aesch. eur. ready! dio. now speak your lines into the scale. eur. _o that the argo had not winged her way_-- aesch. _river spercheius, cattle-grazing haunts_-- dio. _cuckoo! let go. o look, by far the lowest_ his scale sinks down. eur. why, how came that about? dio. he threw a river in, like some wool-seller wetting his wool, to make it weight the more. but _you_ threw in a light and winged word. eur. come, let him match another verse with mine. dio. each to his scale. aesch. eur. we're ready. dio. speak your lines. eur. _persuasion's only shrine is eloquent speech._ aesch. _death loves not gifts, alone amongst the gods_ dio. let go, let go. down goes his scale again. he threw in death, the heaviest ill of all. eur. and i persuasion, the most lovely word. dio. a vain and empty sound, devoid of sense. think of some heavier-weighted line of yours, to drag your scale down: something strong and big. eur. where have i got one? where? let's see. dio. i'll tell you. _"achilles threw two singles and a four_." come, speak your lines: this is your last set-to. eur. _in his right hand he grasped an iron-clamped mace_. aesch. _chariot on chariot, corpse on corpse was hurled_. dio. there now! again he has done you. eur. done me? how? dio. he threw two chariots and two corpses in; five-score egyptians could not lift that weight. aesch. no more of "line for line"; let him--himself, his children, wife, cephisophon--get in, with all his books collected in his arms, two lines of mine shall overweigh the lot. dio. both are my friends; i can't decide between them: i don't desire to be at odds with either: one is so clever, one delights me so. pluto. then you'll effect nothing for which you came? dio. and how, if i decide? pluto. then take the winner; so will your journey not be made in vain. dio. heaven bless your highness! listen, i came down after a poet. eur. to what end? dio. that so the city, saved, may keep her choral games. now then, whichever of you two shall best advise the city, _he_ shall come with me. and first of alcibiades, let each say what he thinks; the city travails sore. eur. what does she think herself about him? dio. what? she loves, and hates, and longs to have him back. but give me _your_ advice about the man. eur. i loathe a townsman who is slow to aid, and swift to hurt, his town: who ways and means finds for himself, but finds not for the state. dio. poseidon, but that's smart! (_to aesch_.) and what say _you?_ aesch. 'twere best to rear no lion in the state: but having reared, 'tis best to humour him. dio. by zeus the saviour, still i can't decide. one is so clever, and so clear the other. but once again. let each in turn declare what plan of safety for the state ye've got. eur. [first with cinesias wing cleocritus, then zephyrs waft them o'er the watery plain. dio. a funny sight, i own: but where's the sense? eur. if, when the fleets engage, they holding cruets should rain down vinegar in the foemen's eyes,] i know, and i can tell you. dio. tell away. eur. when things, mistrusted now, shall trusted be, and trusted things, mistrusted. dio. how! i don't quite comprehend. be clear, and not so clever. eur. if we mistrust those citizens of ours whom now we trust, and those employ whom now we don't employ, the city will be saved. if on our present tack we fail, we surely shall find salvation in the opposite course. dio. good, o palamedes! good, you genius you. [is this _your_ cleverness or cephisophon's? eur. this is my own: the cruet-plan was his.] dio. (_to aesch._) now, you. aesch. but tell me whom the city uses. the good and useful? dio. what are you dreaming of? she hates and loathes them. aesch. does she love the bad? dio. not love them, no: she uses them perforce. aesch. how can one save a city such as this, whom neither frieze nor woollen tunic suits? dio. o, if to earth you rise, find out some way. aesch. there will i speak: i cannot answer here. dio. nay, nay; send up your guerdon from below. aesch. when they shall count the enemy's soil their own, and theirs the enemy's: when they know that ships are their true wealth, their so-called wealth delusion. dio. aye, but the justices suck that down, you know. pluto. now then, decide. dio. i will; and thus i'll do it. i'll choose the man in whom my soul delights. eur. o, recollect the gods by whom you swore you'd take me home again; and choose your friends. dio. 'twas my tongue swore; my choice is--aeschylus. eur. hah! what have you done? dio. done? given the victor's prize to aeschylus; why not? eur. and do you dare look in my face, after that shameful deed? dio. what's shameful, if the audience think not so? eur. have you no heart? wretch; would you leave me dead? dio. who knows if death be life, and life be death, and breath be mutton broth, and sleep a sheepskin? pluto. now, dionysus, come ye in. dio. what for? pluto. and sup before ye go. dio. a bright idea. i' faith, i'm nowise indisposed for that. chor. blest the man who possesses a keen intelligent mind. this full often we find. he, the bard of renown, now to earth reascends, goes, a joy to his town, goes, a joy to his friends, just because he possesses a keen intelligent mind. right it is and befitting, not by socrates sitting, idle talk to pursue, stripping tragedy-art of all things noble and true, surely the mind to school fine-drawn quibbles to seek, fine-set phrases to speak, is but the part of a fool! pluto. farewell then, aeschylus, great and wise, go, save our state by the maxims rare of thy noble thought; and the fools chastise, for many a fool dwells there. and _this_ to cleophon give, my friend, and _this_ to the revenue-raising crew, nicomachus, myrmex, next i send, and _this_ to archenomus too. and bid them all that without delay, to my realm of the dead they hasten away. for if they loiter above, i swear i'll come myself and arrest them there. and branded and fettered the slaves shall go with the vilest rascal in all the town, adeimantus, son of leucolophus, down, down, down to the darkness below. aesch. i take the mission. this chair of mine meanwhile to sophocles here commit, (for i count him next in our craft divine,) till i come once more by thy side to sit. but as for that rascally scoundrel there, that low buffoon, that worker of ill, o let him not sit in my vacant chair, not even against his will. pluto. (to the chorus.) escort him up with your mystic throngs, while the holy torches quiver and blaze. escort him up with his own sweet songs and his noble festival lays. chor. first, as the poet triumphant is passing away to the light, grant him success on his journey, ye powers that are ruling below. grant that he find for the city good counsels to guide her aright; so we at last shall be freed from the anguish, the fear, and the woe, freed from the onsets of war. let cleophon now and his band battle, if battle they must, far away in their own fatherland. transcriber's notes: minor punctuation errors have been silently corrected. variant spellings and hyphenations changed when there is a clear majority. other variable and archaic spellings were retained. a list of the changes made can be found at the end of the book. italics indicated by _underscores_. judith shakespeare her love affairs and other adventures by william black author of "a daughter of heth," "madcap violet," "a princess of thule," "white wings," "yolande," etc., etc. a. l. burt company, publishers new york judith shakespeare. chapter i. an assignation. it was a fair, clear, and shining morning, in the sweet may-time of the year, when a young english damsel went forth from the town of stratford-upon-avon to walk in the fields. as she passed along by the guild chapel and the grammar school, this one and the other that met her gave her a kindly greeting; for nearly every one knew her, and she was a favorite; and she returned those salutations with a frankness which betokened rather the self-possession of a young woman than the timidity of a girl. indeed, she was no longer in the first sensitive dawn of maidenhood--having, in fact, but recently passed her five-and-twentieth birthday--but nevertheless there was the radiance of youth in the rose-leaf tint of her cheeks, and in the bright cheerfulness of her eyes. those eyes were large, clear, and gray, with dark pupils and dark lashes; and these are a dangerous kind; for they can look demure, and artless, and innocent, when there is nothing in the mind of the owner of them but a secret mirth; and also--and alas!--they can effect another kind of concealment, and when the heart within is inclined to soft pity and yielding, they can refuse to confess to any such surrender, and can maintain, at the bidding of a wilful coquetry, an outward and obstinate coldness and indifference. for the rest, her hair, which was somewhat short and curly, was of a light and glossy brown, with a touch of sunshine in it; she had a good figure, for she came of a quite notably handsome family; she walked with a light step and a gracious carriage; and there were certain touches of style and color about her costume which showed that she did not in the least undervalue her appearance. and so it was "good-morrow to you, sweet mistress judith," from this one and the other; and "good-morrow, friend so-and-so," she would answer; and always she had the brightest of smiles for them as they passed. well, she went along by the church, and over the foot-bridge spanning the avon, and so on into the meadows lying adjacent to the stream. to all appearance she was bent on nothing but deliberate idleness, for she strayed this way and that, stooping to pick up a few wild flowers, and humming to herself as she went. on this fresh and clear morning the air seemed to be filled with sweet perfumes after the close atmosphere of the town; and if it was merely to gather daisies, and cuckoo-flowers, and buttercups, that she had come, she was obviously in no hurry about it. the sun was warm on the rich green grass; the swallows were dipping and flashing over the river; great humble-bees went booming by; and far away somewhere in the silver-clear sky a lark was singing. and she also was singing, as she strayed along by the side of the stream, picking here and there a speedwell, and here and there a bit of self-heal or white dead-nettle; if, indeed that could be called singing that was but a careless and unconscious recalling of snatches of old songs and madrigals. at one moment it was: why, say you so? oh no, no, no; young maids must never a-wooing go. and again it was: come, blow thy horn, hunter! come, blow thy horn, hunter! come, blow thy horn, jolly hunter! and again it was: for a morn in spring is the sweetest thing cometh in all the year! and in truth she could not have lit upon a sweeter morning than this was; just as a chance passer-by might have said to himself that he had never seen a pleasanter sight than this young english maiden presented as she went idly along the river-side, gathering wild flowers the while. but in course of time, when she came to a part of the avon from which the bank ascended sharp and steep, and when she began to make her way along a narrow and winding foot-path that ascended through the wilderness of trees and bushes hanging on this steep bank, she became more circumspect. there was no more humming of songs; the gathering of flowers was abandoned, though here she might have added a wild hyacinth or two to her nosegay; she advanced cautiously, and yet with an affectation of carelessness; and she was examining, while pretending not to examine, the various avenues and open spaces in the dense mass of foliage before her. apparently, however, this world of sunlight and green leaves and cool shadow was quite untenanted; there was no sound but that of the blackbird and the thrush; she wandered on without meeting any one. and then, as she had now arrived at a little dell or chasm in the wood, she left the foot-path, climbed up the bank, gained the summit, and finally, passing from among the bushes, she found herself in the open, at the corner of a field of young corn. now if any one had noticed the quick and searching look that she flashed all around on the moment of her emerging from the brush-wood--the swiftness of lightning was in that rapid scrutiny--he might have had some suspicion as to the errand that had brought her hither; but in an instant her eyes had recovered their ordinary look of calm and indifferent observation. she turned to regard the wide landscape spread out below her; and the stranger, if he had missed that quick and eager glance, would have naturally supposed that she had climbed up through the wood to this open space merely to have a better view. and indeed this stretch of english-looking country was well worth the trouble, especially at this particular time of the year, when it was clothed in the fresh and tender colors of the spring-time; and it was with much seeming content that this young english maiden stood there and looked abroad over the prospect--at the placid river winding through the lush meadows; at the wooden spire of the church rising above the young foliage of the elms; at here and there in the town a red-tiled house visible among the thatched roofs and gray walls and orchards--these being all pale and ethereal and dream-like in the still sunshine of this quiet morning. it was a peaceful english-looking picture that ought to have interested her, however familiar it may have been; and perhaps it was only to look at it once more that she had made her way up hither; and also to breathe the cool sweet air of the open, and to listen to the singing of the birds, that seemed to fill the white wide spaces of the sky as far as ever she could hear. suddenly she became aware that some one was behind her and near her, and instantly turning, she found before her an elderly man with a voluminous gray beard, who appeared to affect some kind of concealment by the way he wore his hat and his long cloak. "god save you, sweet lady!" he had said, almost before she turned. but if this stranger imagined that by his unlooked-for approach and sudden address he was likely to startle the young damsel out of her self-possession, he knew very little with whom he had to deal. "good-morrow to you, good master wizard," said she, with perfect calmness, and she regarded him from head to foot with nothing beyond a mild curiosity. indeed, it was rather he who was embarrassed. he looked at her with a kind of wonder--and admiration also; and if she had been sufficiently heedful and watchful she might have observed that his eyes, which were singularly dark, had a good deal of animation in them for one of his years. it was only after a second or so of this bewildered and admiring contemplation of her that he managed to say, in a grave and formal voice, something in praise of her courage in thus keeping the appointment he had sought. "nay, good sir," said she, with much complacency, "trouble not yourself about me. there is no harm in going out to gather a few flowers in the field, surely. if there be any danger, it is rather you that have to fear it, for there is the pillory for them that go about the country divining for gold and silver." "it is for no such vain and idle purposes that i use my art," said he; and he regarded her with such an intensity of interest that sometimes he stumbled forgetfully in his speech, as if he were repeating a lesson but ill prepared, "it is for the revelation of the future to them that are born under fortunate planets. and you are one of these, sweet lady, or i would not have summoned you to a meeting that might have seemed perilous to one of less courage and good heart. if it please you to listen, i can forecast that that will befall you----" "nay, good sir," said she, with a smile, "i have heard it frequently, though perhaps never from one so skilled. 'tis but a question between dark and fair, with plenty of money and lands thrown in. for that matter, i might set up in the trade myself. but if you could tell me, now----" "if i were to tell you--if by my art i could show you," said he, with a solemnity that was at least meant to be impressive (though this young maid, with her lips inclining to a smile, and her inscrutable eyes, did not seem much awe-stricken)--"if i could convince you, sweet lady, that you shall marry neither dark nor fair among any of those that would now fain win you--and rumor says there be several of those--what then?" "rumor?" she repeated, with the color swiftly mantling in her face. but she was startled, and she said, quickly, "what do you say, good wizard? not any one that i know? what surety have you of that? is it true? can you show it to me? can you assure me of it? is your skill so great that you can prove to me that your prophecy is aught but idle guessing? no one that i have seen as yet, say you? why," she added half to herself, "but that were good news for my gossip prue." "my daughter," said this elderly person, in slow and measured tones, "it is not to all that the stars have been so propitious at their birth." "good sir," said she, with some eagerness, "i beseech you to forgive me if i attend you not; but--but this is the truth, now, as to how i came in answer to your message to me. i will speak plain. perchance rumor hath not quite belied herself. there may be one or two who think too well of me, and would have me choose him or him to be my lover; and--and--do you see now?--if there were one of those that i would fain have turn aside from idle thoughts of me and show more favor to my dear cousin and gossip prudence shawe--nay, but to tell the truth, good wizard, i came here to seek of your skill whether it could afford some charm and magic that would direct his heart to her. i have heard of such things----" and here she stopped abruptly, in some confusion, for she had in her eagerness admitted a half-belief in the possible power of his witchcraft which she had been careful to conceal before. she had professed incredulity by her very manner; she had almost laughed at his pretensions; she had intimated that she had come hither only out of curiosity; but now she had blundered into the confession that she had cherished some vague hope of obtaining a love-philtre, or some such thing, to transfer away from herself to her friend the affections of one of those suitors whose existence seemed to be so well known to the wizard. however, he soon relieved her from her embarrassment by assuring her that this that she demanded was far away beyond the scope of his art, which was strictly limited to the discovery and revelation of such secrets as still lay within the future. "and if so, good sir," said she, after a moment's reflection, "that were enough, or nearly enough, so that you can convince us of it." "to yourself alone, gracious lady," said he, "can i reveal that which will happen to you. nay, more, so fortunate is the conjunction of the planets that reigned at your birth--the _ultimum supplicium auri_ might almost have been declared to you--that i can summon from the ends of the earth, be he where he may, the man that you shall hereafter marry, or soon or late i know not; if you will, you can behold him at such and such a time, at such and such a place, as the stars shall appoint." she looked puzzled, half incredulous and perplexed, inclined to smile, blushing somewhat, and all uncertain. "it is a temptation--i were no woman else," said she, with a laugh. "nay, but if i can see him, why may not others? and if i can show them him who is to be my worshipful lord and master, why, then, my gossip prue may have the better chance of reaching the goal where i doubt not her heart is fixed. come, then, to prove your skill, good sir. where shall i see him, and when? must i use charms? will he speak, think you, or pass as a ghost? but if he be not a proper man, good wizard, by my life i will have none of him, nor of your magic either." she was laughing now, and rather counterfeiting a kind of scorn; but she was curious; and she watched him with a lively interest as he took forth from a small leather bag a little folded piece of paper, which he carefully opened. "i cannot answer all your questions, my daughter," said he; "i can but proceed according to my art. whether the person you will see may be visible to others i know not, nor can i tell you aught of his name or condition. pray heaven he be worthy of such beauty and gentleness; for i have heard of you, gracious lady, but rumor had but poor words to describe such a rarity and a prize." "nay," said she, in tones of reproof (but the color had mounted to a face that certainly showed no sign of displeasure), "you speak like one of the courtiers now." "this charm," said he, dropping his eyes, and returning to his grave and formal tones, "is worth naught without a sprig of rosemary; that must you get, and you must place it within the paper in a threefold manner--thus; and then, when sol and luna are both in the descendant--but i forget me, the terms of my art are unknown to you; i must speak in the vulgar tongue; and meanwhile you shall see the charm, that there is nothing wicked or dangerous in it, but only the wherewithal to bring about a true lovers' meeting." he handed her the open piece of paper; but she, having glanced at the writing, gave it him back again. "i pray you read it to me," she said. he regarded her for a second with some slight surprise; but he took the paper, and read aloud, slowly, the lines written thereon: "dare you haunt our hallowed green? none but fairies here are seen. down and sleep, wake and weep, pinch him black, and pinch him blue, that seeks to steal a lover true, when you come to hear us sing, or to tread our fairy ring, pinch him black, and pinch him blue-- oh, thus our nails shall handle you!" "why, 'tis like what my father wrote about herne the hunter," said she, with a touch of indifference; perhaps she had expected to hear something more weird and unholy. "please you, forget not the rosemary; nothing will come of it else," he continued. "then this you must take in your hand secretly, and when no one has knowledge of your outgoing; and when luna--nay, but i mean when the moon has risen to-night so that, standing in the church-yard, you shall see it over the roof of the church, then must you go to the yew-tree that is in the middle of the church-yard, and there you shall scrape away a little of the earth from near the foot of the tree, and bury this paper, and put the earth firmly down on it again, saying thrice, _hieronymo! hieronymo! hieronymo!_ you follow me, sweet lady?" "'tis simple enough," said she, "but that on these fine evenings the people are everywhere about; and if one were to be seen conjuring in the church-yard----" "you must watch your opportunity, my daughter," said he, speaking with an increased assumption of authority. "one minute will serve you; and this is all that needs be done." "truly? is this all?" said she, and she laughed lightly. "then will my gallant, my pride o' the world, my lord and master, forthwith spring out of the solid ground? god mend me, but that were a fearful meeting--in a church-yard! gentle wizard, i pray you----" "not so," he answered, interrupting her. "the charm will work there; you must let it rest; the night dews shall nourish it; the slow hours shall pass over it; and the spirits that haunt these precincts must know of it, that they may prepare the meeting. to-night, then, sweet lady, you shall place this charm in the church-yard at the foot of the yew-tree, and to-morrow at twelve of the clock----" "by your leave, not to-morrow," said she, peremptorily. "not to-morrow, good wizard; for my father comes home to-morrow; and, by my life, i would not miss the going forth to meet him for all the lovers between here and london town!" "your father comes home to-morrow, mistress judith?" said he, in somewhat startled accents. "in truth he does; and master tyler also, and julius shawe--there will be a goodly company, i warrant you, come riding to-morrow through shipston and tredington and alderminster; and by your leave, reverend sir, the magic must wait." "that were easily done," he answered, after a moment's thought, "by the alteration of a sign, if the day following might find you at liberty. will it so, gracious lady?" "the day after! at what time of the day?" she asked. "the alteration of the sign will make it but an hour earlier, if i mistake not; that is to say, at eleven of the forenoon you must be at the appointed place----" "where, good wizard!" said she--"where am i to see the wraith, the ghost, the phantom husband that is to own me?" "that know i not myself as yet; but my aids and familiars will try to discover it for me," he answered, taking a small sun-dial out of his pocket and adjusting it as he spoke. "and with haste, so please you, good sir," said she, "for i would not that any chance comer had a tale of this meeting to carry back to the gossips." he stooped down and placed the sun-dial carefully on the ground, at a spot where the young corn was but scant enough on the dry red soil, and then with his forefinger he traced two or three lines and a semicircle on the crumbling earth. "south by west," said he, and he muttered some words to himself. then he looked up. "know you the road to bidford, sweet lady?" "as well as i know my own ten fingers," she answered. "for myself, i know it not, but if my art is not misleading there should be, about a mile or more along that road, another road at right angles with it, bearing to the right, and there at the junction should stand a cross of stone. is it so?" "'tis the lane that leads to shottery; well i know it," she said. "so it has been appointed, then," said he, "if the stars continue their protection over you. the day after to-morrow, at eleven of the forenoon, if you be within stone's-throw of the cross at the junction of the roads, there shall you see, or my art is strangely mistaken, the man or gentleman--nay, i know not whether he be parson or layman, soldier or merchant, knight of the shire or plain goodman dick--i say there shall you see him that is to win you and wear you; but at what time you shall become his wife, and where, and in what circumstances, i cannot reveal to you. i have done my last endeavor." "nay do not hold me ungrateful," she said, though there was a smile on her lips, "but surely, good sir, what your skill has done, that it can also undo. if it have power to raise a ghost, surely it has power to lay him. and truly, if he be a ghost, i will not have him. and if he be a man, and have a red beard, i will not have him. and if he be a slape-face, i will have none of him. and if he have thin legs, he may walk his ways for me. good wizard, if i like him not, you must undo the charm." "my daughter, you have a light heart," said he, gravely. "may the favoring planets grant it lead you not into mischief; there be unseen powers that are revengeful. and now i must take my leave, gracious lady. i have given you the result of much study and labor, of much solitary communion with the heavenly bodies; take it, and use it with heed, and so fare you well." he was going, but she detained him. "good sir, i am your debtor," said she, with the red blood mantling in her forehead, for all through this interview she had clearly recognized that she was not dealing with any ordinary mendicant fortune-teller. "so much labor and skill i cannot accept from you without becoming a beggar. i pray you----" he put up his hand. "not so," said he, with a certain grave dignity. "to have set eyes on the fairest maid in warwickshire--as i have heard you named--were surely sufficient recompense for any trouble; and to have had speech of you, sweet lady, is what many a one would venture much for. but i would humbly kiss your hand; and so again fare you well." "god shield you, most courteous wizard, and good-day," said she, as he left; and for a second she stood looking after him in a kind of wonder, for this extraordinary courtesy and dignity of manner were certainly not what she had expected to find in a vagabond purveyor of magic. but now he was gone, and she held the charm in her hand, and so without further ado she set out for home again, getting down through the brushwood to the winding path. she walked quickly, for she had heard that master bushell's daughter, who was to be married that day, meant to beg a general holiday for the school-boys; and she knew that if this were granted these sharp-eyed young imps would soon be here, there, and everywhere, and certain to spy out the wizard if he were in the neighborhood. but when she had got clear of this hanging copse, that is known as the wier brake, and had reached the open meadows, so that from any part around she could be seen to be alone, she had nothing further to fear, and she returned to her leisurely straying in quest of flowers. the sun was hotter on the grass now; but the swallows were busy as ever over the stream; and the great bees hummed aloud as they went past; and here and there a white butterfly fluttered from petal to petal; and, far away, she could hear the sound of children's voices in the stillness. she was in a gay mood. the interview she had just had with one in league with the occult powers of magic and witchery did not seem in the least to have overawed her. perhaps, indeed, she had not yet made up her mind to try the potent charm that she had obtained; at all events the question did not weigh heavily on her. for now it was, oh, mistress mine, where are you roaming? and again it was, for a morn in spring is the sweetest thing cometh in all the year! and always another touch of color added to the daintily arranged nosegay in her hand. and then, of a sudden, as she chanced to look ahead, she observed a number of the school-boys come swarming down to the foot-bridge; and she knew right well that one of them--to wit, young willie hart--would think a holiday quite thrown away and wasted if he did not manage to seek out and secure the company of his pretty cousin judith. "ah! there, now," she was saying to herself, as she watched the school-boys come over the bridge one by one and two by two, "there, now, is my sweetheart of sweethearts; there is my prince of lovers! if ever i have lover as faithful and kind as he, it will go well. 'nay, susan,' says he, 'i love you not; you kiss me hard, and speak to me as if i were still a child; i love judith better.' and how cruel of my father to put him in the play, and to slay him so soon; but perchance he will call him to life again--nay, it is a favorite way with him to do that; and pray heaven he bring home with him to-morrow the rest of the story, that prue may read it to me. and so are you there, among the unruly imps, you young prince mamillius? have you caught sight of me yet, sweetheart blue-eyes? why, come, then; you will outstrip them all, i know, when you get sight of cousin judith; for as far off as yon are, you will reach me first, that i am sure of; and then, by my life, sweetheart willie, you shall have a kiss as soft as a dove's breast!" and so she went on to meet them, arranging the colors of her straggling blossoms the while, with now and again a snatch of careless song: come, blow thy horn, hunter! come, blow thy horn, hunter! come, blow thy horn--jolly hunter! chapter ii. signior crab-apple. there was much ado in the house all that day, in view of the home-coming on the morrow, and it was not till pretty late in the evening that judith was free to steal out for a gossip with her friend and chief companion, prudence shawe. she had not far to go--but a couple of doors off, in fact; and her coming was observed by prudence herself, who happened to be sitting at the casemented window for the better prosecution of her needle-work, there being still a clear glow of twilight in the sky. a minute or so thereafter the two friends were in prudence's own chamber, which was on the first floor, and looking out to the back over barns and orchards; and they had gone to the window, to the bench there, to have their secrets together. this prudence shawe was some two years judith's junior--though she really played the part of elder sister to her; she was of a pale complexion, with light straw-colored hair; not very pretty, perhaps, but she had a restful kind of face that invited friendliness and sympathy, of which she had a large abundance to give in return. her custom was of a puritanical plainness and primness, both in the fashion of it and in its severe avoidance of color; and that was not the only point on which she formed a marked contrast to this dear cousin and wilful gossip of hers, who had a way of pleasing herself (more especially if she thought she might thereby catch her father's eye) in apparel as in most other things. and on this occasion--at the outset at all events--judith would not have a word said about the assignation of the morning. the wizard was dismissed from her mind altogether. it was about the home-coming of the next day that she was all eagerness and excitement; and her chief prayer and entreaty was that her friend prudence should go with her to welcome the travellers home. "nay, but you must and shall, dear prue; sweet mouse, i beg it of you!" she was urging. "every one at new place is so busy that they have fixed upon signior crab-apple to ride with me; and you know i cannot suffer him; and i shall not have a word of my father all the way back, not a word; there will be nothing but a discourse about fools, and idle jests, and wiseman matthew the hero of the day--" "dear judith, i cannot understand how you dislike the old man so," her companion said, in that smooth voice of hers. "i see no garden that is better tended than yours." "i would i could let slip the mastiff at his unmannerly throat!" was the quick reply--and indeed for a second she looked as if she would fain have seen that wish fulfilled. "the vanity of him!--the puffed-up pride of him.--he thinks there be none in warwickshire but himself wise enough to talk to my father; and the way he dogs his steps if he be walking in the garden--no one else may have a word with him!--sure my father is sufficiently driven forth by the preachers and the psalm-singing within-doors that out-of-doors, in his own garden, he might have some freedom of speech with his own daughter--" "judith, judith," her friend said, and she put her hand on her arm, "you have such wilful thoughts, and wild words too. i am sure your father is free of speech with every one--gentle and simple, old and young, it matters not who it is that approaches him." "this signior crab-apple truly!" the other exclaimed, in the impetuosity of her scorn. "if his heart be as big as a crab-apple, i greatly doubt; but that it is of like quality i'll be sworn. and the bitterness of his railing tongue! all women are fools--vools he calls them, rather--first and foremost; and most men are fools; but of all fools there be none like the fools of warwickshire--that is because my worshipful goodman gardener comes all the way from bewdley. 'tis meat and drink to him, he says, to discover a fool, though how he should have any difficulty in the discovering, seeing that we are all of us fools, passes my understanding. nay, but i know what set him after that quarry; 'twas one day in the garden, and my father was just come home from london, and he was talking to my uncle gilbert, and was laughing at what his friend benjamin jonson had said, or had written, i know not which. 'of all beasts in the world,' says he, 'i love most the serious ass.' then up steps goodman matthew. 'there be plenty of 'em about 'ere, zur,' says he, with a grin on his face like that on a cat when a dog has her by the tail. and my father, who will talk to any one, as you say truly, and about anything, and always with the same attention, must needs begin to challenge goodman crab-apple to declare the greatest fools that ever he had met with; and from that day to this the ancient sour-face hath been on the watch--and it suits well with his opinion of other people and his opinion of himself as the only wise man in the world--i say ever since he hath been on the watch for fools; and the greater the fool the greater his wisdom, i reckon, that can find him out. a purveyor of fools!--a goodly trade! i doubt not but that it likes him better than the tending of apricots when he has the free range of the ale-houses to work on. he will bring a couple of them into the garden when my father is in the summer-house. ''ere, zur, please you come out and look 'ere, zur; 'ere be a brace of rare vools.' and the poor clowns are proud of it; they stand and look at each other and laugh. 'we be, zur--we be.' and then my father will say no, and will talk with them, and cheer them with assurance of their wisdom; then must they have spiced bread and ale ere they depart; and this is a triumph for master matthew--the withered, shrivelled, dried-up, cankered nutshell that he is!" "dear judith, pray have patience--indeed you are merely jealous." "jealous!" she exclaimed, as if her scorn of this ill-conditioned old man put that well out of the question. "you think he has too much of your father's company, and you like it not; but consider of it, judith, he being in the garden, and your father in the summer-house, and when your father is tired for the moment of his occupation, whatever that may be, then can he step out and speak to this goodman matthew, that amuses him with his biting tongue, and with the self-sufficiency of his wisdom--nay, i suspect your father holds him to be a greater fool than any that he makes sport of, and that he loves to lead him on." "and why should my father have to be in the summer-house but that in-doors the wool-spinning is hardly more constant than the lecturing and the singing of psalms and hymns?" "judith! judith!" said her gentle friend, with real trouble on her face, "you grieve me when you talk like that--indeed you do, sweetheart! there is not a morning nor a night passes that i do not pray the lord that your heart may be softened and led to our ways--nay, far from that, but to the lord's own ways--and the answer will come; i have faith; i know it; and god send it speedily, for you are like an own sister to me, and my heart yearns over you!" the other sat silent for a second. she could not fail to be touched by the obvious sincerity, the longing kindness of her friend, but she would not confess as much in words. "as yet, sweet prue," said she, lightly, "i suppose i am of the unregenerate, and if it is wicked to cherish evil thoughts of your neighbor, then am i not of the elect, for i heartily wish that tom quiney and some of the youths would give matthew gardener a sound ducking in a horse-pond, to tame his arrogance withal. but no matter. what say you, dear prue? will you go with me to-morrow, so that we may have the lad tookey in charge of us, and signior crab-apple be left to his weeding and grafting and railing at human kind? do, sweet mouse--" "the maids are busy now, judith," said she, doubtfully. "but a single day, dear mouse!" she urged. "and if we go early we may get as far as shipston, and await them there. have you no desire to meet your brother, prudence--to be the first of all to welcome him home? nay, that is because you can have him in your company as often as you wish; there is no goodman-wiseman-fool to come between you." "dear heart," said prudence shawe, with a smile, "i know not what is the witchery of you, but there is none i wot of that can say you nay." "you will, then?" said the other, joyfully. "ah, look, now, the long ride home we shall have with my father, and all the news i shall have to tell him! and all good news, prue; scarcely a whit or bit that is not good news: the roan that he bought at evesham is well of her lameness--good; and the king's mulberry is thriving bravely (i wonder that wiseman matthew has not done it a mischief in the night-time, for the king, being above him in station, must needs have nothing from him but sour and envious words); and then the twenty acres that my father so set his heart upon he is to have--i hear that the combes have said as much--and my father will be right well pleased; and the vicar is talking no longer of building the new piggery over against the garden--at least for the present there is nothing to be done: all good news; but there is better still, as you know; for what will he say when he discovers that i have taught bess hall to ride the mastiff?" "pray you have a care, dear judith," said her friend, with some apprehension on her face. "'tis a dangerous-looking beast." "a lamb, a very lamb!" was the confident answer. "well, now, and as we are riding home he will tell me of all the things he has brought from london; and you know he has always something pretty for you, sweet puritan, though you regard such adornment as snares and pitfalls. and this time i hope it will be a silver brooch for you, dear mouse, that so you must needs wear it and show it, or he will mark its absence; and for the others let us guess; let us see. there may be some more of that strange-fashioned murano glass for susan, for as difficult as it is to carry; and some silk hangings or the like for my mother, or store of napery, perchance, which she prizeth more; and be sure there is the newest book of sermons from paul's churchyard for the doctor; a greyhound, should he hear of a famous one on the way, for thomas combe; toys for the little harts, that is certain; for my aunt joan--what?--a silver-topped jug, or some perfumes of musk and civet?--and what else--and for whom else--well--" "but what for yourself, dear judith?" her friend said, with a smile. "will he forget you? has matthew gardener driven you out even from his recollection? will he not have for you a pretty pair of rose shoe-strings, or one of the new tasselled french hoods they are speaking of, or something of the kind, that will turn the heads of all the lads in stratford twice further round? you are a temptress surely, sweetheart; i half forget that such vanities should displease me when i see the way you wear them; and that i think you must take from your father, judith; for no matter how plain his apparel is--and it is plain indeed for one that owns the new place--he wears it with such an ease, and with such a grace and simplicity, that you would say a prince should wear it even so." "you put me off, prue," her friend said with a sort of good-natured impatience. "why, i was showing you what nicelings and delicates my father was bringing, and what i had thought to say was this: that he may have this for one, and that for the other, and many a one proud to be remembered (as i shall be if he thinks of me), but this that i know he is bringing for little bess hall is something worth all of these, for it is nothing less than the whole love of his heart. nay, but i swear it; there is not a human creature in the world to compare with her in his eyes; she is the pearl that he wears in his heart of hearts. if it were london town she wanted, and he could give it to her, that is what he would bring for her." "what! are you jealous of her too?" said prudence, with her placid smile. "by yea and nay, sweet puritan, if that will content you, i declare it is not so," was the quick answer. "why, bess is my ally! we are in league, i tell you; we will have a tussle with the enemy ere long; and, by my life, i think i know that that will put goodman-wiseman's nose awry!" at this moment the secret confabulation of these two friends was suddenly and unexpectedly broken in upon by a message from without. something white came fluttering through the open casement, and fell, not quite into judith's lap, which was probably its intended destination, but down toward her feet. she stooped and picked it up; it was a letter, addressed to her, and tied round with a bit of rose-red silk ribbon that was neatly formed into a true-lover's knot. chapter iii. the planting of the charm. the embarrassment that ensued--on her part only, for the pale and gentle face of her friend betrayed not even so much as surprise--was due to several causes. judith could neither read nor write. in her earlier years she had been a somewhat delicate child, and had consequently been excused from the ordinary tuition, slight as that usually was in the case of girls; but when, later on, she grew into quite firm and robust health, in her wilfulness and pride and petulance she refused to retransform herself into a child and submit to be taught children's lessons. moreover, she had an acute and alert brain; and she had a hundred reasons ready to show that what was in reality a mere waywardness on her part was the most wise and natural thing in the world; while her father, who had a habitual and great tolerance for everything and everybody that came within his reach, laughed with her rather than at her, and said she should do very well without book-learning so long as those pink roses shone in her cheeks. but she had one reason that was not merely an excuse. most of the printed matter that reached the house was brought thither by this or that curate, or by this or that famous preacher, who, in going through the country, was sure of an eager and respectful welcome at new place; and perhaps it was not kindly nor civilly done of them--though it may have been regarded as a matter of conscience--that they should carry thither and read aloud, among other things, the fierce denunciations of stage-plays and stage-players which were common in the polemical and puritanical literature of the day. right or wrong, judith resented this with a vehement indignation; and she put a ban upon all books, judging by what she had heard read out of some; nay, one day she had come into the house and found her elder sister, who was not then married, greatly distressed, and even in the bitterness of tears; and when she discovered that the cause of this was a pamphlet that had been given to susanna, in which not only were the heinous wickednesses of plays and players denounced, but also her own father named by his proper name, judith, with hot cheeks and flashing eyes, snatched the pamphlet from her sister's hand and forthwith sent it flying through the open window into the mud without, notwithstanding that books and pamphlets were scarce and valuable things, and that this one had been lent. and when she discovered that this piece of writing had been brought to the house by the pious and learned walter blaise--a youthful divine he was who had a small living some few miles from stratford, but who dwelt in the town, and was one of the most eager and disputatious of the puritanical preachers there--it in no way mitigated her wrath that this worthy master blaise was regarded by many, and even openly spoken of, as a suitor for her own hand. "god mend me," said she, in her anger (and greatly to the distress of the mild-spoken prudence), "but 'tis a strange way of paying court to a young woman to bring into the house abuse of her own father! sir parson may go hang, for me!" and for many a day she would have nothing to say to him; and steeled and hardened her heart not only against him, but against the doctrines and ways of conduct that he so zealously advocated; and she would not come in to evening prayers when he happened to be present; and wild horses would not have dragged her to the parish church on the sunday afternoon that it was his turn to deliver the fortnightly lecture there. however, these things abated in time. master walter blaise was a civil-spoken and an earnest and sincere young man, and prudence shawe was the gentle intermediary. judith suffered his presence, and that was about all as yet; but she would not look the way of printed books. and when prudence tried to entice her into a study of the mere rudiments of reading and writing, she would refuse peremptorily, and say, with a laugh, that, could she read, the first thing she should read would be plays, which, as sweet cousin prue was aware, were full of tribulation and anguish, and fit only for the foolish galatians of the world, the children of darkness and the devil. but this obstinacy did not prevent her overcoming her dear cousin prue's scruples, and getting her to read aloud to her in the privacy of their secret haunts this or the other fragments of a play, when that she had adroitly purloined a manuscript from the summer-house in new place; and in this surreptitious manner she had acquired a knowledge of what was going on at the globe and the blackfriars theatres in london, which, had they but guessed of it, would have considerably astounded her mother, her sister, and good parson blaise as well. in more delicate matters still, prudence was her confidante, her intermediary, and amanuensis: and ordinarily this caused her no embarrassment, for she wished for no secrets with any of human kind. but in one direction she had formed certain suspicions; and so it was that on this occasion, when she stooped down and picked up the letter that had been so deftly thrown in at the casement, her face flushed somewhat. "i know from whom it comes," said she, and she seemed inclined to put it into the little wallet of blue satin that hung at her side. then she glanced at prudence's eyes. there was nothing there in the least approaching displeasure or pique, only a quiet amusement. "it was cleverly done," said prudence, and she raised her head cautiously and peeped through one of the small panes of pale green glass. but the twilight had sunk into dusk, and any one outside could easily have made his escape unperceived through the labyrinth of barns and outhouses. judith glanced at the handwriting again, and said, with an affectation of carelessness: "there be those who have plenty of time, surely, for showing the wonders of their skill. look at the twisting and turning and lattice-work of it--truly he is a most notable clerk; i would he spent the daylight to better purpose. read it for me, sweet prue." she would have handed the letter--with much studied indifference of look and manner--to her friend, but that prudence gently refused it. "'tis you must undo the string; you know not what may be inside." so judith herself opened the letter, which contained merely a sprig of rosemary, along with some lines written in a most ornate calligraphy. "what does he say?" she asked, but without any apparent interest, as she gave the open letter to her companion. prudence took the letter and read aloud; "rosemary is for remembrance between us day and night; wishing that i might always have you present in my sight. this from your true well-wisher, and one that would be your loving servant unto death. t. q." "the idle boy!" she said, and again she directed a quick and penetrating look of inquiry to her friend's face. but prudence was merely regarding the elaborate handwriting. there was no trace of wounded pride or anything of the kind in her eyes. nay, she looked up and said, with a smile, "for one that can wrestle so well, and play at foot-ball, and throw the sledge as they say he can, he is master of a most delicate handwriting." "but the rosemary, prue!" judith exclaimed, suddenly, and she groped about at her feet until she had found it. "why, now, look there, was ever anything so fortunate? truly i had forgotten all about rosemary, and my reverend wizard, and the charm that is to be buried to-night; and you know not a word of the story. shall i tell you, sweet mouse? is there time before the moon appears over the roof of the church?--for there i am summoned to fearful deeds. why, prue, you look as frightened as if a ghost had come into the room--you yourself are like a ghost now in the dusk--or is it the coming moonlight that is making you so pale?" "i had thought that better counsels would have prevailed with you, judith," she said, anxiously. "i knew not you had gone to see the man, and i reproach myself that i have been an agent in the matter." "a mouth-piece only, sweet prue!--a mere harmless, innocent whistle that had nothing to do with the tune. and the business was not so dreadful either; there was no caldron, nor playing with snakes and newts, no, nor whining for money, which i expected most; but a most civil and courteous wizard, a most town-bred wizard as ever the sun set eye on, that called me 'gracious lady' every other moment, and would not take a penny for his pains. marry, if all the powers of evil be as well-behaved, i shall have less fear of them; for a more civil-spoken gentleman i have never encountered; and 'sweet lady' it was, and 'gracious lady,' and a voice like the voice of my lord bishop; and the assurance that the planets and the stars were holding me in their kindest protection; and a promise of a ghost husband that is to appear that i may judge whether i like him or like him not; and all this and more--and he would kiss my hand, and so farewell, and the reverend magician makes his obeisance and vanishes, and i am not a penny the poorer, but only the richer because of my charm! there, i will show it to you, dear mouse." after a little search she found the tiny document; and prudence shawe glanced over it. "judith! judith!" said she, almost in despair, "i know not whither your wilfulness will carry you. but tell me what happened. how came you by this paper? and what ghost husband do you speak of?" then judith related, with much circumstantiality, what had occurred that morning: not toning it down in the least, but rather exaggerating here and there; for she was merry-hearted, and she liked to see the sweet puritan face grow more and more concerned. moreover, the dull gray light outside, instead of deepening into dark, appeared to be becoming a trifle clearer, so that doubtless the moon was declaring itself somewhere; and she was looking forward, when the time came, to securing prudence's company as far as the church-yard, if her powers of persuasion were equal to that. "but you will not go--surely you will not go, darling judith," said prudence, in accents of quite pathetic entreaty. "you know the sin of dealing with such ungodly practices--nay, and the danger too, for you would of your own free will go and seek a meeting with unholy things, whereas i have been told that not so long ago they used in places to carry a pan of frankincense round the house each night to keep away witchcraft from them as they slept. i beseech you, dearest judith, give me the paper, and i will burn it!" "nay, nay, it is but an idle tale, a jest; i trust it not," said her friend to reassure her. "be not afraid, sweet prue. those people who go about compelling the planets and summoning spirits and the like have lesser power than the village folk imagine, else would their own affairs thrive better than they seem to do." "then give me the paper; let me burn it, judith!" "nay, nay, mouse," said she, withholding it; and then she added, with a sort of grave merriment or mischief in her face: "whether the thing be aught or naught, sure i cannot treat so ill my courteous wizard. he was no goose-herd, i tell you, but a most proper and learned man; and he must have the chance of working the wonders he foretold. come, now, think of it with reason, dear prue. if there be no power in the charm, if i go to shottery for my morning walk and find no one in the lane, who is harmed? why, no one; and grandmother hathaway is pleased, and will show me how her garden is growing. then, on the other hand, should the charm work, should there be some one there, what evil if i regard him as i pass from the other side of the way? is it such a wonder that one should meet a stranger on the bidford road? and what more? man or ghost, he cannot make me marry him if i will not. he cannot make me speak to him if i will not. and if he would put a hand on me, i reckon roderigo would speedily have him by the throat, as i hope he may some day have goodman matthew." "but, judith, such things are unlawful and forbidden----" "to you, sweet saint--to you," said the other, with much good-humor. "but i have not learned to put aside childish things as yet; and this is only a jest, good prue; and you, that are so faithful to your word, even in the smallest trifle, would not have me break my promise to my gentle wizard? 'gracious lady,' he says, and 'sweet lady,' as if i were a dame of the court; it were unmannerly of me not to grant him this small demand----" "i wish i had misread the letter," said prudence, so occupied with her own fears that she scarcely knew what to do. "what!" exclaimed her friend, in tones of raillery, "you would have deceived me? is this your honesty, your singleness of heart, sweet puritan? you would have sent me on some fool's errand, would you?" "and if it were to be known you had gone out to meet this conjurer, judith, what would your mother and sister say?--and your father?" "my mother and sister--hum!" was the demure reply. "if he had but come in the garb of a preacher, with a bible under one arm and a prayer-book under the other, i doubt not that he would have been welcome enough at new place--ay, and everything in the house set before him, and a flanders jug full of quiney's best claret withal to cheer the good man. but when you speak of my father, dear prue, there you are wide of the mark--wide, wide of the mark; for the wizard is just such an one as he would be anxious to know and see for himself. indeed, if my mother and susan would have the house filled with preachers, my father would rather seek his company from any strange kind of vagrant cattle you could find on the road--ballad-singers, strolling players, peddlers, and the like; and you should see him when some ancient harper in his coat of green comes near the town--nay, the constable shall not interfere with him, license or no license--my father must needs entertain him in the garden; and he will sit and talk to the old man; and the best in the house must be brought out for him; and whether he try his palsied fingers on the strings, or perchance attempt a verse of 'pastime with good company' with his quavering old voice, that is according to his own good-will and pleasure; nothing is demanded of him but that he have good cheer, and plenty of it, and go on his way the merrier, with a groat or two in his pouch. nay, i mind me, when susan was remonstrating with my father about such things, and bidding him have some regard for the family name--'what?' says he, laughing; 'set you up, madam pride! know you not, then, whence comes our name? and yet 'tis plain enough. _shacks_, these are but vagrant, idle, useless fellows; and then we come to _pere_, that is, an equal and companion. there you have it complete--_shackspere_, the companion of strollers and vagabonds, of worthless and idle fellows. what say you, madam pride?' and, indeed, poor susan was sorely displeased, insomuch that i said, 'but the spear in the coat of arms, father--how came we by that?' 'why, there, now,' says he, 'you see how regardless the heralds are of the king's english. i warrant me they would give a ship to shipston and a hen to enstone.' indeed, he will jest you out of anything. when your brother would have left the town council, prue----" but here she seemed suddenly to recollect herself. she rose quickly, thrust open the casement still wider, and put out her head to discover whereabouts the moon was; and when she withdrew her head again there was mischief and a spice of excitement in her face. "no more talking and gossip now, prue; the time has arrived for fearful deeds." prudence put her small white hand on her friend's arm. "stay, judith. be guided--for the love of me be guided, sweetheart! you know not what you do. the profaning of sacred places will bring a punishment." "profaning, say you, sweet mouse? is it anything worse than the children playing tick round the grave-stones; or even, when no one is looking, having a game of king-by-your-leave?" "it is late, judith. it must be nine o'clock. it is not seemly that a young maiden should be out-of-doors alone at such an hour of the night." "marry, that say i," was the light answer. "and the better reason that you should come with me, prue." "i?" said prudence, in affright. "wherefore not, then? nay, but you shall suffer no harm through the witchery, sweet mouse; i ask your company no further than the little swing-gate. one minute there, and i shall be back with you. come, now, for your friend's sake; get your hood and your muffler, dear prue, and no one shall know either of us from the witch of endor, so quickly shall we be there and back." still she hesitated. "if your mother were to know, judith----" "to know what, sweetheart? that you walked with me as far as the church and back again? why, on such a fine and summer-like night i dare be sworn, now, that half the good folk of stratford are abroad; and it is no such journey into a far country that we should take one of the maids with us. nay, come, sweet prue! we shall have a merry ride to-morrow; to-night for your friendship's sake you must do me this small service." prudence did not answer, but somewhat thoughtfully, and even reluctantly, she went to a small cupboard of boxes that stood in the corner of the apartment, and brought forth some articles of attire which (although she might not have confessed it) were for the better disguising of herself, seeing that the night was fine and warm. and then judith, having also drawn a muffler loosely round her neck and the lower half of her face, was ready to go, and was gone, in fact, as far as the door, when she suddenly said: "why, now, i had nearly forgot the rosemary, and without that the charm is naught. did i leave it on the window-shelf?" she went back and found it, and this time she took the precaution of folding it within the piece of paper that she was to bury in the church-yard. "is it fair, dear judith?" prudence said, reproachfully, before she opened the door. "is it right that you should take the bit of rosemary sent you by one lover, and use it as a charm to bring another?" "nay, why should you concern yourself, sweet mouse?" said judith, with a quick glance, but indeed at this end of the room it was too dark for her to see anything. "my lover, say you? let that be as the future may show. in the meantime i am pledged to no one, nor anxious that i should be so. and a scrap of rosemary, now, what is it? but listen to this, dear prue: if it help to show me the man i shall marry--if there be aught in this magic--will it not be better for him that sent the rosemary that we should be aware of what is in store for us?" "i know not--i scarcely ever know--whether you are in jest or in earnest, judith," her friend said. "why, then, i am partly in starched cambric, good mouse, if you must know, and partly in damask, and partly in taffeta of popinjay blue. but come, now, let us be going. the awful hour approaches, prue. do you not tremble, like faustus in the cell? what was't he said? it strikes; it strikes. now, body, turn to air! come along, sweet prue." but she was silent as they left. indeed, they went down the dark little staircase and out at the front door with as little noise as might be. judith had not been mistaken: the fine, clear, warm evening had brought out many people; and they were either quietly walking home or standing in dusky little groups at the street corners talking to each other; whilst here and there came a laugh from a ruddy-windowed ale-house; and here and there a hushed sound of singing, where a casement had been left a bit open, told that the family within were at their devotional exercises for the night. the half-moon was now clear and silvery in the heavens. as they passed under the massive structure of the guild chapel the upper portions of the tall windows had a pale greenish glow shining through them that made the surrounding shadows look all the more solemn. whether it was that their mufflers effectually prevented their being recognized, or whether it was that none of their friends happened to be abroad, they passed along without attracting notice from any one, nor was a word spoken between themselves for some time. but when they drew near to the church, the vast bulk of which, towering above the trees around, seemed almost black against the palely clear sky, the faithful prudence made bold to put in a final word of remonstrance and dissuasion. "it is wickedness and folly, judith. naught can come of such work," she said. "then let naught come of it, and what harm is done?" her companion said, gayly. "dear mouse, are you so timorous? nay, but you shall not come within the little gate; you shall remain without. and if the spirits come and snatch me, as they snatched off doctor faustus, you shall see all the pageant, and not a penny to pay. what was it in the paper? 'pinch him black, and pinch him blue, that seeks to steal a lover true!' did it not run so? but they cannot pinch you, dear heart; so stand here now, and hush!--pray do not scream if you see them whip me off in a cloud of fire--and i shall be with you again in a minute." she passed through the little swinging gate and entered the church-yard, casting therewith a quick glance around. apparently no one was within sight of her, either among the gray stones or under the black-stemmed elms by the river; but there were people not far off, for she could hear their voices--doubtless they were going home through the meadows on the other side of the stream. she looked but once in that direction. the open country was lying pale and clear in the white light; and under the wide branches of the elms one or two bats were silently darting to and fro; but she could not see the people, and she took it for granted that no one could now observe what she was about. so she left the path, made her way through the noiseless grass, and reached the small yew-tree standing there among the grave-stones. the light was clear enough to allow her to open the package and make sure that the sprig of rosemary was within; then she rapidly, with her bare hand, stooped down and scooped a little of the earth away; she imbedded the packet there, repeating meanwhile the magic words; she replaced the earth, and brushed the long grass over it, so that, indeed, as well as she could make out, the spot looked as if it had not been disturbed in any manner. and then, with a quick look toward the roof of the church to satisfy herself that all the conditions had been fulfilled, she got swiftly back to the path again, and so to the little gate, passing through the church-yard like a ghost. "the deed is done, good prue," said she, gayly, but in a tragic whisper, as she linked her arm within the arm of her friend and set out homeward. "now are the dark powers of the earth at league to raise me up--what think you, sweetheart?--such a gallant as the world ne'er saw! ah! now when you see him come riding in from shottery, will not the town stare? none of your logget-playing, tavern-jesting, come-kiss-me-moll lovers, but a true-sworn knight on his white war steed, in shining mail, with a golden casque on his head and ostrich feathers, and on his silver shield 'st. george and england!'" "you are light-hearted, judith," said the timid and gentle-voiced puritan by her side; "and in truth there is nothing that you fear. well, i know not, but it will be in my prayers that no harm come of this night." chapter iv. a pageant. on the morning after the arrival of judith's father he was out and abroad with his bailiff at an early hour, so that she had no chance of speaking to him; and when he returned to new place he went into the summer-house in the orchard, where it was the general habit and custom to leave him undisturbed. and yet she only wished to ask permission to take the mastiff with her as far as shottery; and so, when she had performed her share of the domestic duties, and got herself ready, she went out through the back court and into the garden, thinking that he would not mind so brief an interruption. it was a fresh and pleasant morning, for there had been some rain in the night, and now there was a slight breeze blowing from the south, and the air was sweet with the scent of the lilac bushes. the sun lay warm on the pink and white blossoms of the apple-trees and on the creamy masses of the cherry; martins were skimming and shooting this way and that, with now and again a rapid flight to the eaves of the barn; the bees hummed from flower to flower, and everywhere there was a chirping, and twittering, and clear singing of birds. the world seemed full of light and color, of youth, and sweet things, and gladness: on such a morning she had no fear of a refusal, nor was she much afraid to go near the summer-house that the family were accustomed to hold sacred from intrusion. but when she passed into the orchard, and came in sight of it, there was a sudden flash of anger in her eyes. she might have guessed--she might have known. there, blocking up the doorway of the latticed and green-painted tenement, was the figure of goodman matthew; and the little bandy-legged pippin-faced gardener was coolly resting on his spade while he addressed his master within. was there ever (she asked herself) such hardihood, such audacity and impertinence? and then she rapidly bethought her that now was a rare opportunity for putting in practice a scheme of revenge that she had carefully planned. it is true that she might have gone forward and laid her finger on matthew's arm (he was rather deaf), and so have motioned him away. but she was too proud to do that. she would dispossess and rout him in another fashion. so she turned and went quickly again into the house. now at this time dr. hall was making a round of professional visits at some distance away in the country; and on such occasions susanna hall and her little daughter generally came to lodge at new place, where judith was found to be an eager and assiduous, if somewhat impatient and unreasoning, nurse, playmate, and music-mistress. in fact, the young mother had to remonstrate with her sister, and to point out that, although baby elizabeth was a wonder of intelligence and cleverness--indeed, such a wonder as had never hitherto been beheld in the world--still, a child of two years and three months or so could not be expected to learn everything all at once; and that it was just as reasonable to ask her to play on the lute as to imagine that she could sit on the back of don the mastiff without being held. however, judith was fond of the child, and that incomparable and astute small person had a great liking for her aunt (in consequence of benefits received), and a trust in her which the wisdom of maturer years might have modified; and so, whenever she chose, judith found no difficulty in obtaining possession of this precious charge, even the young mother showing no anxiety when she saw the two go away together. so it was on this particular morning that judith went and got hold of little bess hall, and quickly smartened up her costume, and carried her out into the garden. then she went into the barn, outside of which was the dog's kennel; she unclasped the chain and set free the huge, slow-stepping, dun-colored beast, that seemed to know as well as any one what was going forward; she affixed to his collar two pieces of silk ribbon that did very well for reins; and then she sat little bess hall on don roderigo's back, and gave her the reins to hold, and so they set out for the summer-house. on that may morning the wide and gracious realm of england--which to some minds, and especially at that particular season of the year, seems the most beautiful country of any in the world--this rich and variegated england lay basking in the sunlight, with all its lush meadows and woods and hedges in the full and fresh luxuriance of the spring; and the small quiet hamlets were busy in a drowsy and easy-going kind of fashion; and far away around the white coasts the blue sea was idly murmuring in; but it may be doubted whether in all the length and breadth of that fair land there was any fairer sight than this that the wit of a young woman had devised. she herself was pleasant enough to look on (and she was always particularly attentive about her attire when her father was at home), and now she was half laughing as she thought of her forthcoming revenge; she had dressed her little niece in her prettiest costume of pink and white, and pink was the color of the silken reins; while the great slow-footed don bore his part in the pageant with a noble majesty, sometimes looking up at judith as if to ask whether he were going in the right direction. and so the procession passed on between the white-laden cherry-trees and the redder masses of the apple-blossom; and the miniature ariadne, sitting sideways on the back of the great beast, betrayed no fear whatsoever; while her aunt judith held her, walking by her, and scolding her for that she would not sing. "tant sing, aunt judith," said she. "you can sing well enough, you little goose, if you try," said her aunt, with the unreasoning impatience of an unmarried young woman. "what's the use of your going hunting without a hunting song? come along, now: 'the hunt is up, the hunt is up, and it is well-nigh day;--' try it, bess!" "hunt is up, hunt is up," said the small rider; but she was occupied with the reins, and clearly did not want to be bothered. "no, no, that is not singing, little goose. why, sing it like this, now: 'the hunt is up, the hunt is up, and it is well-nigh day;-- and harry our king is gone hunting to bring his deer to bay!'" however, the music lesson came to an abrupt end. they had by this time almost reached the summer-house. saturnine matthew, gardener, who still stood there, blocking up the doorway, had not heard them approach, but his master within had. the next instant goodman matthew suddenly found himself discarded, dismissed, and treated, indeed, as if he were simply non-existent in the world; for judith's father, having paused for a moment to regard from the doorway the pretty pageant that had been arranged for him (and his face lit up, as it were, with pleasure at the sight), was the next minute down beside his little granddaughter, with one knee on the ground, so that he was just on a level with her outstretched hands. "what, bess?" he said, as he caught her by both hands and feet. "you imp, you inch, you elfin queen, you!--would you go a-hunting, then?" "send away don--me want to ride the high horse," said the small bess, who had her own ideas as to what was most comfortable, and also secure. "and so you shall, you sprite, you ariel, you moonlight wonder!" he exclaimed, as he perched her on his shoulder and rose to his feet again. "the high horse, truly; indeed, you shall ride the high horse! come, now, we will go see how the king's mulberry thrives; that is the only tree we have that is younger than yourself, you ancient, you beldame, you witch of endor, you!" "father," said judith, seeing that he was going away perfectly regardless of anybody or anything except his granddaughter, "may i take the don with me for an hour or so?" "whither away, wench--whither?" he asked, turning for a moment. "to shottery, father." "well, well," said he, and he turned again and went off. "come, bess, you world's jewel, you, you shall ride with me to london some day, and tell the king how his mulberry thrives; that shall you, you fairy, you princess, you velvet-footed maidiekin! to london, bess--to london!" judith did not stay to regard them further; but she could not help casting a look before she left at goodman matthew, who stood there discomfited, dispossessed, unheeded, annihilated, as it were. and then, calling the dog after her, she went in by the back court and through the house again (for chapel lane was in a sad condition after the rain of the night, and was not a pleasant pathway even in the best of times). and she was laughing to herself at matthew's discomfiture, and she was singing to herself as she went out by the front door, there's never a maid in all the town, but well she knows that malt's come down. and in the street it was "good-morrow to you, master jelleyman; the rain will do good, will it not?" and, again, "good-morrow, neighbor pike; do you know that my father is come home?" and again, "get you within the doorway, little parsons, else the wagon-wheels will be over thee." and then, when she was in the freedom of the fields, she would talk blithely to don roderigo, or snatch a buttercup here or there from among the long, lush, warm grass, or return to her careless singing: for malt's come down, and malt's come down-- oh, well she knows that malt's come down! chapter v. in a wooded lane. now it would be extremely difficult to say with what measure of faith or scepticism, of expectation or mere curiosity, she was now proceeding through these meadows to the spot indicated to her by the wizard. probably she could not have told herself, for what was really uppermost in her mind was a kind of malicious desire to frighten her timid puritan friend with the wildness of such an adventure. and then she was pretty safe. ostensibly she was going to shottery to pay a visit to her grandmother; to look at the pansies, the wall-flowers, the forget-me-nots in the little garden, and see how the currants and raspberries were getting on. she could hardly expect a ghost to rise from the ground in broad daylight. and if any mere strangers happened to be coming along the lane leading in from the bidford road, don roderigo was a sufficient guardian. on the other hand, if there was anything real and of verity in this witchcraft--which had sought her, and not she it--was it not possible that the wizard might on one point have been mistaken? if her future husband were indeed to appear, would it not be much more likely to be parson blaise or tom quiney, or young jelleyman, or one or other of them that she knew in everyday life? but yet she said to herself--and there was no doubt about her absolute conviction and certainty on this point--that, even if she were to meet one of those coming in from evesham, not all the magic and mystery and wizardry in the world would drive her to marry him but of her own free good-will and choice. when she had passed through the meadows and got near to the scattered cottages and barns and orchards of the little hamlet, instead of going forward to these, she bore away to the left, and eventually found herself in a wide and wooded lane. she was less light of heart now; she wished the place were not so still and lonely. it was a pretty lane, this; the ruddy-gray road that wound between luxuriant hedges and tall elms was barred across by alternate sunlight and shadow, and every now and again she had glimpses of the rich and fertile country lying around, with distant hills showing an outline serrated by trees along the pale, summer-like sky. but there was not a human being visible anywhere, nor a sound to be heard but the soft repeated note of the cuckoo. she wished that there were some farm people near at hand, or a shepherd lad, or anybody. she spoke to roderigo, and her voice sounded strange--it sounded as if she were afraid some one was listening. nay, she began, quite unreasonably, to be angry with the wizard. what business had he to interfere with her affairs, and to drive her on to such foolish enterprises? what right had he to challenge her to show that she was not afraid? she was not afraid, she assured herself. she had as good a title to walk along this lane as any one in warwickshire. only the thought that as soon as she had got as far as the cross at the meeting of the roads (this was all that had been demanded of her) she would go back to stratford by the public highway rather than return by this solitary lane, for on the public highway there would be farm servants and laden wains and carriers, and such-like comfortable and companionable objects. the next minute--she had almost reached the cross--her heart bounded with an unreasoning tremor of fear: she had suddenly become aware that a stranger was entering the lane from the wide highway beyond. she had only one glimpse of him, for instantly and resolutely she bent her eyes on don roderigo, and was determined to keep them there until this person should have passed; and yet that one lightning-like glimpse had told her somewhat. the stranger was young, and of a distinguished bearing and presence; and it certainly was a singular and unusual thing that a gentleman (as he seemed to be, although his travelling cloak concealed most of his attire) should be going afoot and unattended. but her only concern was to let him pass. ghost or man as he might be, she kept her eyes on don roderigo. and then, to her increased alarm, she found that the stranger was approaching her. "i beseech your pardon, lady," said he, in a most respectful voice, "but know you one in this town of the name of master shakespeare?" she certainly was startled, and even inwardly aghast; but she had a brave will. she was determined that nothing would drive her either to scream or to run away. and indeed when she looked up and said, rather breathlessly, "there be several of the name, sir," she was quickly assured that this was no ghost at all, but a substantial and living and breathing young man, tall and dark, of a pleasant expression of face, though in truth there was nothing in those singularly black eyes of his but the most ordinary and matter-of-fact inquiry. "one master william shakespeare," said he, in answer to her, "that is widely known." "it is my father, sir, you speak of," said she, hastily and, in fact, somewhat ashamed of her fright. at this news he removed his hat and made her a gracious obeisance, yet simply, and with not too elaborate a courtesy. "since i am so fortunate," said he, "may i beg you to direct me how i shall find the house when i get to the town? i have a letter for him, as you may see." he took out a letter, and held it so that, if she liked, she might read the superscription--"_to my loving good friend master william shakespeare: deliver these._" but judith merely glanced at the writing. "'tis from master ben jonson--that you know of, doubtless, madam--commending me to your father. but perhaps," he added, directing toward her a curious timid look of inquiry, "it were as well that i did not deliver it?" "how so, sir?" she asked. "i am one that is in misfortune," said he, simply; "nay, in peril." "truly i am sorry for that, sir," said she, regarding him with frank eyes of sympathy, for indeed there was a kind of sadness in his air, that otherwise was distinguished enough, and even noble. and then she added: "but surely that is the greater reason you should seek my father." "if i dared--if i knew," he said, apparently to himself. and then he addressed her: "if i make so bold, sweet lady, as to ask you if your father be of the ancient faith--or well disposed toward that, even if he do not openly profess it--i pray you set it down to my need and hard circumstances." she did not seem to understand. "i would ask if he be not at heart with the catholic gentlemen that are looking for better times--for indeed i have heard it stated of him." "oh no, sir--surely not," said judith, in some alarm, for she knew quite enough about the penal laws against priests and recusants, and would not have her father associated in any way with these, especially as she was talking with a stranger. "nay, then, it were better i did not deliver the letter," said the young man, with just a touch of hopelessness in his tone. "under the protection of your father i might have had somewhat more of liberty, perchance; but i am content to remain as i am until i can get proofs that will convince them in authority of my innocence; or mayhap i may get away from the country altogether, and to my friends in flanders. if they would but set my good friend walter raleigh free from the tower, that also were well, for he and i might make a home for ourselves in another land. i crave your pardon for detaining you, madam, and so bid you farewell." he raised his hat and made her a most respectful obeisance, and was about to withdraw. "stay, sir," said she, scarcely knowing what she said, but with trouble and anxiety in her gentle eyes. indeed, she was somewhat bewildered. so sudden had been the shock of surprise that she had forgotten, or very nearly forgotten, all about ghosts and wizards, about possible lovers or husbands, and only knew that here, in actual fact, was a stranger--and a modest young stranger, too--that was in trouble, and yet was afraid to seek shelter and aid from her father. that he had no reason to be thus afraid she was certain enough; and yet she dare not assume--she had no reason for believing--that her father was secretly inclined to favor those that were still hoping for the re-establishment of the catholic faith. the fact was that her father scarcely ever spoke of such matters. he would listen, if he happened to be in the house, to any theological discussion that might be going on, and he would regard this or that minister or preacher calmly, as if trying to understand the man and his opinions; but he would take no part in the talk; and when the discussion became disputatious, as sometimes happened, and the combatants grew warm and took to making hot assertions, he would rise and go out idly into the garden, and look at the young apple-trees or talk to don roderigo. indeed, at this precise moment, judith was quite incapable of deciding for herself which party her father would most likely be in sympathy with--the puritans, who were sore at heart because of the failure of the hampton court conference, or the catholics, who were no less bitter on account of the severity of the penal laws--and a kind of vague wish arose in her heart that she could ask prudence shawe (who paid more attention to such matters, and was, in fact, wrapped up in them) before sending this young man away with his letter of commendation unopened. "your brother-in-law, madam, dr. hall," said he, seeing that she did not wish him to leave on the instant, "is well esteemed by the catholic gentry, as i hear." judith did not answer that; she had been rapidly considering what she could do for one in distress. "by your leave, sir, i would not have you go away without making further inquiry," said she. "i will myself get to know how my father is inclined, for indeed he never speaks of such matters to us; and sure i am that, whatever be his opinion, no harm could come to you through seeking his friendship. that i am sure of. if you are in distress, that is enough; he will not ask you whence you come; nor has he censure for any one; and that is a marvel in one that is so good a man himself, that he hath never a word of blame for any one, neither for the highwayman that was taken red-handed, as it were, last sunday near to oxford--'why,' says my father, 'if he take not life, and be a civil gentleman, i grudge him not a purse or two'--nor for a lesser criminal, my cousin willie hart, that but yesterday let the portuguese singing-bird escape from its cage. 'well, well,' says my father, 'so much the better, if only it can find food for itself.' indeed, you need fear naught but kindness and gentleness; and sure i am that he would be but ill pleased to know that one coming from his friend benjamin jonson had been in the neighborhood and gone away without having speech of him." "but this is no matter of courtesy, sweet lady," said he. "it is of a more dangerous cast; and i must be wary. if, now, you were inclined to do as you say--to make some discreet inquiry as to your good father's sentiments----" "not from himself," said she, quickly, and with some color mounting to her cheeks--"for he would but laugh at my speaking of such things--but from my gossip and neighbor i think i could gain sufficient assurance that would set your fears at rest." "and how should i come to know?" he said, with some hesitation--for this looked much like asking for another meeting. but judith was frank enough. if she meant to confer a kindness, she did not stay to be too scrupulous about the manner of doing it. "if it were convenient that you could be here this evening," said she, after a moment's thought, "willie hart and myself often walk over to shottery after supper. then could i let you know." "but how am i to thank you for such a favor?" said he. "nay, it is but little," she answered, "to do for one that comes from my father's friend." "rare ben, as they call him," said he, more brightly. "and now i bethink me, kind lady, that it ill becomes me to have spoken of nothing but my own poor affairs on my first having the honor of meeting with you. perchance you would like to hear something of master jonson, and how he does? may i accompany you on your homeward way for a space, if you are returning to the town? the road here is quiet enough for one that is in hiding, as well as for pleasant walking; and you are well escorted, too," he added, looking at the grave and indifferent don. "with such a master as your father, and such a sweet mistress, i should not wonder if he became as famous as sir john harrington's bungey that the prince asked about. you have not heard of him?--the marvellous dog that sir john would intrust with messages all the way to the court at greenwich; and he would bring back the answer without more ado. i wonder not that prince henry should have asked for an account of all his feats and doings." now insensibly she had turned and begun to walk toward shottery (for she would not ask this unhappy young man to court the light of the open highway), and as he respectfully accompanied her his talk became more and more cheerful, so that one would scarcely have remembered that he was in hiding, and in peril of his life mayhap. and he quickly found that she was most interested in jonson as being her father's friend and intimate. "indeed, i should not much marvel to hear of his being soon in this very town of stratford," said he, "for he has been talking of late--nay, he has been talking this many a day of it, but who knows when the adventure will take place?--of travelling all the way to scotland on foot, and writing an account of his discoveries on the road. and then he has a mind to get to the lake of lomond, to make it the scene of a fisher and pastoral play, he says; and his friend drummond will go with him; and they speak of getting still farther to the north, and being the guests of the new scotch lord, mackenzie of kintail, that was made a peer last winter. nay, friend ben, though at times he gibes at the scots, at other times he will boast of his scotch blood--for his grandfather, as i have heard, came from annandale--and you will often hear him say that whereas the late queen was a niggard and close-fisted, this scotch king is lavish and a generous patron. if he go to scotland, as is his purpose, surely he will come by way of stratford." "it were ill done of him else," said judith. but truly this young gentleman was so bent on entertaining her with tales of his acquaintance in london, and with descriptions of the court shows and pageants, that she had not to trouble herself much to join in the conversation. "a lavish patron the king has been to him truly," he continued, stooping to pat the don's head, as if he would make friends with him too, "what with the masks, and revels, and so forth. their last tiltings at prince henry's barriers exceeded everything that had gone before, as i think--and i marvel not that ben was found at his best, seeing how the king had been instructing him. nay, but it was a happy conceit to have our young lord of the isles addressed by the lady of the lake, and have king arthur hand him his armor out of the clouds----" "but where was it, good sir?" said she (to show that she was interested). and now he seemed so cheerful and friendly that she ventured to steal a look at him. in truth, there was nothing very doleful or tragic in his appearance. he was a handsomely made young man, of about eight-and-twenty or so, with fine features, a somewhat pale and sallow complexion (that distinguished him markedly from the rustic red and white and sun-brown she was familiar with), and eyes of a singular blackness and fire that were exceedingly respectful; but that could, as any one might see, easily break into mirth. he was well habited too, for now he had partly thrown his travelling cloak aside, and his slashed doublet and hose and shoes were smart and clearly of a town fashion. he wore no sword; in his belt there was only a small dagger, of venetian silver-work on the handle, and with a sheath of stamped crimson velvet. "dear lady, you must have heard of them," he continued, lightly--"i mean of the great doings in the banqueting-house at whitehall, when prince henry challenged so many noble lords. 'twas a brave sight, i assure you; the king and queen were there, and the ambassadors from spain and venice, and a great and splendid assemblage. and then, when ben's speeches came to be spoken, there was cyril davy, that is said to have the best woman's voice in london, as the lady of the lake, and he came forward and said, 'lest any yet should doubt, or might mistake what nymph i am, behold the ample lake of which i'm styled; and near it merlin's tomb;' and then king arthur appeared, and our young lord of the isles had a magic shield handed to him. oh, 'twas a noble sight, i warrant you! and i heard that the duke of lennox and the earls of arundel and southampton and all of them were but of one mind, that friend ben had never done better." indeed, the young man, as they loitered along the pretty wooded lane in the hush of the warm still noon (there was scarce enough wind to make a rustle in the great branching elms), and as he talked of all manner of things for the entertainment of this charming companion whom a happy chance had thrown in his way, seemed to be well acquainted with the court and its doings, and all the busy life of london. if she gathered rightly, he had himself been present when the king and the nobles went in the december of the previous year to deptford to witness the launching of the great ship of the east india company--the _trade's encrease_, it was called--for he described the magnificent banquet in the chief cabin, and how the king gave to sir thomas smith, the governor, a fine chain of gold, with his portrait set in a jewel, and how angry his majesty became when they found that the ship could not be launched on account of the state of the tide. but when he again brought in the name of jonson, and said how highly the king thought of his writings, and what his majesty had said of this or the other device or masque that had been commanded of him, judith grew at length to be not so pleased; and she said, with some asperity, "but the king holds my father in honor also, for he wrote him a letter with his own hand." "i heard not of that," said he, but of course without appearing to doubt her word. "nay, but i saw it," said she--"i saw the letter; and i did not think it well that my father should give it to julius shawe, for there are some others that would have valued it as much as he--yes, and been more proud of it, too." "his own daughter, perchance?" he said gently. judith did not speak. it was a sore subject with her; indeed, she had cried in secret, and bitterly, when she learned that the letter had been casually given away, for her father seemed to put no great store by it. however, that had nothing to do with this unhappy young gentleman that was in hiding. and soon she had dismissed it from her mind, and was engaged in fixing the exact time at which, as she hoped, she would be able to bring him that assurance, or that caution, in the evening. "i think it must be the province of women to be kind to the unfortunate," said he, as they came in sight of the cottages; and he seemed to linger and hesitate in his walk, as if he were afraid of going further. "it is but a small kindness," said she; "and i hope it will bring you and my father together. he has but just returned from london, and you will not have much news to give him from his friend; but you will be none the less welcome, for all are welcome to him, but especially those whom he can aid." "if i were to judge of the father by the daughter, i should indeed expect a friendly treatment," said he, with much courtesy. "nay, but it is so simple a matter," said she. "then fare you well, mistress judith," said he, "if i may make so bold as to guess at a name that i have heard named in london." "oh, no, sir?" said she, glancing up with some inquiry. "but indeed, indeed," said he, gallantly. "and who can wonder? 'twas friend ben that i heard speak of you; i marvel not that he carried your praises so far. but now, sweet lady, that i see you would go--and i wish not to venture nearer the village there--may i beseech of you at parting a further grace and favor? it is that you would not reveal to any one, no matter what trust you may put in them, that you have seen me or spoken with me. you know not my name, it is true, though i would willingly confide it to you--indeed, it is leofric hope, madam; but if it were merely known that you had met with a stranger, curious eyes might be on the alert." "fear not, sir," said she, looking at him in her frank way--and there was a kind of friendliness, too, and sympathy in her regard. "your secret is surely safe in my keeping. i can promise you that none shall know through me that you are in the neighborhood. farewell, good sir. i hope your fortunes will mend speedily." "god keep you, sweet mistress judith," said he, raising his hat and bowing low, and not even asking to be allowed to take her hand. "if my ill fortune should carry it so that i see you not again, at least i will treasure in my memory a vision of kindness and beauty that i trust will remain forever there. farewell, gentle lady; i am your debtor." and so they parted; and he stood looking after her and the great dog as they passed through the meadows; and she was making all the haste she might, for although, when judith's father was at home, the dinner hour was at twelve instead of at eleven, still it would take her all the time to be punctual, and she was scrupulous not to offend. he stood looking after her as long as she was in sight, and then he turned away, saying to himself: "why, our ben did not tell us a tithe of the truth!--for why?--because it was with his tongue, and not with his pen, that he described her. by heaven, she is a marvel!--and i dare be sworn, now, that half the clowns in stratford imagine themselves in love with her." chapter vi. within-doors. when in the afternoon judith sought out her gentle gossip, and with much cautious tact and discretion began to unfold her perplexities to her, prudence was not only glad enough to hear nothing further of the wizard--who seemed to have been driven out of judith's mind altogether by the actual occurrences of the morning--but also she became possessed with a secret wonder and joy; for she thought that at last her dearest and closest friend was awaking to a sense of the importance of spiritual things, and that henceforth there would be a bond of confidence between them far more true and abiding than any that had been before. but soon she discovered that politics had a good deal to do with these hesitating inquiries; and at length the bewildered prudence found the conversation narrowing and narrowing itself to this definite question: whether, supposing there were a young man charged with complicity in a catholic plot, or perhaps having been compromised in some former affair of the kind, and supposing him to appeal to her father, would he, judith's father, probably be inclined to shelter him and conceal him, and give him what aid was possible until he might get away from the country? "but what do you mean, judith?" said prudence, in dismay. "have you seen any one? what is't you mean? have you seen one of the desperate men that were concerned with catesby?" indeed, it was not likely that either of these two warwickshire maidens had already forgotten the terrible tidings that rang through the land but a few years before, when the gunpowder treason was discovered; nor how the conspirators fled into this very county; nor yet how in the following january, on a bitterly cold and snowy day, there was brought into the town the news of the executions in st. paul's churchyard and at westminster. and, in truth, when prudence shawe mentioned catesby's name, judith's cheek turned pale. it was but for an instant. she banished the ungenerous thought the moment that it occurred to her. no, she was sure the unhappy young man who had appealed to her compassion could not have been concerned in any such bloody enterprise. his speech was too gentle for that. had he not declared that he only wanted time to prove his innocence? it is true he had said something about his friends in flanders, and often enough had she heard the puritan divines denouncing flanders as the very hot-bed of the machinations of the jesuits; but that this young man might have friends among the jesuits did not appear to her as being in itself a criminal thing, any more than the possibility of his being a catholic was sufficient of itself to deprive him of her frank and generous sympathy. "i may not answer you yea nor nay, sweet mouse," said she; "but assure yourself that i am not in league with any desperate villain. i but put a case. we live in quiet times now, do we not, good prue? and i take it that those who like not the country are free to leave it. but tell me, if my father were to speak openly, which of the parties would he most affect? and how stands he with the king? nay, the king himself, of what religion is he at heart, think you?" "these be questions!" said prudence, staring aghast at such ignorance. "i but use my ears," said judith, indifferently, "and the winds are not more variable than the opinions that one listens to. well you know it, prue. here is one that says the king is in conscience a papist, as his mother was; and that he gave a guarantee to the catholic gentry ere he came to the throne; and that soon or late we shall have mass again; and then comes another with the story that the pope is hot and angry because the king misuseth him in his speech, calling him antichrist and the like and that he has complained to the french king on the matter, and that there is even talk of excommunication. what can one believe? how is one to know? indeed, good mouse, you would have me more anxious about such things; but why should one add to one's difficulties? i am content to be like my father, and stand aside from the quarrel." "your wit is too great for me, dear judith," her friend said, rather sadly; "and i will not argue with you. but well i know there may be a calmness that is of ignorance and indifference, and that is slothful and sinful; and there may be a calmness that is of assured wisdom and knowledge of the truth, and that i trust your father has attained to. that he should keep aside from disputes, i can well understand." "but touching the king, dear cousin," said judith, who had her own ends in view. "how stands my father with the king and his religion? nay, but i know, and every one knows, that in all other matters they are friends; for your brother has the king's letter----" "that i wish you had yourself, judith, since your heart is set upon it," said her companion, gently. judith did not answer that. "but as regards religion, sweet prue, what think you my father would most favor, were there a movement any way?--a change to the ancient faith perchance?" she threw out the question with a kind of studied carelessness, as if it were a mere matter of speculation; but there was a touch of warmth in prudence's answer: "what, then, judith? you think he would disturb the peace of the land, and give us over again to the priests and their idol-worship? i trow not." then something seemed to occur to her suddenly. "but if you have any doubt, judith, i can set your mind at rest--of a surety i can." "how, then, dear mouse?" "i will tell you the manner of it. no longer ago than yesterday evening i was seated at the window reading--it was the volume that dr. hall brought me from worcester, and that i value more and more the longer i read it--and your father came into the house asking for julius. so i put the book on the table, with the face downward, and away i went to seek for my brother. well, then, sweet cousin, when i came back to the room, there was your father standing at the window reading the book that i had left, and i would not disturb him; and when he had finished the page, he turned, saying, 'good bishop! good bishop!' and putting down the book on the table just as he had found it. dear judith, i hope you will think it no harm and no idle curiosity that made me take up the book as soon as my brother was come in, and examine the passage, and mark it----" "harm!--bless thee, sweetheart!" judith exclaimed. and she added, eagerly: "but have you the book? will you read it to me? is it about the king? do, dear cousin, read to me what it was that my father approved. beshrew me! but i shall have to take to school lessons, after all, lest i outlive even your gentle patience." straightway prudence had gone to a small cupboard of boxes in which she kept all her most valued possessions, and from thence she brought a stout little volume, which, as judith perceived, had a tiny book-mark of satin projecting from the red-edged leaves. "much comfort indeed have i found in these comfortable notes," said she. "i wish, judith, you, that can think of everything, would tell me how i am to show to dr. hall that i am more and more grateful to him for his goodness. what can i do?--words are such poor things!" "but the passage, good prue--what was't he read? i pray you let me hear," said judith, eagerly; for here, indeed, might be a key to many mysteries. "listen, then," said her companion, opening the book. "the bishop, you understand, judith, is speaking of the sacrifices the jews made to the lord, and he goes on to say: "'thus had this people their peace-offerings; that is, duties of thankfulness to their god for the peace and prosperity vouchsafed unto them. and most fit it was that he should often be thanked for such favors. the like mercies and goodness remain to us at this day: are we either freed from the duty or left without means to perform it? no, no; but as they had oxen and kine, and sheep and goats, then appointed and allowed, so have we the calves of our lips and the sacrifice of thanksgiving still remaining for us, and as strictly required of us as these (in those days) were of them. offer them up, then, with a free heart and with a feeling soul. our peace is great; our prosperity comfortable; our god most sweet and kind; and shall we not offer? the public is sweet, the private is sweet, and forget you to offer? we lay us down and take our rest, and this our god maketh us dwell in safety. oh, where is your offering? we rise again and go to our labor, and a dog is not heard to move his tongue among us: owe we no offering? o lord, o lord, make us thankful to thee for these mercies: the whole state we live in, for the common and our several souls, for several mercies now many years enjoyed! o touch us; o turn us from our fearful dulness, and abusing of this so sweet, so long, and so happy peace! continue thy sacred servant'--surely you know, judith, whom he means--'the chiefest means under thee of this our comfort, and ever still furnish him with wise helps, truly fearing thee, and truly loving him. let our heads go to the grave in this peace, if it may be thy blessed pleasure, and our eyes never see the change of so happy an estate. make us thankful and full of peace-offerings; be thou still ours, and ever merciful. amen! amen!'" "and what said he, sweet prue--what said my father?" judith asked, though her eyes were distant and thoughtful. "'good bishop! good bishop!' said he, as if he were right well pleased, and he put down the book on the table. nay, you may be certain, judith, that your father would have naught to do with the desperate men that would fain upset the country, and bring wars among us, and hand us over to the pope again. i have heard of such; i have heard that many of the great families have but a lip loyalty, and have malice at their heart, and would willingly plunge the land in blood if they could put the priests in power over us again. be sure your father is not of that mind." "but if one were in distress, prudence," said the other, absently, "perchance with a false charge hanging over him that could be disproved--say that one were in hiding, and only anxious to prove his innocence, or to get away from the country, is my father likely to look coldly on such a one in misfortune? no, no, surely, sweet mouse!" "but of whom do you speak, judith?" exclaimed her friend, regarding her with renewed alarm. "it cannot be that you know of such a one? judith, i beseech you speak plainly! you have met with some stranger that is unknown to your own people? you said you had but put a case, but now you speak as if you knew the man. i beseech you, for the love between us, speak plainly to me, judith!" "i may not," said the other rising. and then she added, more lightly, "nay, have no fear, sweet prue; if there be any danger, it is not i that run it, and soon there will be no occasion for my withholding the secret from you, if secret there be." "i cannot understand you, judith," said her friend, with the pale, gentle face full of a tender wistfulness and anxiety. "such timid eyes!" said judith, laughing good-naturedly. "indeed, prudence, i have seen no ghost, and goodman wizard has failed me utterly; nor sprite nor phantom has been near me. in sooth i have buried poor tom's bit of rosemary to little purpose. and now i must get me home, for master parson comes this afternoon, and i will but wait the preaching to hear susan sing: 'tis worth the penance. farewell, sweet mouse; get you rid of your alarm. the sky will clear all in good time." so they kissed each other, and she left; still in much perplexity, it is true, but nevertheless resolved to tell the young man honestly and plainly the result of her inquiries. as it turned out, she was to hear something more about the king and politics and religion that afternoon; for when she got home to new place, master blaise was already there, and he was eagerly discussing with judith's mother and her sister the last news that had been brought from london; or rather he was expounding it, with emphatic assertions and denunciations that the women-folk received for the most part with a mute but quite apparent sympathy. he was a young man of about six-and-twenty, rather inclined to be stout, but with strongly lined features, fair complexion and hair, an intellectual forehead, and sharp and keen gray eyes. the one point that recommended him to judith's favor--which he openly and frankly, but with perfect independence, sought--was the uncompromising manner in which he professed his opinions. these frequently angered her, and even at times roused her to passionate indignation; and yet, oddly enough, she had a kind of lurking admiration for the very honesty that scorned to curry favor with her by means of any suppression or evasion. it may be that there was a trace of the wisdom of the serpent in this attitude of the young parson, who was shrewd-headed as well as clear-eyed, and was as quick as any to read the fearless quality of judith's character. at all events, he would not yield to any of her prejudices; he would not stoop to flatter her; he would not abate one jot of his protests against the vanity and pride, the heathenish show and extravagance, of women; the heinousness and peril of indifferentism in matters of doctrine; and the sinfulness of the life of them that countenanced stage plays and such like devilish iniquities. it was this last that was the real stumbling-block and contention between them. sometimes judith's eyes burned. once she rose and got out of the room. "if i were a man, master parson," she was saying to herself, with shut teeth, "by the life of me i would whip you from stratford town to warwick!" and indeed there was ordinarily a kind of armed truce between these two, so that no stranger or acquaintance could very easily decide what their precise relations were, although every one knew that judith's mother and sister held the young divine in great favor, and would fain have had him of the family. at this moment of judith's entrance he was much exercised, as has been said, on account of the news that was but just come from london--how that the king was driving at still further impositions because of the commons begrudging him supplies; and naturally master blaise warmly approved of the commons, that had been for granting the liberties to the puritans which the king had refused. and not only was this the expression of a general opinion on the subject, but he maintained as an individual--and as a very emphatic individual too--that the prerogatives of the crown, the wardships and purveyances and what not, were monstrous and abominable, and a way of escape from the just restraint of parliament, and he declared with a sudden vehemence that he would rather perish at the stake than contribute a single benevolence to the royal purse. judith's mother, a tall, slight, silver-haired woman, with eyes that had once been of extraordinary beauty, but now were grown somewhat sad and worn, and her daughter susanna hall, who was darker than her sister judith as regarded hair and eyebrows, but who had blue-gray eyes of a singular clearness and quickness and intelligence, listened and acquiesced; but perhaps they were better pleased when they found the young parson come out of that vehement mood; though still he was sharp of tongue and sarcastic, saying as an excuse for the king that now he was revenging himself on the english puritans for the treatment he had received at the hands of the scotch presbyterians, who had harried him not a little. he had not a word for judith; he addressed his discourse entirely to the other two. and she was content to sit aside, for indeed this discontent with the crown on the part of the puritans was nothing strange or novel to her, and did not in the least help to solve her present perplexity. and now the maids (for judith's father would have no serving-men, nor stable-men, nor husbandmen of any grade whatever, come within-doors; the work of the house was done entirely by women-folk) entered to prepare the long oaken table for supper, seeing which master blaise suggested that before that meal it might be as well to devote a space to divine worship. so the maids were bidden to stay their preparations, and to remain, seating themselves dutifully on a bench brought crosswise, and the others sat at the table in their usual chairs, while the preacher opened the large bible that had been fetched for him, and proceeded to read the second chapter of the book of jeremiah, expounding as he went along. this running commentary was, in fact, a sermon applied to all the evils of the day, as the various verses happened to offer texts; and the ungodliness and the vanity and the turning away from the lord that jeremiah lamented were attributed in no unsparing fashion to the town of stratford and the inhabitants thereof: "hear ye the word of the lord, o house of jacob, and all the families of the house of israel: thus saith the lord, what iniquity have your fathers found in me, that they are gone far from me, and have walked after vanity, and are become vain?" nor did he spare himself and his own calling: "the priests said not, where is the lord? and they that should minister the law knew me not: the pastors also offended against me, and the prophets prophesied in baal, and went after things that did not profit." and there were bold paraphrases and inductions, too: "what hast thou now to do in the way of egypt, to drink the waters of nilus? or what makest thou in the way of asshur, to drink the waters of the river?" was not that the seeking of strange objects--of baubles, and jewels, and silks, and other instruments of vanity--from abroad, from the papist land of france, to lure the eye and deceive the senses, and turn away the mind from the dwelling on holy things? "can a maid forget her ornament, or the bride her attire? yet my people have forgotten me days without number." this was, indeed, a fruitful text, and there is no doubt that judith was indirectly admonished to regard the extreme simplicity of her mother's and sister's attire; so that there can be no excuse whatever for her having in her mind at this very moment some vague fancy that as soon as supper was over she would go to her own chamber and take out a certain beaver hat. she did not often wear it, for it was a present that her father had once brought her from london, and it was ranked among her most precious treasures; but surely on this evening (she was saying to herself) it was fitting that she should wear it, not from any personal vanity, but to the end that this young gentleman, who seemed to know several of her father's acquaintances in london, should understand that the daughter of the owner of new place was no mere country wench, ignorant of what was in the fashion. it is grievous that she should have been concerned with such frivolous thoughts. however, the chapter came to an end in due time. then good master blaise said that they would sing the one-hundred-and-thirty-seventh psalm; and this was truly what judith had been waiting for. she herself was but an indifferent singer. she could do little more than hum such snatches of old songs as occurred to her during her careless rambles, and that only for her private ear; but her sister susanna had a most noble, pure, and clear contralto voice, that could at any time bring tears to judith's eyes, and that, when she joined in the choral parts of the service in church, made many a young man's heart tremble strangely. in former days she used to sing to the accompaniment of her lute; but that was given over now. once or twice judith had brought the discarded instrument to her, and said, "susan, sweet susan, for once, for once only, sing to me '_the rose is from my garden gone_.'" "why, then--to make you cry, silly one?" the elder sister would answer. "what profit those idle tears, child, that are but a luxury and a sinful indulgence?" "susan, but once!" judith would plead (with the tears almost already in her eyes)--"once only, '_the rose is from my garden gone_.' there is none can sing it like you." but the elder sister was obdurate, as she considered was right; and judith, as she walked through the meadows in the evening, would sometimes try the song for herself, thinking, or endeavoring to think, that she could hear in it the pathetic vibrations of her sister's voice. indeed, at this moment the small congregation assembled around the table would doubtless have been deeply shocked had they known with what a purely secular delight judith was now listening to the words of the psalm. there was but one bible in the house, so that master blaise read out the first two lines (lest any of the maids might have a lax memory): "when as we sat in babylon, the rivers round about;" and that they sang; then they proceeded in like manner: "and in remembrance of sion, the tears for grief burst out; we hanged our harps and instruments the willow-trees upon; for in that place men for their use had planted many a one." it is probable, indeed, that judith was so wrapped up in her sister's singing that it did not occur to her to ask herself whether this psalm, too, had not been chosen with some regard to the good preacher's discontent with those in power. at all events, he read out, and they sang, no further than these two verses: "then they to whom we prisoners were, said to us tauntingly: now let us hear your hebrew songs and pleasant melody. alas! (said we) who can once frame his sorrowful heart to sing the praises of our loving god thus under a strange king? "but yet if i jerusalem out of my heart let slide, then let my fingers quite forget the warbling harp to guide; and let my tongue within my mouth be tied forever fast, if that i joy before i see thy full deliverance past." then there was a short and earnest prayer; and, that over, the maids set to work to get forward the supper; and young willie hart was called in from the garden--judith's father being away at wilmcote on some important business there. in due course of time, supper being finished, and a devout thanksgiving said, judith was free; and instantly she fled away to her own chamber to don her bravery. it was not vanity (she again said to herself), it was that her father's daughter should show that she knew what was due to him and his standing in the town; and indeed, as she now regarded herself in the little mirror--she wore a half-circle farthingale, and had on one of her smartest ruffs--and when she set on her head of short brown curls this exceedingly pretty hat (it was a gray beaver above, and underneath it was lined with black satin, and all around the rim was a row of hollow brass beads that tinkled like small bells), she was quite well satisfied with her appearance, and that she was fairly entitled to be. then she went down and summoned her sweetheart willie, to act as her companion and protector and ally; and together these two passed forth from the house--into the golden clear evening. chapter vii. a farewell. always, when she got out into the open air, her spirits rose into a pure content; and now, as they were walking westward through the peaceful meadows, the light of the sunset was on her face; and there was a kind of radiance there, and careless happiness, that little willie hart scarce dared look upon, so abject and wistful was the worship that the small lad laid at his pretty cousin's feet. he was a sensitive and imaginative boy; and the joy and crown of his life was to be allowed to walk out with his cousin judith, her hand holding his; and it did not matter to him whether she spoke to him, or whether she was busy with her private thinking, and left him to his own pleasure and fancies. he had many of these; for he had heard of all kinds of great and noble persons--princesses, and empresses, and queens; but to him his cousin judith was the queen of queens; he could not believe that any one ever was more beautiful--or more gentle and lovable, in a magical and mystical way--than she was; and in church, on the quiet sunday mornings, when the choir was singing, and all else silence, and dreams were busy in certain small brains, if there were any far-away pictures of angels in white and shining robes, coming toward one through rose-red celestial gardens, be sure they had judith's eyes and the light and witchery of these; and that, when they spoke (if such wonderful creatures vouchsafed to speak), it was with the softness of judith's voice. so it is not to be conceived that judith, who knew something of this mute and secret adoration, had any malice in her heart when, on this particular evening, she began to question the boy as to the kind of sweetheart he would choose when he was grown up: the fact being that she spoke from idleness, and a wish to be friendly and companionable, her thoughts being really occupied elsewhere. "come now, willie, tell me," said she, "what sort of one you will choose, some fifteen or twenty years hence, when you are grown up to be a man, and will be going abroad from place to place. in coventry, perchance, you may find her, or over at evesham, or in warwick, or worcester, or as far away as oxford; in all of them are plenty of pretty maidens to be had for the asking, so you be civil-spoken enough, and bear yourself well. now tell me your fancy, sweetheart; what shall her height be?" "why, you know, judith," said he, rather shamefacedly. "just your height." "my height?" she said, carelessly. "why, that is neither the one way nor the other. my father says i am just as high as his heart; and with that i am content. well, now, her hair--what color of hair shall she have?" "like yours, judith; and it must come round about her ears like yours," said he, glancing up for a moment. "eyes: must they be black, or gray, or brown, or blue? nay, you shall have your choice, sweetheart willie; there be all sorts, if you go far enough afield and look around you. what eyes do you like, now?" "you know well, judith, there is no one has such pretty eyes as you; these are the ones i like, and no others." "bless the boy!--would you have her to be like me?" "just like you, judith--altogether," said he, promptly; and he added, more shyly, "for you know there is none as pretty, and they all of them say that." "marry, now!" said she, with a laugh. "here be news. what? when you go choosing your sweetheart, would you pick out one that had as large hands as these?" she held forth her hands, and regarded them; and yet with some complacency, for she had put on a pair of scented gloves which her father had brought her from london, and these were beautifully embroidered with silver, for he knew her tastes, and that she was not afraid to wear finery, whatever the preachers might say. "why, you know, judith," said he, "that there is none has such pretty hands as you, nor so white, nor so soft." "heaven save us! am i perfection, then?" she cried (but she was pleased). "must she be altogether like me?" "just so, cousin judith; altogether like you; and she must wear pretty things like you, and walk as you walk, and speak like you, else i shall not love her nor go near her, though she were the queen herself." "well said, sweetheart willie!--you shall to the court some day, if you can speak so fair. and shall i tell you, now, how you must woo and win such a one?" she continued, lightly. "it may be you shall find her here or there--in a farm-house, perchance; or she may be a great lady with her coach; or a wench in an ale-house; but if she be as you figure her, this is how you shall do: you must not grow up to be too nice and fine and delicate-handed; you must not bend too low for her favor; but be her lord and governor; and you must be ready to fight for her, if need there be--yes, you shall not suffer a word to be said in dispraise of her; and for slanderers you must have a cudgel and a stout arm withal; and yet you must be gentle with her, because she is a woman; and yet not too gentle, for you are a man; and you must be no slape-face, with whining through the nose that we are all devilish and wicked and the children of sin; and you must be no tavern-seeker, with oaths and drunken jests and the like; and when you find her you must be the master of her--and yet a gentle master: marry, i cannot tell you more; but, as i hope for heaven, sweet willie, you will do well and fairly if she loves thee half as much as i do." and she patted the boy's head. what sudden pang was it that went through his heart? "they say you are going to marry parson blaise, judith," said he, looking up at her. "do they, now?" said she, with a touch of color in her face. "they are too kind that would take from me the business of choosing for myself." "is it true, judith?" "it is but idle talk; heed it not, sweetheart," said she, rather sharply. "i would they were as busy with their fingers as with their tongues; there would be more wool spun in warwickshire!" but here she remembered that she had no quarrel with the lad, who had but innocently repeated the gossip he had heard; and so she spoke to him in a more gentle fashion; and, as they were now come to a parting of the ways, she said that she had a message to deliver, and bade him go on by himself to the cottage, and have some flowers gathered for her from out of the garden by the time she should arrive. he was a biddable boy, and went on without further question. then she turned off to the left, and in a few minutes was in the wide and wooded lane where she was to meet the young gentleman that had appealed to her friendliness. and there, sure enough, he was; and as he came forward, hat in hand, to greet her, those eloquent black eyes of his expressed so much pleasure (and admiration of a respectful kind) that judith became for a moment a trifle self-conscious, and remembered that she was in unusually brave attire. there may have been something else: some quick remembrance of the surprise and alarm of the morning; and also--in spite of her determination to banish such unworthy fancies--some frightened doubt as to whether, after all, there might not be a subtle connection between her meeting with this young gentleman and the forecasts of the wizard. this was but for a moment, but it confused her in what she had intended to say (for, in crossing the meadows, she had been planning out certain speeches as well as talking idly to willie hart), and she was about to make some stumbling confession to the effect that she had obtained no clear intelligence from her gossip prudence shawe, when the young gentleman himself absolved her from all further difficulty. "i beseech your pardon, sweet lady," said he, "that i have caused you so much trouble, and that to no end; for i am of a mind now not to carry the letter to your father, whatever hopes there might be of his sympathy and friendship." she stared in surprise. "nay, but, good sir," said she, "since you have the letter, and are so near to stratford, that is so great a distance from london, surely it were a world of pities you did not see my father. not that i can honestly gather that he would have any favor for a desperate enterprise upsetting the peace of the land----" "i am in none such, mistress judith, believe me," said he, quickly. "but it behooves me to be cautious; and i have heard that within the last few hours which summons me away. if i were inclined to run the risk, there is no time at this present: and what i can do now is to try to thank you for the kindness you have shown to one that has no habit of forgetting." "you are going away forthwith?" said she. there was no particular reason why she should be sorry at his departure from the neighborhood, except that he was an extraordinarily gentle-spoken young man, and of a courteous breeding, whom her father, as she thought, would have been pleased to welcome as being commended from his friend ben jonson. few visitors came to new place; the faces to be met with there were grown familiar year after year. it seemed a pity that this stranger--and so fair-spoken a stranger, moreover--should be close at hand, without making her father's acquaintance. "yes, sweet lady," said he, in the same respectful way, "it is true that i must quit my present lodging for a time; but i doubt whether i could find anywhere a quieter or securer place--nay, i have no reason to fear you; i will tell you freely that it is bassfield farm, that is on the left before you go down the hill to bidford; and it is like enough i may come back thither, when that i see how matters stand with me in london." and then he glanced at her with a certain diffidence. "perchance i am too daring," said he; "and yet your courtesy makes me bold. were i to communicate with you when i return----" he paused, and his hesitation well became him; it was more eloquent in its modesty than many words. "that were easily done," said judith at once, and with her usual frankness; "but i must tell you, good sir, that any written message you might send me i should have to show to my friend and gossip prudence shawe, that reads and writes for me, being so skilled in that; and when you said that to no one was the knowledge to be given that you were in this neighborhood----" "sweet lady," said he, instantly, with much gratitude visible in those handsome dark eyes, "if i may so far trespass on your goodness, i would leave that also within your discretion. one that you have chosen to be your friend must needs be trustworthy--nay, i am sure of that." "but my father too, good sir----" "nay, not so," said he, with some touch of entreaty in his voice. "take it not ill of me, but one that is in peril must use precautions for his safety, even though they savor of ill manners and suspicion." "as you will, sir--as you will; i know little of such matters," judith said. "but yet i know that you do wrong to mistrust my father." "nay, dearest lady," he said, quickly, "it is you that do me wrong to use such words. i mistrust him not; but, indeed, i dare not disclose to him the charge that is brought against me until i have clearer proofs of my innocence, and these i hope to have in time, when i may present myself to your father without fear. meanwhile, sweet mistress judith, i can but ill express my thanks to you that you have vouchsafed to lighten the tedium of my hiding through these few words that have passed between us. did you know the dulness of the days at the farm--for sad thoughts are but sorry companions--you would understand my gratitude toward you----" "nay, nothing, good sir, nothing," said she; and then she paused, in some difficulty. she did not like to bid him farewell without any reference whatsoever to the future; for in truth she wished to hear more of him, and how his fortunes prospered. and yet she hesitated about betraying so much interest--of however distant and ordinary a kind--in the affairs of a stranger. her usual frank sympathy conquered: besides, was not this unhappy young man the friend of her father's friend? "is it to the farm that you return when you have been to london?" she asked. "i trust so: better security i could not easily find elsewhere; and my well-wishers have means of communication with me, so that i can get the news there. pray heaven i may soon be quit of this skulking in corners! i like it not: it is not the life of a free man." "i hope your fortunes will mend, sir, and speedily," said she, and there was an obvious sincerity in her voice. "why," said he, with a laugh--for, indeed, this young man, to be one in peril of his life, bore himself with a singularly free and undaunted demeanor; and he was not looking around him in a furtive manner, as if he feared to be observed, but was allowing his eyes to rest on judith's eyes, and on the details of her costume (which he seemed to approve), in a quite easy and unconcerned manner--"the birds and beasts we hunt are allowed to rest at times, but a man in hiding has no peace nor freedom from week's end to week's end--no, nor at any moment of the day or night. and if the good people that shelter him are not entirely of his own station, and if he cares to have but little speech with them, and if the only book in the house be the family bible, then the days are like to pass slowly with him. can you wonder, sweet mistress judith," he continued, turning his eyes to the ground in a modest manner, "that i shall carry away the memory of this meeting with you as a treasure, and dwell on it, and recall the kindness of each word you have spoken?" "in truth, no, good sir," she said, with a touch of color in her cheeks, that caught the warm golden light shining over from the west. "i would not have you think them of any importance, except the hope that matters may go well with you." "and if they should," said he, "or if they should go ill, and if i were to presume to think that you cared to know them, when i return to bassfield i might make so bold as to send you some brief tidings, through your friend mistress prudence shawe, that i am sure must be discreet, since she has won your confidence. but why should i do so?" he added, after a second. "why should i trouble you with news of one whose good or evil fortune cannot concern you?" "nay, sir, i wish you well," said she, simply, "and would fain hear better tidings of your condition. if you may not come at present to new place, where you would have better counsel than i can give you, at least you may remember that there is one in the household there that will be glad when she hears of your welfare, and better pleased still when she learns that you are free to make her father's friendship." this was clearly a dismissal; and after a few more words of gratitude on his part (he seemed almost unable to take away his eyes from her face, or to say all that he would fain say of thanks for her gracious intervention and sympathy) they parted; and forthwith judith--now with a much lighter heart, for this interview had cost her not a little embarrassment and anxiety--hastened away back through the lane in the direction of the barns and gardens of shottery. all these occurrences of the day had happened so rapidly that she had had but little time to reflect over them; but now she was clearly glad that she should be able to talk over the whole affair with prudence shawe. there would be comfort in that, and also safety; for, if the truth must be told, that wild and bewildering fancy that perchance the wizard had prophesied truly would force itself on her mind in a disquieting manner. but she strove to reason herself and laugh herself out of such imaginings. she had plenty of courage and a strong will. from the first she had made light of the wizard's pretensions; she was not going to alarm herself about the possible future consequences of this accidental meeting. and, indeed, when she recalled the particulars of that meeting, she came to think that the circumstances of the young man could not be so very desperate. he did not speak nor look like one in imminent peril; his gay description of the masques and entertainments of the court was not the talk of a man seriously and really in danger of his life. perhaps he had been in some thoughtless escapade, and was waiting for the bruit of it to blow over: perhaps he was unused to confinement, and may have exaggerated (for this also occurred to her) somewhat in order to win her sympathy. but, anyhow, he was in some kind of misfortune or trouble, and she was sorry for him; and she thought that if prudence shawe could see him, and observe how well-bred and civil-spoken and courteous a young gentleman he seemed to be, she, too, would pity the dulness of the life he must be leading at the farm, and be glad to do anything to relieve such a tedium. in truth, by the time judith was drawing near her grandmother's cottage, she had convinced herself that there was no dark mystery connected with this young man; that she had not been holding converse with any dangerous villain or conspirator; and that soon everything would be cleared up, and perhaps he himself present himself at new place, with ben jonson's letter in his hand. so she was in a cheerful enough frame of mind when she arrived at the cottage. this was a picturesque little building of brick and timber, with a substantial roof of thatch, and irregularly placed small windows; and it was prettily set in front of a wild and variegated garden, and of course all the golden glow of the west was now flooding the place with its beautiful light, and causing the little rectangular panes in the open casements to gleam like jewels. and here, at the wooden gate of the garden, was willie hart, who seemed to have been using the time profitably, for he had a most diverse and sweet-scented gathering of flowers and herbs of a humble and familiar kind--forget-me-nots, and pansies, and wall-flower, and mint, and sweet-brier, and the like--to present to his pretty cousin. "well done, sweetheart? and are all these for me?" said she, as she passed within the little gate, and stood for a moment arranging and regarding them. "what, then, what is this?--what mean you by it, cousin willie?" "by what, cousin judith?" said the small boy, looking up with his wondering and wistful eyes. "why," said she, gayly, "this pansy that you have put fair in the front. know you not the name of it?" "indeed i know it not, cousin judith." "ah, you cunning one! well you know it, i'll be sworn! why, 'tis one of the chiefest favorites everywhere. did you never hear it called 'kiss me at the gate?' marry, 'tis an excellent name; and if i take you at your word, little sweetheart?" and so they went into the cottage together; and she had her arm lying lightly round his neck. chapter viii. a quarrel. but instantly her manner changed. just within the doorway of the passage that cut the rambling cottage into two halves, and attached to a string that was tied to the handle of the door, lay a small spaniel-gentle, peacefully snoozing; and well judith knew that the owner of the dog (which she had heard, indeed, was meant to be presented to herself) was inside. however, there was no retreat possible, if retreat she would have preferred; for here was the aged grandmother--a little old woman, with fresh pink cheeks, silver-white hair, and keen eyes--come out to see if it were judith's footsteps she had heard; and she was kindly in her welcome of the girl, though usually she grumbled a good deal about her, and would maintain that it was pure pride and wilfulness that kept her from getting married. "here be finery!" said she, stepping back as if to gain a fairer view. "god's mercy, wench, have you come to your senses at last?--be you seeking a husband?--would you win one of them? they have waited a goodly time for the bating of your pride; but you must after them at last--ay, ay, i thought 'twould come to that." "good grandmother, you give me no friendly welcome," said judith. "and willie here; have you no word for him, that he is come to see how you do?" "nay, come in, then, sweetings both; come in and sit ye down: little willie has been in the garden long enough, though you know i grudge you not the flowers, wench. ay, ay, there is one within, judith, that would fain be a nearer neighbor, as i hear, if you would but say yea; and bethink ye, wench, an apple may hang too long on the bough--your bravery may be put on to catch the eye when it is overlate----" "i pray you, good grandmother, forbear," said judith, with some asperity. "i have my own mind about such things." "all's well, wench, all's well," said the old dame, as she led the way into the main room of the cottage. it was a wide and spacious apartment, with heavy black beams overhead, a mighty fire-place, here or there a window in the walls just as it seemed to have been wanted, and in the middle of the floor a plain old table, on which were placed a jug and two or three horn tumblers. of course judith knew whom she had to expect: the presence of the little spaniel-gentle at the door had told her that. this young fellow that now quickly rose from his chair and came forward to meet her--"good-even to you, judith," said he, in a humble way, and his eyes seemed to beseech her favor--was as yet but in his two-and-twentieth year, but his tall and lithe and muscular figure had already the firm set of manhood on it. he was spare of form and square-shouldered; his head smallish, his brown hair short; his features were regular, and the forehead, if not high, was square and firm; the general look of him was suggestive of a sculptured greek or roman wrestler, but that this deprecating glance of the eyes was not quite consistent. and, to tell the truth, wrestling and his firm-sinewed figure had something to do with his extreme humility on this occasion. he was afraid that judith had heard something. to have broken the head of a tapster was not a noble performance, no matter how the quarrel was forced on him; and this was but the most recent of several squabbles; for the championship in the athletic sports of a country neighborhood is productive of rivals, who may take many ways of provoking anger. "good-even to you, judith," said he, as if he really would have said, "pray you believe not all the ill you hear of me!" judith, however, did not betray anything by her manner, which was friendly enough in a kind of formal way, and distinctly reserved. she sat down, and asked her grandmother what news she had of the various members of the family, that now were widely scattered throughout warwickshire. she declined the cup of merry-go-down that the young man civilly offered to her. she had a store of things to tell about her father; and about the presents he had brought; and about the two pieces of song-music that master robert johnson had sent, that her father would have susan try over on the lute; and the other twenty acres that were to be added; and the talk there had been of turning the house opposite new place, at the corner of chapel street and scholars lane, into a tavern, and how that had happily been abandoned--for her father wanted no tavern-revelry within hearing; and so forth; but all this was addressed to the grandmother. the young man got scarce a word, though now and again he would interpose gently, and, as it were, begging her to look his way. she was far kinder to willie hart, who was standing by her side; for sometimes she would put her hand on his shoulder, or stroke his long yellow-brown hair. "willie says he will have just such another as i, grandmother," said she, when these topics were exhausted, "to be his sweetheart when he grows up; so you see there be some that value me." "look to it that you be not yourself unmarried then, judith," said the old dame, who was never done grumbling on this account. "i should not marvel; they that refuse when they are sought come in time to wonder that there are none to seek--nay, 'tis so, i warrant you. you are hanging late on the bough, wench; see you be not forgotten." "but, good grandmother," said judith, with some color in her cheeks (for this was an awkward topic in the presence of this youth), "would you have me break from the rule of the family? my mother was six-and-twenty when she married, and susan four-and-twenty; and indeed there might come one of us who did not perceive the necessity of marrying at all." "in god's name, if that be your mind, wench, hold to it. hold to it, i say!" and then the old dame glanced with her sharp eyes at the pretty costume of her visitor. "but i had other thoughts when i saw such a fine young madam at the door; in truth, they befit you well, these braveries; indeed they do; though 'tis a pity to have them bedecking out one that is above the marrying trade. but take heed, wench, take heed lest you change your mind when it is too late; the young men may hold you to your word, and you find yourself forsaken when you least expect it." "give ye thanks for your good comfort, grandmother," said judith, indifferently. and then she rose. "come, willie, 'tis about time we were going through the fields to the town. what message have you, grandmother, for my father? he is busy from morning till night since his coming home; but i know he will be over to visit you soon. the flowers, willie--did you leave them on the bench outside?" but she was not allowed to depart in this fashion. the old dame's discontents with her pretty granddaughter--that was now grown into so fair and blithe a young woman--were never of a lasting nature; and now she would have both judith and little willie taste of some gingerbread of her own baking, and then judith had again to refuse a sup of the ale that stood on the table, preferring a little water instead. moreover, when they had got out into the garden, behold! this young man would come also, to convoy them home on their way across the fields. it was a gracious evening, sweet and cool; there was a clear twilight shining over the land; the elms were dark against the palely luminous sky. and then, as the three of them went across the meadows toward stratford town, little willie hart was intrusted with the care of the spaniel-gentle--that was young and wayward, and possessed with a mad purpose of hunting sparrows--and as the dog kept him running this way and that, he was mostly at some distance from these other two, and judith's companion, young quiney, had every opportunity of speaking with her. "i sent you a message, judith," said he, rather timidly, but anxiously watching the expression of her face all the time, "a token of remembrance: i trust it did not displease you?" "you should have considered through whose hands it would come," said she, without regarding him. "how so?" he asked, in some surprise. "why, you know that prudence would have to read it." "and why not, judith? why should she not? she is your friend; and i care not who is made aware that--that--well, you know what i mean, dear judith, but, i fear to anger you by saying it. you were not always so hard to please." there was a touch of reproach in this that she did not like. besides, was it fair? of course she had been kinder to him when he was a mere stripling--when they were boy and girl together; but now he had put forth other pretensions; and they stood on a quite different footing; and in his pertinacity he would not understand why she was always speaking to him of prudence shawe, and extolling her gentleness and sweet calm wisdom and goodness. "the idle boy!" she would say to herself; "why did god give him such a foolish head that he must needs come fancying me?" and sometimes she was angry because of his dulness and that he would not see; though, indeed, she could not speak quite plainly. "you should think," said she, on this occasion, with some sharpness, "that these idle verses that you send me are read by prudence. well, doubtless, she may not heed that----" "why should she heed, judith?" said he. "'tis but an innocent part she takes in the matter--a kindness, merely." she dared not say more, and she was vexed with him for putting this restraint upon her. she turned upon him with a glance of sudden and rather unfriendly scrutiny. "what is this now that i hear of you?" said she. "another brawl! a tavern brawl! i marvel you have escaped so long with a whole skin." "i know not who carries tales of me to you, judith," said he, somewhat warmly, "but if you yourself were more friendly you would take care to choose a more friendly messenger. it is always the worst that you hear. if there was a brawl, it was none of my seeking. and if my skin is whole, i thank god i can look after that for myself; i am not one that will be smitten on one cheek and turn the other--like your parson friend." this did not mend matters much. "my parson friend?" said she, with some swift color in her cheeks. "my parson friend is one that has respect for his office, and has a care for his reputation, and lives a peaceable, holy life. would you have him frequent ale-houses, and fight with drawers and tapsters? marry and amen! but i find no fault with the parson's life." "nay, that is true, indeed," said he, bitterly: "you can find no fault in the parson--as every one says. but there are others that see with other eyes, and would tell you in what he might amend----" "i care not to know," said she. "it were not amiss," said he, for he was determined to speak--"it were not amiss if sir parson showed a little more honesty in his daily walk--that were not amiss, for one thing." "in what is he dishonest, then?" said she, instantly, and she turned and faced him with indignant eyes. well, he did not quail. his blood was up. this championship of the parson, that he had scarce expected of her, only fired anew certain secret suspicions of his; and he had no mind to spare his rival, whether he were absent or no. "why, then, does he miscall the king, and eat the king's bread?" said he, somewhat hotly. "is it honest to conform in public, and revile in private? i say, let him go forth, as others have been driven forth, if the state of affairs content him not. i say that they who speak against the king--marry, it were well done to chop the rogues' ears off!--i say they should be ashamed to eat the king's bread." "he eats no king's bread?" said judith.--and alas! her eyes had a look in them that pierced him to the heart: it was not the glance he would fain have met with there. "he eats the bread of the church, that has been despoiled of its possessions again and again by the crown and the lords; and why should he go forth? he is a minister; is there harm that he should wish to see the services reformed? he is at his post; would you have him desert it, or else keep silent? no, he is no such coward, i warrant you. he will speak his mind; it were ill done of him else?" "nay, he can do no harm at all--in your judgment," said he, somewhat sullenly, "if it all be true that they say." "and who is it, then, that should speak of idle tales and the believing of them?" said she, with indignant reproach. "you say i welcome evil stories about you? and you? are you so quick to put away the idle gossip they bring you about me? would you not rather believe it? i trow you would as lief believe it as not. that it is to have friends! that it is to have those who should defend you in your absence; but would rather listen to slander against you! but when they speak about women's idle tongues, they know little; it is men who are the readiest to listen, and to carry evil reports and lying!" "i meant not to anger you, judith," said he, more humbly. "yes, but you have angered me," said she (with her lips becoming tremulous, but only for a second). "what concern have i with parson blaise? i would they that spake against him were as good men and honest as he----" "indeed, they speak no ill of him, judith," said he (for he was grieved that they were fallen out so, and there was nothing he would not have retracted that so he might win back to her favor again, in however small a degree), "except that he is disputatious, and would lead matters no one knows whither. 'tis but a few minutes ago that your grandmother there was saying that we should never have peace and quiet in church affairs till the old faith was restored----" here, indeed, she pricked up her ears; but she would say no more. she had not forgiven him yet; and she was proud and silent. "and though i do not hold with that--for there would be a bloody struggle before the pope could be master in england again--nevertheless, i would have the ministers men of peace, as they profess to be, and loyal to the king, who is at the head of the church as well as of the realm. however, let it pass. i wish to have no quarrel with you, judith." "how does your business?" said she, abruptly changing the subject. "well--excellently well; it is not in that direction that i have any anxiety about the future." "do you give it your time? you were best take heed, for else it is like to slip away from you," she said; and he thought she spoke rather coldly, and as if her warning were meant to convey something more than appeared. and then she added: "you were at wilmecote on tuesday?" "you must have heard why, judith," he said. "old pike was married again that day, and they would have me over to his wedding." "and on the wednesday, what was there at bidford, then, that you must needs be gone when my mother sent to you?" "at bidford?" said he (and he was sorely puzzled as to whether he should rejoice at these questions as betraying a friendly interest in his affairs, or rather regarded them as conveying covert reproof, and expressing her dissatisfaction with him, and distrust of him). "at bidford, judith--well, there was business as well as pleasure there. for you must know that daniel hutt is come home for a space from the new settlements in virginia, and is for taking back with him a number of laborers that are all in due time to make their fortunes there. marry, 'tis a good chance for some of them, for broken men are as welcome as any, and there are no questions asked as to their having been intimate with the constable and the justice. so there was a kind of merry-meeting of daniel's old friends, that was held at the falcon at bidford--and the host is a good customer of mine, so it was prudent of me to go thither--and right pleasant was it to hear daniel hutt tell of his adventures by sea and shore. and he gave us some of the tobacco that he had brought with him. and to any that will go back with him to jamestown he promises allotments of land, though at first there will be tough labor, as he says, honestly. oh, a worthy man is this daniel hutt, though, as yet his own fortune seems not so secure." "with such junketings," said she, with ever so slight a touch of coldness, "'tis no wonder you could not spare the time to come and see my father on the evening of his getting home." "there, now, judith!" he exclaimed. "would you have me break in upon him at such a busy season, when even you yourself are careful to refrain? it had been ill-mannered of me to do such a thing; but 'twas no heedlessness that led to my keeping away, as you may well imagine." "it is difficult to know the reasons when friends hold aloof," said she. "you have not been near the house for two or three weeks, as i reckon." and here again he would have given much to know whether her speech--which was curiously reserved in tone--meant that she had marked these things out of regard for him, or that she wished to reprove him. "i can give you the reason for that, judith," said this tall and straight young fellow, who from time to time regarded his companion's face with some solicitude, as if he fain would have found some greater measure of friendliness there. "i have not been often to new place of late because of one i thought i might meet there who would be no better pleased to see me than i him; and--and perhaps because of another--that i did not know whether she might be the better pleased to have me there or find me stay away----" "your reasons are too fine," said she. "i scarce understand them." "that is because you won't understand; i think i have spoken plain enough ere now, judith, i make bold to say." she flushed somewhat at this; but it was no longer in anger. she seemed willing to be on good terms with him, but always in that measured and distant way. "willie!" she called. "come hither, sweetheart!" with some difficulty her small cousin made his way back to her, dragging the reluctant spaniel so that its head seemed to be in jeopardy. "he _will_ go after the birds, cousin judith; you will never teach him to follow you." "i?" she said. "willie knows i want you to have the dog, judith," her companion said, quickly. "i got him for you when i was at gloucester. 'tis a good breed--true maltese, i can warrant him; and the fashionable ladies will scarce stir abroad without one to follow them, or to carry with them in their coaches when they ride. will you take him judith?" she was a little embarrassed. "'tis a pretty present," said she, "but you have not chosen the right one to give it to." "what mean you?" said he. "nay, now, have not i the don?" she said, with greater courage. "he is a sufficient companion if i wish to walk abroad. why should you not give this little spaniel to one that has no such companion--i mean to prudence shaw?" "to prudence!" said he, regarding her; for this second introduction of judith's friend seemed strange, as well as the notion that he should transfer this prized gift to her. "there, now, is one so gentle and kind to every one and everything that she would tend the little creature with care," she continued. "it would be more fitting for her than for me." "you could be kind enough, judith--if you chose," said he, under his breath, for willie hart was standing by. "nay, i have the don," said she, "that is large, and worldly, and serious, and clumsy withal. give this little playfellow to prudence, who is small and neat and gentle like itself; surely that were fitter." "i had hoped you would have accepted the little spaniel from me, judith," said he, with very obvious disappointment. "moreover," said she, lightly, "two of a trade would never agree: we should have this one and the don continually quarrelling, and sooner or later the small one would lose its head in the don's great jaws." "why, the mastiff is always chained, and at the barn gate, judith," said he. "this one would be within-doors, as your playfellow. but i care not to press a gift." "nay, now, be not displeased," said she, gently enough. "i am not unthankful; i think well of your kindness, but it were still better done if you were to change your intention and give the spaniel to one that would have a gentler charge over it, and think none the less of it, as i can vouch for. pray you give it to prudence." "a discarded gift is not worth the passing on," said he; and as they were now come quite near to the town, where there was a dividing of ways, he stopped as though he would shake hands and depart. "will you not go on to the house? you have not seen my father since his coming home," she said. "no, not to-night, judith," he said. "doubtless he is still busy, and i have affairs elsewhere." she glanced at him with one of those swift keen glances of hers. "where go you to spend the evening, if i may make so bold?" she said. "not to the ale-house, as you seem to suspect," he answered, with just a trifle of bitterness; and then he took the string to lead away the spaniel, and he bade her farewell--in a kind of half-hearted and disappointed and downcast way--and left. she looked after him a second or so, as she fastened a glove-button that had got loose. and then she sighed as she turned away. "sweetheart willie," said she, putting her hand softly on the boy's shoulder, as he walked beside her, "i think you said you loved me?" "why, you know i do, cousin judith," said he. "what a pity it is, then," said she, absently, "that you cannot remain always as you are, and keep your ten years forever and a day, so that we should always be friends as we are now!" he did not quite know what she meant, but he was sufficiently well pleased and contented when he was thus close by her side; and when her hand was on his shoulder or on his neck it was to him no burden, but a delight. and so walking together, and with some gay and careless prattle between them, they went on and into the town. chapter ix. through the meadows. some two or three days after that, and toward the evening, prudence shawe was in the church-yard, and she was alone, save that now and again some one might pass along the gravelled pathway, and these did not stay to interrupt her. she had with her a basket, partly filled with flowers, also a small rake and a pair of gardener's shears, and she was engaged in going from grave to grave, here putting a few fresh blossoms to replace the withered ones, and there removing weeds, or cutting the grass smooth, and generally tending those last resting-places with a patient and loving care. it was a favorite employment with her when she had a spare afternoon; nor did she limit her attention to the graves of those whom she had known in life; her charge was a general one, and when they who had friends or relatives buried there came to the church on a sunday morning, and perhaps from some distance, and when they saw that some gentle hand had been employed there in the interval, they knew right well that that hand was the hand of prudence shawe. it was a strange fancy on the part of one who was so averse from all ornament or decoration in ordinary life that nothing was too beautiful for a grave. she herself would not wear a flower, but her best, and the best she could beg or borrow anywhere, she freely gave to those that were gone away; she seemed to have some vague imagination that our poor human nature was not worthy of this beautifying care until it had become sanctified by the sad mystery of death. it was a calm, golden-white evening, peaceful and silent; the rooks were cawing in the dark elms above her; the swallows dipping and darting under the boughs; the smooth-flowing yellow river was like glass, save that now and again the perfect surface was broken by the rising of a fish. over there in the wide meadows beyond the stream a number of boys were playing at rounders or prisoner's-base, or some such noisy game; but the sound of their shouting was softened by the distance; so quiet was it here, as she continued at her pious task, that she might almost have heard herself breathing. and once or twice she looked up, and glanced toward the little gate as if expecting some one. it was judith, of course, that she was expecting; and at this moment judith was coming along to the church-yard to seek her out. what a contrast there was between these two--this one pale and gentle and sad-eyed, stooping over the mute graves in the shadow of the elms; that other coming along through the warm evening light with all her usual audacity of gait, the peach-bloom of health on her cheek, carelessness and content in her clear-shining eyes, and the tune of "green sleeves" ringing through a perfectly idle brain. indeed, what part of her brain may not have been perfectly idle was bent solely on mischief. prudence had been away for two or three days, staying with an ailing sister. all that story of the adventure with the unfortunate young gentleman had still to be related to her. and again and again judith had pictured to herself prudence's alarm and the look of her timid eyes when she should hear of such doings, and had resolved that the tale would lose nothing in the telling. here, indeed, was something for two country maidens to talk about. the even current of their lives was broken but by few surprises, but here was something more than surprise--something with suggestions of mystery and even danger behind it. this was no mere going out to meet a wizard. any farm wench might have an experience of that kind; any ploughboy, deluded by the hope of digging up silver in one of his master's fields. but a gentleman in hiding--one that had been at court--one that had seen the king sitting in his chair of state, while ben jonson's masque was opened out before the great and noble assemblage--this was one to speak about, truly, one whose fortunes and circumstances were like to prove a matter of endless speculation and curiosity. but when judith drew near to the little gate of the church-yard, and saw how prudence was occupied, her heart smote her. green sleeves was all my joy, green sleeves was my delight, went clear out of her head. there was a kind of shame on her face; and when she went along to her friend she could not help exclaiming, "how good you are, prue!" "i!" said the other, with some touch of wonder in the upturned face. "i fear that cannot be said of any of us, judith." "i would i were like you, sweetheart," was the answer, with a bit of a sigh. "like me, judith?" said prudence, returning to her task (which was nearly ended now, for she had but few more flowers left). "nay, what makes you think that? i wish i were far other than i am." "look, now," judith said, "how you are occupied at this moment. is there another in stratford that has such a general kindness? how many would think of employing their time so? how many would come away from their own affairs----" "it may be i have more idle time than many," said prudence, with a slight flush. "but i commend not myself for this work; in truth, no; 'tis but a pastime; 'tis for my own pleasure." "indeed, then, good prue, you are mistaken, and that i know well," said the other, peremptorily. "your own pleasure? is it no pleasure, then, think you, for them that come from time to time, and are right glad to see that some one has been tending the graves of their friends or kinsmen? and do you think, now, it is no pleasure to the poor people themselves--i mean them that are gone--to look at you as you are engaged so, and to think that they are not quite forgotten? surely it must be a pleasure to them. surely they cannot have lost all their interest in what happens here--in stratford--where they lived; and surely they must be grateful to you for thinking of them, and doing them this kindness? i say it were ill done of them else. i say they ought to be thankful to you. and no doubt they are, could we but learn." "judith! judith! you have such a bold way of regarding what is all a mystery to us," said her gentle-eyed friend. "sometimes you frighten me." "i would i knew, now," said the other, looking absently across the river to the boys that were playing there, "whether my little brother hamnet--had you known him you would have loved him as i did, prudence--i say i wish i knew whether he is quite happy and content where he is, or whether he would not rather be over there now with the other boys. if he looks down and sees them, may it not make him sad sometimes--to be so far away from us? i always think of him as being alone there, and he was never alone here. i suppose he thinks of us sometimes. whenever i hear the boys shouting like that at their play i think of him; but indeed he was never noisy and unruly. my father used to call him the girl-boy, but he was fonder of him than of all us others; he once came all the way from london when he heard that hamnet was lying sick of a fever." she turned to see how prudence was getting on with her work; but she was in no hurry; and prudence was patient and scrupulously careful; and the dead, had they been able to speak, would not have bade her cease and go away, for a gentler hand never touched a grave. "i suppose it is grandmother hathaway who will go next," judith continued, in the same absent kind of way; "but indeed she says she is right well content either to go or to stay; for now, as she says, she has about as many kinsfolk there as here, and she will not be going among strangers. and well i know she will make for hamnet as soon as she is there, for like my father's love for bess hall was her love for the boy while he was with us. tell me, prudence, has he grown up to be of my age? you know we were twins. is he a man now, so that we should see him as some one different? or is he still our little hamnet, just as we used to know him?" "how can i tell you, judith?" the other said, almost in pain. "you ask such bold questions; and all these things are hidden from us and behind a veil." "but these are what one would like to know," said judith, with a sigh. "nay, if you could but tell me of such things, then you might persuade me to have a greater regard for the preachers; but when you come and ask about such real things, they say it is all a mystery; they cannot tell; and would have you be anxious about schemes of doctrine, which are but strings of words. my father, too: when i go to him--nay, but it is many a day since i tried--he would look at me and say, 'what is in your brain now? to your needle, wench, to your needle!'" "but naturally, judith! such things are mercifully hidden from us now, but they will be revealed when it is fitting for us to know them. how could our ordinary life be possible if we knew what was going on in the other world? we should have no interest in the things around us, the greater interest would be so great." "well, well, well," said judith, coming with more practical eyes to the present moment, "are you finished, sweet mouse, and will you come away? what, not satisfied yet? i wonder if they know the care you take. i wonder if one will say to the other: 'come and see. she is there again. we are not quite forgotten.' and will you do that for me, too, sweet prue? will you put some pansies on my grave, too?--and i know you will say out of your charity, 'well, she was not good and pious, as i would have had her to be; she had plenty of faults; but at least she often wished to be better than she was.' nay, i forgot," she added, glancing carelessly over to the church; "they say we shall lie among the great people, since my father bought the tithes--that we have the right to be buried in the chancel; but indeed i know i would a hundred times liefer have my grave in the open here, among the grass and the trees." "you are too young to have such thoughts as these, judith," said her companion, as she rose and shut down the lid of the now empty basket. "come; shall we go?" "let us cross the foot-bridge, sweet prue," judith said, "and go through the meadows and round by clopton's bridge, and so home; for i have that to tell you will take some time; pray heaven it startle you not out of your senses withal!" it was not, however, until they had got away from the church-yard, and were out in the clear golden light of the open, that she began to tell her story. she had linked her arm within that of her friend. her manner was grave; and if there was any mischief in her eyes, it was of a demure kind, not easily detected. she confessed that it was out of mere wanton folly that she had gone to the spot indicated by the wizard, and without any very definite hope or belief. but as chance would have it, she did encounter a stranger--one, indeed, that was coming to her father's house. then followed a complete and minute narrative of what the young man had said--the glimpses he had given her of his present condition, both on the occasion of that meeting and on the subsequent one, and how she had obtained his permission to state these things to this gentle gossip of hers. prudence listened in silence, her eyes cast down; judith could not see the gathering concern on her face. nay, the latter spoke rather in a tone of raillery; for, having had time to look back over the young gentleman's confessions, and his manner, and so forth, she had arrived at a kind of assurance that he was in no such desperate case. there were many reasons why a young man might wish to lie perdu for a time; but this one had not talked as if any very imminent danger threatened him; at least, if he had intimated as much, the impression produced upon her was not permanent. and if judith now told the story with a sort of careless bravado--as if going forth in secret to meet this stranger was a thing of risk and hazard--it was with no private conviction that there was any particular peril in the matter, but rather with the vague fancy that the adventure looked daring and romantic, and would appear as something terrible in the eyes of her timid friend. but what now happened startled her. they were going up the steps of the foot-bridge, prudence first, and judith, following her, had just got to the end of her story. prudence suddenly turned round, and her face, now opposed to the westering light, was, as judith instantly saw, quite aghast. "but, judith, you do not seem to understand!" she exclaimed. "was not that the very stranger the wizard said you would meet?--the very hour, the very place? in good truth, it must have been so! judith, what manner of man have you been in company with?" for an instant a flush of color overspread judith's face, and she said, with a sort of embarrassed laugh: "well, and if it were so, sweet mouse? if that were the appointed one, what then?" she was on the bridge now. prudence caught her by both hands, and there was an anxious and piteous appeal in the loving eyes. "dear judith, i beseech you, be warned! have nothing to do with the man! did i not say that mischief would come of planting the charm in the church-yard, and shaming a sacred place with such heathenish magic? and now look already--here is one that you dare not speak of to your own people; he is in secret correspondence with you. heaven alone knows what dark deeds he may be bent upon, or what ruin he may bring upon you and yours. judith, you are light-hearted and daring, and you love to be venturesome; but i know you better than you know yourself, sweetheart. you would not willingly do wrong, or bring harm on those that love you; and for the sake of all of us, judith, have nothing to do with this man." judith was embarrassed, and perhaps a trifle remorseful; she had not expected her friend to take this adventure so very seriously. "dear prue, you alarm yourself without reason," she said (but there was still some tell-tale color in her face). "indeed, there is no magic or witchery about the young man. had i seen a ghost, i should have been frightened, no doubt, for all that don roderigo was with me; and had i met one of the stratford youths at the appointed place, i should have said that perhaps the good wizard had guessed well; but this was merely a stranger coming to see my father; and the chance that brought us together--well, what magic was in that?--it would have happened to you had you been walking in the lane: do you see that, dear mouse?--it would have happened to yourself had you been walking in the lane, and he would have asked of you the question that he asked of me. nay, banish that fancy, sweet prue, else i should be ashamed to do anything further for the young man that is unfortunate, and very grateful withal for a few words of friendliness. and so fairly spoken a young man, too; and so courtly in his bearing; and of such a handsome presence----" "but, dear judith, listen to me!--do not be led into such peril! know you not that evil spirits can assume goodly shapes--the prince of darkness himself----" she could not finish what she had to say, her imagination was so filled with terror. "sweet puritan," said judith, with a smile, "i know well that he goeth about like a raging lion, seeking whom he may devour; i know it well; but believe me it would not be worth his travail to haunt such a lonely and useless place as the lane that goes from shottery to the bidford road. nay, but i will convince you, good mouse, by the best of all evidence, that there is nothing ghostly or evil about the young man; you shall see him, prue--indeed you must and shall. when that he comes back to his hiding, i will contrive that you shall see him and have speech with him, and sure you will pity him as much as i do. poor young gentleman, that he should be suspected of being satan! nay, how could he be satan, prue, and be admitted to the king's court? hath not our good king a powerful insight into the doings of witches and wizards and the like? and think you he would allow satan in person to come into the very banqueting-hall to see a masque?" "judith! judith!" said the other, piteously, "when you strive against me with your wit, i cannot answer you; but my heart tells me that you are in exceeding danger. i would warn you, dear cousin; i were no true friend to you else." "but you are the best and truest of friends, you dearest prue," said judith, lightly, as she released her hands from her companion's earnest grasp. "come, let us on, or we shall go supperless for the evening." she passed along and over the narrow bridge, and down the steps on the other side. she did not seem much impressed by prudence's entreaties; indeed, she was singing aloud: hey, good fellow, i drink to thee, pardonnez moi, je vous en prie; to all good fellows, where'er they be, with never a penny of money! prudence overtook her. "judith," said she, "even if he be not of that fearful kind--even if he be a real man, and such as he represents himself, bethink you what you are doing! there may be another such gathering as that at dunchurch; and would you be in correspondence with a plotter and murderer? nay, what was't you asked of me the other day?" she added, suddenly; and she stood still to confront her friend, with a new alarm in her eyes. "did you not ask whether your father was well affected toward the papists? is there another plot?--another treason against the king?--and you would harbor one connected with such a wicked, godless, and bloodthirsty plan?" "nay, nay, sweet mouse! have i not told you? he declares he has naught to do with any such enterprise; and if you would but see him, prudence, you would believe him. sure i am that you would believe him instantly. why, now, there be many reasons why a young gentleman might wish to remain concealed----" "none, judith, none!" the other said, with decision. "why should an honest man fear the daylight?" "oh, as for that," was the careless answer, "there be many an honest man that has got into the clutches of the twelve-in-the-hundred rogues; and when the writs are out against such a one, i hold it no shame that he would rather be out of the way than be thrown among the wretches in bocardo. i know well what i speak of; many a time have i heard my father and your brother talk of it; how the rogues of usurers will keep a man in prison for twelve years for a matter of sixteen shillings--what is it they call it?--making dice of his bones? and if the young gentleman fear such treatment and the horrible company of the prisons, i marvel not that he should prefer the fresh air of bidford, howsoever dull the life at the farm may be." "and if that were all, why should he fear to bring the letter to your father?" the other said, with a quick glance of suspicion: she did not like the way in which judith's ready brain could furnish forth such plausible conjectures and excuses. "answer me that, judith. is your father one likely to call aloud and have the man taken, if that be all that is against him? why should he be afraid to bring the letter from your father's friend? nay, why should he be on the way to the house with it, and thereafter stop short and change his mind? there is many a mile betwixt london and stratford; 'tis a marvellous thing he should travel all that way, and change his mind within a few minutes of being in the town. i love not such dark ways, judith; no good thing can come of them, but evil; and it were ill done of you--even if you be careless of danger to yourself, as i trow you mostly are--i say it is ill done of you to risk the peace of your family by holding such dangerous converse with a stranger, and one that may bring harm to us all." judith was not well pleased; her mouth became rather proud. "marry, if this be your christian charity, i would not give a penny ballad for it!" said she, with some bitterness of tone. "i had thought the story had another teaching--i mean the story of him who fell among thieves and was beaten and robbed and left for dead--and that we were to give a helping hand to such, like the samaritan. but now i mind me 'twas the priest that passed by on the other side--yes, the priest and the levite--the godly ones who would preserve a whole skin for themselves, and let the other die of his wounds, for aught they cared! and here is a young man in distress--alone and friendless--and when he would have a few words of cheerfulness, or a message, or a scrap of news as to what is going on in the world--no, no, say the priest and the levite--go not near him--because he is in misfortune he is dangerous--because he is alone he is a thief and a murderer--perchance a pirate, like captain ward and dansekar, or even catesby himself come alive again. i say, god keep us all from such christian charity!" "you use me ill, judith," said the other, and then was silent. they walked on through the meadows, and judith was watching the play of the boys. as she did so, a leather ball, struck a surprising distance, came rolling almost to her feet, and forthwith one of the lads came running after it. she picked it up and threw it to him--threw it awkwardly and clumsily, as a girl throws, but nevertheless she saved him some distance and time, and she was rewarded with many a loud "thank you! thank you!" from the side who were out. but when they got past the players and their noise, prudence could no longer keep silent; she had a forgiving disposition, and nothing distressed her so much as being on unfriendly terms with judith. "you know i meant not that, dear judith," said she. "i only meant to shield you from harm." as for judith, all such trivial and temporary clouds of misunderstanding were instantly swallowed up in the warm and radiant sunniness of her nature. she broke into a laugh. "and so you shall, dear mouse," said she, gayly; "you shall shield me from the reproach of not having a common and ordinary share of humanity; that shall you, dear prue, should the unfortunate young gentleman come into the neighborhood again; for you will read to me the message that he sends me, and together we will devise somewhat on his behalf. no? are you afraid to go forth and meet the pirate dansekar? do you expect to find the ghost of gamaliel ratsey walking on the evesham road? such silly fears, dear prue, do not become you: you are no longer a child." "you are laying too heavy a burden on me, judith," the other said, rather sadly. "i know not what to do; and you say i may not ask counsel of any one. and if i do nothing, i am still taking a part." "what part, then, but to read a few words and hold your peace?" said her companion, lightly. "what is that? but i know you will not stay there, sweet mouse. no, no; your heart is too tender. i know you would not willingly do any one an injury, or harbor suspicion and slander. you shall come and see the young gentleman, good prue, as i say; and then you will repent in sackcloth and ashes for all that you have urged against him. and perchance it may be in new place that you shall see him----" "ah, judith, that were well!" exclaimed the other, with a brighter light on her face. "what? would you desire to see him, if he were to pay us a visit?" judith said, regarding her with a smile. "surely, surely, after what you have told me: why not, judith?" was the placid answer. "there would be nothing ghostly about him then?" "there would be no secret, judith," said prudence, gravely, "that you have to keep back from your own people." "well, well, we will see what the future holds for us," said judith, in the same careless fashion. "and if the young gentleman come not back to stratford, why, then, good fortune attend him, wherever he may be! for one that speaks so fair and is so modest sure deserves it. and if he come not back, then shall your heart be all the lighter, dear prue; and as for mine, mine will not be troubled--only, that i wish him well, as i say, and would fain hear of his better estate. so all is so far happily settled, sweet mouse; and you may go in to supper with me with untroubled eyes and a free conscience: marry, there is need for that, as i bethink me; for master parson comes this evening, and you know you must have a pure and joyful heart with you, good prudence, when you enter into the congregation of the saints." "judith, for my sake!" "nay, i meant not to offend, truly; it was my wicked, idle tongue, that i must clap a bridle on now--for, listen!----" they were come to new place. there was singing going forward within; and one or two of the casements were open; but perhaps it was the glad and confident nature of the psalm that led to the words being so clearly heard without: the man is blest that hath not bent to wicked rede his ear; nor led his life as sinners do, nor sat in scorner's chair. but in the law of god the lord doth set his whole delight, and in that law doth exercise himself both day and night. he shall be like the tree that groweth fast by the river's side; which bringeth forth most pleasant fruit in her due time and tide; whose leaf shall never fade nor fall, but flourish still and stand: even so all things shall prosper well that this man takes in hand. and so, having waited until the singing ceased, they entered into the house, and found two or three neighbors assembled there, and master walter was just about to begin his discourse on the godly life, and the substantial comfort and sweet peace of mind pertaining thereto. * * * * * some few days after this, and toward the hour of noon, the mail-bearer came riding post-haste into the town; and in due course the contents of his saddle-bags were distributed among the folk entitled to them. but before the news-letters had been carefully spelled out to the end, a strange rumor got abroad. the french king was slain, and by the hand of an assassin. some, as the tidings passed quickly from mouth to mouth, said the murderer was named ravelok, others havelok; but as to the main fact of the fearful crime having been committed, there was no manner of doubt. naturally the bruit of this affair presently reached julius shawe's house; and when the timid prudence heard of it--and when she thought of the man who had been in hiding, and who had talked with judith, and had been so suddenly and secretly summoned away--her face grew even paler than its wont, and there was a sickly dread at her heart. she would go to see judith at once; and yet she scarcely dared to breathe even to herself the terrible forebodings that were crowding in on her mind. chapter x. a play-house. but judith laughed aside these foolish fears; as it happened, far more important matters were just at this moment occupying her mind. she was in the garden. she had brought out some after-dinner fragments for the don; and while the great dun-colored beast devoured these, she had turned from him to regard matthew gardener; and there was a sullen resentment on her face; for it seemed to her imagination that he kept doggedly and persistently near the summer-house, on which she had certain dark designs. however, the instant she caught sight of prudence, her eyes brightened up; and, indeed, became full of an eager animation. "hither, hither, good prue!" she exclaimed, hurriedly. "quick! quick! i have news for you." "yes, indeed, judith," said the other; and at the same moment judith came to see there was something wrong--the startled pale face and frightened eyes had a story to tell. "why, what is to do?" said she. "know you not, judith? have you not heard? the french king is slain--murdered by an assassin!" to her astonishment the news seemed to produce no effect whatever. "well, i am sorry for the poor man," judith said, with perfect self-possession. "they that climb high must sometimes have a sudden fall. but why should that alarm you, good prue? or have you other news that comes more nearly home?" and then, when prudence almost breathlessly revealed the apprehensions that had so suddenly filled her mind, judith would not even stay to discuss such a monstrous possibility. she laughed it aside altogether. that the courteous young gentleman who had come with a letter from ben jonson should be concerned in the assassination of the king of france was entirely absurd and out of the question. "nay, nay, good prue," said she, lightly, "you shall make him amends for these unjust suspicions; that you shall, dear mouse, all in good time. but listen now: i have weightier matters; i have eggs on the spit, beshrew me else! can you read me this riddle, sweet prue? know you by these tokens what has happened? my father comes in to dinner to-day in the gayest of humors; there is no absent staring at the window, and forgetting of all of us; it is all merriment this time; and he must needs have bess hall to sit beside him; and he would charge her with being a witch; and reproach her for our simple meal, when that she might have given us a banquet like that of a london company, with french dishes and silver flagons of theologicum, and a memorial to tell each of us what was coming. and then he would miscall your brother--which you know, dear prudence, he never would do were he in earnest--and said he was chamberlain now, and was conspiring to be made alderman, only that he might sell building materials to the corporation and so make money out of his office. and i know not what else of jests and laughing; but at length he sent to have the evesham roan saddled; and he said that when once he had gone along to the sheep-wash to see that the hurdles were rightly up for the shearing, he would give all the rest of the day to idleness--to idleness wholly; and perchance he might ride over to broadway to see the shooting-match going forward there. now, you wise one, can you guess what has happened? know you what is in store for us? can you read me the riddle?" "i see no riddle, judith," said the other, with puzzled eyes. "i met your father as i came through the house; and he asked if julius were at home: doubtless he would have him ride to broadway with him." "dear mouse, is that your skill at guessing? but listen now"--and here she dropped her voice as she regarded goodman matthew, though that personage seemed busily enough occupied with his watering-can. "this is what has happened: i know the signs of the weather. be sure he has finished the play--the play that the young prince mamillius was in: you remember, good prue?--and the large fair copy is made out and locked away in the little cupboard, against my father's next going to london; and the loose sheets are thrown into the oak chest, along with the others. and now, good prue, sweet prue, do you know what you must manage? indeed, i dare not go near the summer-house while that ancient wiseman is loitering about; and you must coax him, prue; you must get him away; sometimes i see his villain eyes watching me, as if he had suspicion in his mind----" "'tis your own guilty conscience, judith," said prudence, but with a smile; for she had herself connived at this offence ere now. "by fair means or foul, sweet mouse, you must get him away to the other end of the garden," said she, eagerly; "for now the don has nearly finished his dinner, and goodman-wiseman-fool will wonder if we stay longer here. nay, i have it, sweet prue: you must get him along to the corner where my mother grows her simples; and you must keep him there for a space, that i may get out the right papers; and this is what you must do: you will ask him for something that sounds like latin--no matter what nonsense it may be; and he will answer you that he knows it right well, but has none of it at the present time; and you will say that you have surely seen it among my mother's simples, and thus you will lead him away to find it and the longer you seek the better. do you understand, good prue?--and quick! quick!" prudence's pale face flushed. "you ask too much, judith. i cannot deceive the poor man so." "nay, nay, you are too scrupulous, dear mouse. a trifle--a mere trifle." and then prudence happened to look up, and she met judith's eyes; and there was such frank self-confidence and audacity in them, and also such a singular and clear-shining beauty, that the simple puritan was in a manner bedazzled. she said, with a quiet smile, as she turned away her head again: "well, i marvel not, judith, that you can bewitch the young men, and bewilder their understanding. 'tis easy to see--if they have eyes and regard you, they are lost; but how you have your own way with all of us, and how you override our judgment, and do with us what you please, that passes me. even dr. hall: for whom else would he have brought from coventry the green silk stockings and green velvet shoes?--you know such vanities find little favor in his own home----" "quick, quick, sweetheart, muzzle me that gaping ancient!" said judith, interrupting her. "the don has finished; and i will dart into the summer-house as i carry back the dish. detain him, sweet prue; speak a word or two of latin to him; he will swear he understands you right well, though you yourself understand not a word of it----" "i may not do all you ask, judith," said the other, after a moment's reflection (and still with an uneasy feeling that she was yielding to the wiles of a temptress), "but i will ask the goodman to show me your mother's simples, and how they thrive." a minute or two thereafter judith had swiftly stolen into the summer-house--which was spacious and substantial of its kind, and contained a small black cupboard fixed up in a corner of the walls, a table and chair, and a long oak chest on the floor. it was this last that held the treasure she was in search of; and now, the lid having been raised, she was down on one knee, carefully selecting from a mass of strewn papers (indeed, there were a riding-whip, a sword and sword-belt, and several other articles mixed up in this common receptacle) such sheets as were without a minute mark which she had invented for her own private purposes. these secured and hastily hidden in her sleeve, she closed the lid, and went out into the open again, calling upon prudence to come to her, for that she was going into the house. they did not, however, remain within-doors at new place, for that might have been dangerous; they knew of a far safer resort. just behind julius shawe's house, and between that and the garden, there was a recess formed by the gable of a large barn not quite reaching the adjacent wall. it was a three-sided retreat; overlooked by no window whatsoever; there was a frail wooden bench on two sides of it, and the entrance to it was partly blocked up by an empty cask that had been put there to be out of the way. for outlook there was nothing but a glimpse of the path going into the garden, a bit of greensward, and two apple-trees between them and the sky. it was not a noble theatre, this little den behind the barn; but it had produced for these two many a wonderful pageant; for the empty barrel and the bare barn wall and the two trees would at one time be transformed into the forest of arden, and rosalind would be walking there in her pretty page costume, and laughing at the love-sick orlando; and again they would form the secret haunts of queen titania and her court, with the jealous oberon chiding her for her refusal; and again they would become the hall of a great northern castle, with trumpets and cannon sounding without as the king drank to hamlet. indeed, the elder of these two young women had an extraordinarily vivid imagination; she saw the things and people as if they were actually there before her; she realized their existence so intensely that even prudence was brought to sympathize with them, and to follow their actions now with hot indignation, and now with triumphant delight over good fortune come at last. there was no stage-carpenter there to distract them with his dismal expedients; no actor to thrust his physical peculiarities between them and the poet's ethereal visions; the dream-world was before them, clear and filled with light; and prudence's voice was gentle and of a musical kind. nay, sometimes judith would leap to her feet. "you shall not!--you shall not!" she would exclaim, as if addressing some strange visitant that was showing the villainy of his mind; and tears came quickly to her eyes if there was a tale of pity; and the joy and laughter over lovers reconciled brought warm color to her face. they forgot that these walls that enclosed them were of gray mud; they forgot that the prevailing odor in the air was that of the malt in the barn for now they were regarding romeo in the moonlight, with the dusk of the garden around, and juliet uttering her secrets to the honeyed night; and again they were listening to the awful voices of the witches on the heath, and guessing at the sombre thoughts passing through the mind of macbeth; and then again they were crying bitterly when they saw before them an old man, gray-haired, discrowned, and witless, that looked from one to the other of those standing by, and would ask who the sweet lady was that sought with tears for his benediction. they could hear the frail and shaken voice: "methinks i should know you, and know this man; yet i am doubtful: for i am mainly ignorant what place this is: and all the skill i have remembers not these garments; nor i know not where i did lodge last night. do not laugh at me; for, as i am a man, i think this lady to be my child cordelia." and now, as they had retired into this sheltered nook, and prudence was carefully placing in order the scattered sheets that had been given her, judith was looking on with some compunction. "indeed i grieve to give you so much trouble, sweetheart," said she. "i would i could get at the copy that my father has locked away----" "judith!" her friend said, reproachfully. "you would not take that? why, your father will scarce show it even to julius, and sure i am that none in the house would put a hand upon it----" "if it were a book of psalms and paraphrases, they might be of another mind," judith said; but prudence would not hear. "nay," said she, as she continued to search for the connecting pages. "i have heard your father say to julius that there is but little difference; and that 'tis only when he has leisure here in stratford that he makes this copy writ out fair and large; in london he takes no such pains. truly i would not that either julius or any of his acquaintance knew of my fingering in such a matter: what would they say, judith? and sometimes, indeed, my mind is ill at ease with regard to it--that i should be reading to you things that so many godly people denounce as wicked and dangerous----" "you are too full of fears, good mouse," said judith, coolly, "and too apt to take the good people at their word. nay, i have heard; they will make you out everything to be wicked and sinful that is not to their own minds; and they are zealous among the saints; but i have heard, i have heard." "what, then?" said the other, with some faint color in her face. "no matter," said judith, carelessly. "well, i have heard that when they make a journey to london they are as fond of claret wine and oysters as any; but no matter: in truth the winds carry many a thing not worth the listening to. but as regards this special wickedness, sweet mouse, indeed you are innocent of it; 'tis all laid to my charge; i am the sinner and temptress; be sure you shall not suffer one jot through my iniquity. and now have you got them all together? are you ready to begin?" "but you must tell me where the story ceased, dear judith, when last we had it; for indeed you have a marvellous memory, even to the word and the letter. the poor babe that was abandoned on the sea-shore had just been found by the old shepherd--went it not so?--and he was wondering at the rich bearing-cloth it was wrapped in. why, here is the name--perdita," she continued, as she rapidly scanned one or two of the papers--"who is now grown up, it appears, and in much grace; and this is a kind of introduction, i take it, to tell you all that has happened since your father last went to london--i mean since the story was broken off. and florizel--i remember not the name--but here he is so named as the son of the king of bohemia----" a quick laugh of intelligence rose to judith's eyes; she had an alert brain. "prince florizel?" she exclaimed. "and princess perdita! that were a fair match, in good sooth, and a way to heal old differences. but to the beginning, sweetheart, i beseech you; let us hear how the story is to be; and pray heaven he gives me back my little mamillius, that was so petted and teased by the court ladies." however, as speedily appeared, she had anticipated too easy a continuation and conclusion. the young prince florizel proved to be enamored, not of one of his own station, but of a simple shepherdess; and although she instantly guessed that this shepherdess might turn out to be the forsaken perdita, the conversation between king polixenes and the good camillo still left her in doubt. as for the next scene--the encounter between autolycus and the country clown--judith wholly and somewhat sulkily disapproved of that. she laughed, it is true; but it was sorely against her will. for she suspected that goodman matthew's influence was too apparent here; and that, were he ever to hear of the story, he would in his vanity claim this part as his own; moreover, there was a kind of familiarity and every-day feeling in the atmosphere--why, she herself had been rapidly questioned by her father about the necessary purchases for a sheep-shearing feast, and susan, laughing, had struck in with the information as to the saffron for coloring the warden-pies. but when the sweet-voiced prudence came to the scene between prince florizel and the pretty shepherdess, then judith was right well content. "oh, do you see, now, how her gentle birth shines through her lowly condition!" she said, quickly. "and when the old shepherd finds that he has been ordering a king's daughter to be the mistress of the feast--ay, and soundly rating her, too, for her bashful ways--what a fright will seize the good old man! and what says she in answer?--again, good prue--let me hear it again--marry, now, i'll be sworn she had just such another voice as yours!" "to the king polixenes," prudence continued, regarding the manuscript, "who is in disguise, you know, judith, she says: 'welcome, sir! it is my father's will i should take on me the hostess-ship o' the day:--you're welcome, sir.' and then to both the gentlemen: 'give me those flowers there, dorcas.--reverend sirs, for you there's rosemary and rue; these keep seeming and savor all the winter long: grace and remembrance be to you both, and welcome to our shearing!'" "ah, there, now, will they not be won by her gentleness?" she cried, eagerly. "will they not suspect and discover the truth? it were a new thing for a prince to wed a shepherdess, but this is no shepherdess, as an owl might see! what say they then, prue? have they no suspicion?" so prudence continued her patient reading--in the intense silence that was broken only by the twittering of the birds in the orchard, or the crowing of a cock in some neighboring yard; and judith listened keenly, drinking in every varying phrase. but when florizel had addressed his speech to the pretty hostess of the day, judith could no longer forbear: she clapped her hands in delight. "there, now, that is a true lover; that is spoken like a true lover," she cried, with her face radiant and proud. "again, good prue--let us hear what he says--ay, and before them all, too, i warrant me he is not ashamed of her." so prudence had to read once more florizel's praise of his gentle mistress: "'what you do still betters what is done. when you speak, sweet, i'd have you do it ever: when you sing, i'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms; pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs, to sing them too. when you do dance, i wish you a wave o' the sea, that you might ever do nothing but that; move still, still so, and own no other function. each your doing, so singular in each particular, crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, that all your acts are queens!'" "in good sooth, it is spoken like a true lover," judith said, with a light on her face as if the speech had been addressed to herself. "like one that is well content with his sweetheart, and is proud of her, and approves! marry, there be few of such in these days; for this one is jealous and unreasonable, and would have the mastery too soon; and that one would frighten you to his will by declaring you are on the highway to perdition; and another would have you more civil to his tribe of kinsfolk. but there is a true lover, now; there is one that is courteous and gentle; one that is not afraid to approve: there may be such in stratford, but god wot, they would seem to be a scarce commodity! nay, i pray your pardon, good prue: to the story, if it please you--and is there aught of the little mamillius forthcoming?" and so the reading proceeded; and judith was in much delight that the old king seemed to perceive something unusual in the grace and carriage of the pretty perdita. "what is't he says? what are the very words?" "'this is the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the greensward: nothing she does or seems but smacks of something greater than herself; too noble for this place.'" "yes! yes! yes!" she exclaimed, quickly. "and sees he not some likeness to the queen hermione? surely he must remember the poor injured queen, and see that this is her daughter? happy daughter, that has a lover that thinks so well of her! and now, prue?" but when in the course of the hushed reading all these fair hopes came to be cruelly shattered; when the pastoral romance was brought to a sudden end; when the king, disclosing himself, declared a divorce between the unhappy lovers, and was for hanging the ancient shepherd, and would have perdita's beauty scratched with briers; and when prudence had to repeat the farewell words addressed to the prince by his hapless sweetheart-- "'wilt please you, sir, be gone? i told you what would come of this. beseech you, of your own state take care: this dream of mine-- being now awake, i'll queen it no inch further, but milk my ewes, and weep--'" there was something very like tears in the gentle reader's eyes; but that was not judith's mood; she was in a tempest of indignation. "god's my life!" she cried, "was there ever such a fool as this old king? he a king! he to sit on a throne! better if he sate in a barn and helped madge-howlet to catch mice! and what says the prince? nay, i'll be sworn he proves himself a true man, and no summer playfellow; he will stand by her; he will hold to her, let the ancient dotard wag his beard as he please!" and so, in the end, the story was told, and all happily settled; and prudence rose from the rude wooden bench with a kind of wistful look on her face, as if she had been far away, and seen strange things. then judith--pausing for a minute or so as if she would fix the whole thing in her memory, to be thought over afterward--proceeded to tie the pages together for the better concealment of them on her way home. "and the wickedness of it?" said she, lightly. "wherein lies the wickedness of such a reading, sweet mouse?" prudence was somewhat shamefaced on such occasions; she could not honestly say that she regretted as she ought to have done, giving way to judith's importunities. "some would answer you, judith," she said, "that we had but ill used time that was given us for more serious purposes." "and for what more serious purposes, good gossip? for the repeating of idle tales about our neighbors? or the spending of the afternoon in sleep, as is the custom with many? are we all so busy, then, that we may not pass a few minutes in amusement? but, indeed, sweet prue," said she, as she gave a little touch to her pretty cap and snow-white ruff, to put them right before she went out into the street, "i mean to make amends this afternoon. i shall be busy enough to make up for whatever loss of time there has been over this dangerous and godless idleness. for, do you know, i have everything ready now for the new portugal receipts that you read to me; and two of them i am to try as soon as i get home; and my father is to know nothing of the matter--till the dishes be on the table. so fare you well, sweet mouse; and give ye good thanks, too: this has been but an evil preparation for the church-going of the morrow, but remember, the sin was mine--you are quit of that." and then her glance fell on the roll of papers that she held in her hand. "the pretty perdita!" said she. "her beauty was not scratched with briers, after all. and i doubt not she was in brave attire at the court; though methinks i better like to remember her as the mistress of the feast, giving the flowers to this one and that. and happy perdita, also, to have the young prince come to the sheep-shearing, and say so many sweet things to her! is't possible, think you, prue, there might come such another handsome stranger to our sheep-shearing that is now at hand?" "i know not what you mean, judith." "why, now, should such things happen only in bohemia?" she said, gayly, to the gentle and puzzled prudence, "soon our shearing will begin, for the weather has been warm, and i hear the hurdles are already fixed. and there will be somewhat of a merry-making, no doubt; and--and the road from evesham hither is a fair and goodly road, that a handsome young stranger might well come riding along. what then, good mouse? if one were to meet him in the lane that crosses to shottery--and to bid him to the feast--what then?" "oh, judith, surely you are not still thinking of that dangerous man!" the other exclaimed. but judith merely regarded her for a second, with the clear-shining eyes now become quite demure and inscrutable. chapter xi. a remonstrance. next morning was sunday; and judith, having got through her few domestic duties at an early hour, and being dressed in an especially pretty costume in honor of the holy day, thought she need no longer remain within-doors, but would walk along to the church-yard, where she expected to find prudence. the latter very often went thither on a sunday morning, partly for quiet reverie and recalling of this one and the other of her departed but not forgotten friends whose names were carven on the tombstones, and partly--if this may be forgiven her--to see how the generous mother earth had responded to her week-day labors in the planting and tending of the graves. but when judith, idly and carelessly as was her wont, reached the church-yard, she found the wide, silent space quite empty; so she concluded that prudence had probably been detained by a visit to some one fallen sick; and she thought she might as well wait for her; and with that view--or perhaps out of mere thoughtlessness--she went along to the river-side, and sat down on the low wall there, having before her the slowly moving yellow stream and the fair, far-stretching landscape beyond. there had been some rain during the night; the roads she had come along were miry; and here the grass in the church-yard was dripping with the wet; but there was a kind of suffused rich light abroad that bespoke the gradual breaking through of the sun; and there was a warmth in the moist atmosphere that seemed to call forth all kinds of sweet odors from the surrounding plants and flowers. not that she needed these, for she had fixed in her bosom a little nosegay of yellow-leaved mint, that was quite sufficient to sweeten the scarcely moving air. and as she sat there in the silence it seemed to her as if all the world were awake--and had been awake for hours--but that all the human beings were gone out of it. the rooks were cawing in the elms above her; the bees hummed as they flew by into the open light over the stream; and far away she could hear the lowing of the cattle on the farms; but there was no sound of any human voice, nor any glimpse of any human creature in the wide landscape. and she grew to wonder what it would be like if she were left alone in the world, all the people gone from it, her own relatives and friends no longer here and around her, but away in the strange region where hamnet was, and perhaps, on such a morning as this, regarding her not without pity, and even, it might be, with some touch of half-recalled affection. which of them all should she regret the most? which of them all would this solitary creature--left alone in stratford, in an empty town--most crave for, and feel the want of? well, she went over these friends and neighbors and companions and would-be lovers; and she tried to imagine what, in such circumstances, she might think of this one and that; and which of them she would most desire to have back on the earth and living with her. but right well she knew in her heart that all this balancing and choosing was but a pretence. there was but the one; the one whose briefest approval was a kind of heaven to her, and the object of her secret and constant desire; the one who turned aside her affection with a jest; who brought her silks and scents from london as if her mind were set on no other things than these. and she was beginning to wonder whether, in those imagined circumstances, he might come to think differently of her and to understand her somewhat; and indeed she was already picturing to herself the life they might lead--these two, father and daughter, together in the empty and silent but sun-lit and sufficiently cheerful town--when her idle reverie was interrupted. there was a sound of talking behind her; doubtless the first of the people were now coming to church; for the doors were already open. she looked round, and saw that this was master walter blaise who had just come through the little swinging gate, and that he was accompanied by two little girls, one at each side of him, and holding his hand. instantly she turned her head away, pretending not to have seen him. "bless the man!" she said to herself, "what does he here of a sunday morning? why is so diligent a pastor not in charge of his own flock?" but she felt secure enough. not only was he accompanied by the two children, but there was this other safeguard that he would not dare to profane the holy day by attempting anything in the way of wooing. and it must be said that the young parson had had but few opportunities for that, the other members of the household eagerly seeking his society when he came to new place, and judith sharp to watch her chances of escape. the next moment she was startled by hearing a quick footstep behind her. she did not move. "give you good-morrow, judith," said he, presenting himself, and regarding her with his keen and confident gray eyes. "i would crave a word with you; and i trust it may be a word in season, and acceptable to you." he spoke with an air of cool authority, which she resented. there was nothing of the clownish bashfulness of young jelleyman about him; nor yet of the half-timid, half-sulky jealousy of tom quiney; but a kind of mastery, as if his office gave him the right to speak, and commanded that she should hear. and she did not think this fair, and she distinctly wished to be alone; so that her face had but little welcome in it, and none of the shining radiance of kindness that willy hart so worshipped. "i know you like not hearing of serious things, judith," said he (while she wondered whither he had sent the two little girls: perhaps into the church?), "but i were no true friend to you, as i desire to be, if i feared to displease you when there is need." "what have i done, then? in what have i offended? i know we are all miserable sinners, if that be what you mean," said she, coldly. "i would not have you take it that way, judith," said he; and there really was much friendliness in his voice. "i meant to speak kindly to you. nay, i have tried to understand you; and perchance i do in a measure. you are in the enjoyment of such health and spirits as fall to the lot of few; you are well content with your life and the passing moment; you do not like to be disturbed, or to think of the future. but the future will come, nevertheless, and it may be with altered circumstances; your light-heartedness may cease, sorrow and sickness may fall upon you, and then you may wish you had learned earlier to seek for help and consolation where these alone are to be found. it were well that you should think of such things now, surely; you cannot live always as you live now--i had almost said a godless life, but i do not wish to offend; in truth, i would rather lead you in all kindliness to what i know is the true pathway to the happiness and peace of the soul. i would speak to you, judith, if in no other way, as a brother in christ; i were no true friend to you else; nay, i have the command of the master whom i serve to speak and fear not." she did not answer, but she was better content now. so long as he only preached at her, he was within his province, and within his right. "and bethink you, judith," said he, with a touch of reproach in his voice, "how and why it is you enjoy such health and cheerfulness of spirits; surely through the lord in his loving-kindness answering the prayers of your pious mother. your life, one might say, was vouchsafed in answer to her supplications; and do you owe nothing of duty and gratitude to god, and to god's church, and to god's people? why should you hold aloof from them? why should you favor worldly things, and walk apart from the congregation, and live as if to-morrow were always to be as to-day, and as if there were to be no end to life, no calling to account as to how we have spent our time here upon earth? dear judith, i speak not unkindly; i wish not to offend; but often my heart is grieved for you; and i would have you think how trifling our present life is in view of the great eternity whither we are all journeying; and i would ask you, for your soul's sake, and for your peace of mind here and hereafter, to join with us, and come closer with us, and partake of our exercises. indeed you will find a truer happiness. do you not owe it to us? have you no gratitude for the answering of your mother's prayers?" "doubtless, doubtless," said she (though she would rather have been listening in silence to the singing of the birds, that were all rejoicing now, for the sun had at length cleared away the morning vapors, and the woods and the meadows and the far uplands were all shining in the brilliant new light). "i go to church as the others do, and there we give thanks for all the mercies that have been granted." "and is it enough, think you?" said he--and as he stood, while she sat, she did not care to meet those clear, keen, authoritative eyes that were bent on her. "does your conscience tell you that you give sufficient thanks for what god in his great mercy has vouchsafed to you? lip-service every seventh day!--a form of words gone through before you take your afternoon walk! why, if a neighbor were kind to you, you would show him as much gratitude as that; and this is all you offer to the lord of heaven and earth for having in his compassion listened to your mother's prayers, and bestowed on you life and health and a cheerful mind?" "what would you have me do? i cannot profess to be a saint while at heart i am none," said she, somewhat sullenly. it was an unlucky question. moreover, at this moment the bells in the tower sent forth their first throbbing peals into the startled air; and these doubtless recalled him to the passing of time, and the fact that presently the people would be coming into the church-yard. "i will speak plainly to you, judith; i take no shame to mention such a matter on the lord's day; perchance the very holiness of the hour and of the spot where i have chanced to meet you will the better incline your heart. you know what i have wished; what your family wish; and indeed you cannot be so blind as not to have seen. it is true, i am but a humble laborer in the lord's vineyard; but i magnify my office; it is an honorable work; the saving of souls, the calling to repentance, the carrying of the gospel to the poor and stricken ones of the earth--i say that is an honorable calling, and one that blesses them that partake in it, and gives a peace of mind far beyond what the worldlings dream of. and if i have wished that you might be able and willing--through god's merciful inclining of your heart--to aid me in this work, to become my helpmeet, was it only of my own domestic state i was thinking? surely not. i have seen you from day to day--careless and content with the trifles and idle things of this vain and profitless world; but i have looked forward to what might befall in the future, and i have desired with all my heart--yea, and with prayers to god for the same--that you should be taught to seek the true haven in time of need. do you understand me, judith?" he spoke with little tenderness, and certainly with no show of lover-like anxiety; but he was in earnest; and she had a terrible conviction pressing upon her that her wit might not be able to save her. the others she could easily elude when she was in the mind; this one spoke close and clear; she was afraid to look up and face his keen, acquisitive eyes. "and if i do understand you, good master blaise," said she desperately; "if i do understand you--as i confess i have gathered something of this before--but--but surely--one such as i--such as you say i am--might she not become pious--and seek to have her soul saved--without also having to marry a parson?--if such be your meaning, good master blaise." it was she who was in distress and in embarrassment; not he. "you are not situated as many others are," said he. "you owe your life, as one may say, to the prayers of god's people; i but put before you one way in which you could repay the debt--by laboring in the lord's vineyard, and giving the health and cheerfulness that have been bestowed on you to the comfort of those less fortunate----" "i? such a one as i? nay, nay, you have shown me how all unfit i were for that," she exclaimed, glad of this one loophole. "i will not commend you, judith, to your face," said he, calmly, "nor praise such worldly gifts as others, it may be, overvalue; but in truth i may say you have a way of winning people toward you; your presence is welcome to the sick; your cheerfulness gladdens the troubled in heart; and you have youth and strength and an intelligence beyond that of many. are all these to be thrown away?--to wither and perish as the years go by? nay, i seek not to urge my suit to you by idle words of wooing, as they call it, or by allurements of flattery; these are the foolish devices of the ballad-mongers and the players, and are well fitted, i doubt not, for the purposes of the master of these, the father of lies himself; rather would i speak to you words of sober truth and reason; i would show you how you can make yourself useful in the garden of the lord, and so offer some thanksgiving for the bounties bestowed on you. pray consider it, judith; i ask not for yea or nay at this moment; i would have your heart meditate over it in your own privacy, when you can bethink you of what has happened to you and what may happen to you in the future. life has been glad for you so far; but trouble might come; your relatives are older than you; you might be left so that you would be thankful to have one beside you whose arm you could lean on in time of distress. think over it, judith, and may god incline your heart to what is right and best for you." but at this moment the first of the early comers began to make their appearance--strolling along toward the church-yard, and chatting to each other as they came--and all at once it occurred to her that if he and she separated thus, he might consider that she had given some silent acquiescence to his reasons and arguments; and this possibility alarmed her. "good master blaise," said she, hurriedly, "pray mistake me not. surely, if you are choosing a helpmeet for such high and holy reasons, it were well that you looked further afield. i am all unworthy for such a place--indeed i know it; there is not a maid in stratford that would not better become it; nay, for my own part, i know several that i could point out to you, though your own judgment were best in such a matter. i pray you think no more of me in regard to such a position; god help me, i should make a parson's wife such as all the neighbors would stare at; indeed i know there be many you could choose from--if their heart were set in that direction--that are far better than i." and with this protest she would fain have got away; and she was all anxiety to catch a glimpse of prudence, whose appearance would afford her a fair excuse. how delightful would be the silence of the great building and the security of the oaken pew! with what a peace of mind would she regard the soft-colored beams of light streaming into the chancel, and listen to the solemn organ music, and wait for the silver-clear tones of susan's voice! but good master walter would have another word with her ere allowing her to depart. "in truth you misjudge yourself, judith," said he, with a firm assurance, as if he could read her heart far better than she herself. "i know more of the duties pertaining to such a station than you; i can foresee that you would fulfil them worthily, and in a manner pleasing to the lord. your parents, too: will you not consider their wishes before saying a final nay?" "my parents?" she said, and she looked up with a quick surprise. "my mother, it may be----" "and if your father were to approve also?" for an instant her heart felt like lead; but before this sudden fright had had time to tell its tale in her eyes she had reassured herself. this was not possible. "has my father expressed any such wish?" said she; but well she knew what the reply would be. "no, he has not, judith," he said, distinctly; "for i have not spoken to him. but if i were to obtain his approval, would that influence you?" she did not answer. "i should not despair of gaining that," said he, with a calm confidence that caused her to lift her eyes and regard him for a second, with a kind of wonder, as it were, for she knew not what this assurance meant. "your father," he continued, "must naturally desire to see your future made secure, judith. think what would happen to you all if an accident befell him on his journeyings to london. there would be no man to protect you and your mother. dr. hall has his own household and its charges, and two women left by themselves would surely feel the want of guidance and help. if i put these worldly considerations before you, it is with no wish that you should forget the higher duty you owe to god and his church, and the care you should have of your own soul. do i speak for myself alone? i think not. i trust it is not merely selfish hopes that have bidden me appeal to you. and you will reflect, judith; you will commune with yourself before saying the final yea or nay; and if your father should approve----" "good master blaise," said she, interrupting him--and she rose and glanced toward the straggling groups now approaching the church--"i cannot forbid you to speak to my father, if it is your wish to do that; but i would have him understand that it is through no desire of mine; and--and, in truth, he must know that i am all unfit to take the charge you would put upon me. i pray you hold it in kindness that i say so:--and there, now," she quickly added, "is little willie hart, that i have a message for, lest he escape me when we come out again." he could not further detain her; but he accompanied her as she walked along the path toward the little swinging gate, for she could see that her small cousin, though he had caught sight of her, was shyly uncertain as to whether he should come to her, and she wished to have his hand as far as the church door. and then--alas! that such things should befall--at the very same moment a number of the young men and maidens also entered the church-yard; and foremost among them was tom quiney. one rapid glance that he directed toward her and the parson was all that passed; but instantly in her heart of hearts she knew the suspicion that he had formed. an assignation?--and on a sunday morning, too! nay, her guess was quickly confirmed. he did not stay to pay her even the ordinary courtesy of a greeting. he went on with the others; he was walking with two of the girls; his laughter and talk were louder than any. indeed, this unseemly mirth was continued to within a yard or two of the church door--perhaps it was meant for her to hear? little willie hart, as he and his cousin judith went hand in hand through the porch, happened to look up at her. "judith," said he, "why are you crying?" "i am not!" she said, angrily. and with her hand she dashed aside those quick tears of vexation. the boy did not pay close heed to what now went on within the hushed building. he was wondering over what had occurred--for these mysteries were beyond his years. but at least he knew that his cousin judith was no longer angry with him; for she had taken him into the pew with her, and her arm, that was interlinked with his, was soft and warm and gentle to the touch; and once or twice, when the service bade them to stand up, she had put her hand kindly on his hair. and not only that, but she had at the outset taken from her bosom the little nosegay of mint and given it to him; and the perfume of it (for it was judith's gift, and she had worn it near her heart, and she had given it him with a velvet touch of her fingers) seemed to him a strange and sweet and mystical thing--something almost as strange and sweet and inexplicable as the beauty and shining tenderness of her eyes. chapter xii. divided ways. some few weeks passed quite uneventfully, bringing them to the end of june; and then it was that mistress hathaway chanced to send a message into the town that she would have her granddaughter judith come over to see her roses, of which there was a great show in the garden. judith was nothing loath; she felt she had somewhat neglected the old dame of late; and so, one morning--or rather one midday it was, for the family had but finished dinner--found her in her own room, before her mirror, busy with an out-of-door toilet, with prudence sitting patiently by. judith seemed well content with herself and with affairs in general on this warm summer day; now she spoke to prudence, again she idly sang a scrap of some familiar song, while the work of adornment went on apace. "but why such bravery, judith?" her friend said, with a quiet smile. "why should you take such heed about a walk through the fields to shottery?" "truly i know not," said judith, carelessly; "but well i wot my grandmother will grumble. if i am soberly dressed, she says i am a sloven, and will never win me a husband; and if i am pranked out, she says i am vain, and will frighten away the young men with my pride. in heaven's name, let them go, say i; i can do excellent well without them. what think you of the cap, good prue? 'twas but last night i finished it, and the beads i had from warwick." she took it up and regarded it, humming the while: o say, my joan, say, my joan, will not that do? i cannot come every day to woo. "is't not a pretty cap, good gossip?" prudence knew that she ought to despise such frivolities, which truly were a snare to her, for she liked to look at judith when she was dressed as she was now, and she forgot to condemn these pretty colors. on this occasion judith was clad in a gown of light gray, or rather buff, with a petticoat of pale blue taffeta, elaborately quilted with her own handiwork; the small ruff she wore, which was open in front, and partly showed her neck, was snow-white and stiffly starched; and she was now engaged in putting on her soft brown hair this cap of gray velvet, adorned with two rows of brass beads, and with a bit of curling feather at the side of it. prudence's eyes were pleased, if her conscience bade her disapprove; nay, sometimes she had to confess that at heart she was proud to see her dear gossip wear such pretty things, for that she became them so well. "judith," said she, "shall i tell you what i heard your father say of you last night? he was talking to julius, and they were speaking of this one and that, and how they did; and when you were mentioned, 'oh yes,' says your father, 'the wench looks bravely well; 'tis a pity she cannot sell the painting of her cheeks: there may be many a dame at the court would buy it of her for a goodly sum.'" judith gave a quick, short laugh: this was music in her ears--coming from whence it did. "but, judith," said her friend, with a grave inquiry in her face, "what is't that you have done to tom quiney that he comes no longer near the house?--nay, he will avoid you when he happens to see you abroad, for that i have observed myself, and more than once. what is the matter? how have you offended him?" "what have i done?" she said; and there was a swift and angry color in her face. "let him ask what his own evil imaginings have done. not that i care, in good sooth!" "but what is it, judith? there must be a reason." "why," said judith, turning indignantly to her, "you remember, sweetheart, the sunday morning that mrs. pike's little boy was taken ill, and you were sent for, and did not come to church? well, i had gone along to the church-yard to seek you, and was waiting for you, when who must needs make his appearance but the worthy master blaise--nay, but i told you, good prue, the honor he would put upon me; and, thank heaven, he hath not returned to it, nor spoken to my father yet, as far as i can learn. then, when the good parson's sermon was over--body o' me, he let me know right sharply i was no saint, though a saint i might become, no doubt, were i to take him for my master--as i say, the lecture he gave me was over, and we were walking to the church door, when who should come by but master quiney and some of the others. oh, well i know my gentleman! the instant he clapped eyes on me he suspected there had been a planned meeting--i could see it well--and off he goes in high dudgeon, and not a word nor a look--before the others, mind you, before the others, good prue; that was the slight he put upon me. marry, i care not! whither he has gone, there he may stay!" she spoke rapidly and with warmth: despite the scorn that was in her voice, it was clear that that public slight had touched her deeply. "nay, judith," said her gentle companion, "'twere surely a world of pity you should let an old friend go away like that--through a mischance merely----" "an old friend?" said she. "i want none of such friends, that have ill thoughts of you ere you can speak. let him choose his friends elsewhere, say i; let him keep to his tapsters, and his ale-house wenches; there he will have enough of pleasure, i doubt not, till his head be broke in a brawl some night!" then something seemed to occur to her. all at once she threw aside the bit of ribbon she had in her fingers, and dropped on her knee before her friend, and seized hold of prudence's hands. "i beseech your pardon, sweet prue!--indeed, indeed, i knew not what i said; they were but idle words; good mouse, i pray you heed them not. he may have reasons for distrusting me; and in truth i complain not; 'tis a small matter; but i would not have you think ill of him through these idle words of mine. nay, nay, they tell me he is sober and diligent, that his business prospers, that he makes many friends, and that the young men regard him as the chief of them, whether it be at merriment or aught else." "i am right glad to hear you speak so of the young man, judith," prudence said, in her gentle way, and yet mildly wondering at this sudden change of tone. "if he has displeased you, be sure he will be sorry for it, when he knows the truth." "nay, nay, sweet mouse," judith said, rising and resuming her careless manner, as she picked up the ribbon she had thrown aside. "'tis of no moment. i wish the young man well. i pray you speak to none of that i have told you; perchance 'twas but an accident, and he meant no slight at all; and then--and then," she added, with a kind of laugh, "as the good parson seems determined that willy-nilly i must wed him and help him in his charge of souls, that were a good ending, sweet prue?" she was now all equipped for setting forth, even to the feather fan that hung from her girdle by a small silver cord. "but i know he hath not spoken to my father yet, else i should have heard of it, in jest or otherwise. come, mouse, shall we go? or the good dame will have a scolding for us." indeed, this chance reference to the slight put upon her in the church-yard seemed to have left no sting behind it. she was laughing as she went down the stair, at some odd saying of bess hall's that her father had got hold of. when they went outside she linked her arm within that of her friend, and nodded to this or the other passer-by, and had a merry or a pleasant word for them, accordingly as they greeted her. and green sleeves was all my joy, green sleeves was my delight, came naturally into her idle brain; for the day seemed a fit one for holiday-making; the skies were clear, with large white clouds moving slowly across the blue; and there was a fair west wind to stir the leaves of the trees and the bushes, and to touch warmly and softly her pink-hued cheek and pearly neck. "ah, me," said she, in mock desolation, "why should one go nowadays to shottery? what use is in't, sweet prue, when all the magic and enticement is gone from it? aforetime i had the chance of meeting with so gracious a young gentleman, that brought news of the king's court, and spoke so soft you would think the cuckoo in the woods was still to listen. that was something to expect when one had walked so far--the apparition--a trembling interview--and then so civil and sweet a farewell! but now he is gone away, i know not whither; and he has forgotten that ever he lodged in a farm-house, like a king consorting with shepherds; and doubtless he will not seek to return. well----" "you have never heard of him since, judith?" her friend said, with rapid look. "alas, no!" she said, in the same simulated vein. "and sometimes i ask myself whether there ever was such a youth--whether the world ever did produce such a courtly gentleman, such a paragon, such a marvel of courtesy--or was it not but a trick of the villain wizard? think of it, good prue--to have been walking and talking with a ghost, with a thing of air, and that twice, too! is't not enough to chill the marrow in your bones? well, i would that all ghosts were as gentle and mannerly; there would be less fear of them among the warwickshire wenches. but do you know, good prue," she said, suddenly altering her tone into something of eagerness, "there is a matter of more moment than ghosts that concerns us now. by this time, or i am mistaken quite, there must be a goodly bulk of the new play lying in the oaken chest; and again and again have i tried to see whether i might dare to carry away some of the sheets, but always there was some one to hinder. my father, you know, has been much in the summer-house since the business of the new twenty acres was settled; and then again, when by chance he has gone away with the bailiff somewhere, and i have had my eye on the place, there was goodman matthew on the watch, or else a maid would come by to gather a dish of green gooseberries for the baking, or susan would have me seek out a ripe raspberry or two for the child, or my mother would call to me from the brew-house. but 'tis there, prue, be sure; and there will come a chance, i warrant; i will outwit the ancient matthew----" "do you never bethink you, judith, what your father would say were he to discover?" her friend said, glancing at her, as they walked along the highway. judith laughed, but with some heightened color. "my father?" said she. "truly, if he alone were to discover, i should have easy penance. were it between himself and me, methinks there were no great harm done. a daughter may fairly seek to know the means that has gained for her father the commendation of so many of the great people, and placed him in such good estate in his own town. marry, i fear not my father's knowing, were i to confess to himself; but as for the others, were they to learn of it--my mother, and susan, and dr. hall, and the pious master walter--i trow there might be some stormy weather abroad. at all events, good prue, in any such mischance, you shall not suffer; 'tis i that will bear the blame, and all the blame; for indeed i forced you to it, sweet mouse, and you are as innocent of the wickedness as though you had ne'er been born." and now they were just about to leave the main road for the foot-path leading to shottery, when they heard the sound of some one coming along on horseback; and turning for a second, they found it was young tom quiney, who was on a smart galloway nag, and coming at a goodly pace. as he passed them he took off his cap, and lowered it with formal courtesy. "give ye good-day," said he; but he scarcely looked at them, nor did he pull up for further talk or greeting. "we are in such haste to be rich nowadays," said judith, with a touch of scorn in her voice, as the two maidens set forth to walk through the meadows, "that we have scarce time to be civil to our friends." but she bore away no ill-will; the day was too fine for that. the soft west wind was tempering the heat and stirring the leaves of the elms; red and white wild roses were sprinkled among the dark green of the hedges; there was a perfume of elder blossom in the air; and perhaps also a faint scent of hay, for in the distance they could see the mowers at work among the clover, and could see the long sweep of the scythe. the sun lay warm on the grass and the wild flowers around them; there was a perfect silence but for the singing of the birds; and now and again they could see one of the mowers cease from his work, and a soft clinking sound told them that he was sharpening the long, curving blade. they did not walk quickly; it was an idle day. presently some one came up behind them and overtook them. it was young master quiney, who seemed to have changed his mind, and was now on foot. "you are going over to shottery, prudence?" said he. prudence flushed uneasily. why should he address her, and have no word for judith? "yes," said she; "mistress hathaway would have us see her roses; she is right proud of them this year." "'tis a good year for roses," said he, in a matter-of-fact way, and as if there were no restraint at all on any of the party. and then it seemed to occur to him that he ought to account for his presence. "i guessed you were going to shottery," said he, indifferently, and still addressing himself exclusively to prudence; "and i got a lad to take on the nag and meet me at the cross-road; the short-cut through the meadows is pleasant walking. to mistress hathaway's, said you? i dare promise you will be pleased with the show; there never was such a year for roses; and not a touch of blight anywhere, as i have heard. and a fine season for the crops, too; just such weather as the farmers might pray for; look at that field of rye over there, now--is't not a goodly sight?" he was talking with much appearance of self-possession; it was prudence who was embarrassed. as for judith, she paid no heed; she was looking before her at the hedges and the elms, at the wild flowers around, and at the field of bearded rye that bent in rustling gray-green undulations before the westerly breeze. "and how does your brother, prudence?" he continued. "'tis well for him his business goes on from year to year without respect of the seasons; he can sleep o' nights without thinking of the weather. it is the common report that the others of the town council hold him in great regard, and will have him become alderman ere long; is it not so?" "i have heard some talk of it," prudence said, with her eyes cast down. at this moment they happened to be passing some patches of the common mallow that were growing by the side of the path; and the tall and handsome youth who was walking with the two girls (but who never once let his eyes stray in the direction of judith) stooped down and pulled one of the brightest clusters of the pale lilac blossoms. "you have no flower in your dress, prudence," said he, offering them to her. "nay, i care not to wear them," said she; and she would rather have declined them, but as he still offered them to her, how could she help accepting them and carrying them in her hand? and then, in desperation, she turned and addressed the perfectly silent and impassive judith. "judith," said she, "you might have brought the mastiff with you for a run." "truly i might, sweetheart," said judith, cheerfully, "but that my grandmother likes him not in the garden; his ways are overrough." "now that reminds me," said he, quickly (but always addressing prudence), "of the little spaniel-gentle that i have. do you know the dog, prudence? 'tis accounted a great beauty, and of the true maltese breed. will you accept him from me? in truth i will hold it a favor if you will take the little creature." "i?" said prudence, with much amazement; for she had somehow vaguely heard that the dog had been purchased and brought to stratford for the very purpose of being presented to judith. "i assure you 'tis just such an one as would make a pleasant companion for you," said he; "a gentle creature as ever was, and affectionate too--a most pleasant and frolicsome playfellow. will you take it, prudence? for what can i do with the little beast? i have no one to look after it." "i had thought you meant judith to have the spaniel," said she, simply. "nay, how would that do, sweetheart?" said judith, calmly. "do you think the don would brook such invasion of his domain? would you have the little thing killed? you should take it, good cousin; 'twill be company for you should you be alone in the house." she had spoken quite as if she had been engaged in the conversation all the way through; there was no appearance of anger or resentment at his ostentatious ignoring of her presence: whatever she felt she was too proud to show. "then you will take the dog, prudence," said he. "i know i could not give it into gentler hands, for you could not but show it kindness, as you show to all." "give ye good thanks," said prudence, with her pale face flushing with renewed embarrassment, "for the offer of the gift; but in truth i doubt if it be right and seemly to waste such care on a dumb animal when there be so many of our fellow-creatures that have more pressing claims on us. and there are enough of temptations to idleness without our wilfully adding to them. but i thank you for the intention of your kindness--indeed i do." "nay, now, you shall have it, good prudence, whether you will or no," said he with a laugh. "you shall bear with the little dog but for a week, that i beg of you; and then if it please you not, if you find no amusement in its tricks and antics, i will take it back again. 'tis a bargain; but as to your sending of it back, i have no fears; i warrant you 'twill overcome your scruples, for 'tis a most cunning and crafty playfellow, and merry withal; nor will it hinder you from being as kind and helpful to those around you as you have ever been. i envy the dog that is to have so gentle a guardian." they were now come to a parting of the ways; and he said he would turn off to the left, so as to reach the lane at the end of which his nag was awaiting him. "and with your leave, prudence," said he, "i will bring the little spaniel to your house this evening, for i am only going now as far as bidford; and if your brother be at home he may have half an hour to spare, that we may have a chat about the corporation, and the new ordinances they propose to make. and so fare you well, and good wishes go with you!" and with that he departed, and was soon out of sight. "oh, judith," prudence exclaimed, almost melting into tears, "my heart is heavy to see it!" "what, then, good cousin?" said judith, lightly. "the quarrel." "the quarrel, dear heart! think of no such thing. in sober truth, dear prudence, i would not have matters other than they are; i would not; i am well content; and as for master quiney, is not he improved? did ever mortal hear him speak so fair before? marry, he hath been learning good manners, and profited well. but there it is; you are so gentle, sweetheart, that every one, no matter who, must find you good company; while i am fractious, and ill to bear with; and do i marvel to see any one prefer your smooth ways and even disposition? and when he comes to-night, heed you, you must thank him right civilly for bringing you the little spaniel; 'tis a great favor; the dog is one of value that many would prize----" "i cannot take it--i will not have it. 'twas meant for you, judith, as well you know," the other cried, in real distress. "but you must and shall accept the gift," her friend said, with decision. "ay, and show yourself grateful for his having singled you out withal. neither himself nor his spaniel would go long a-begging in stratford, i warrant you; give him friendly welcome, sweetheart." "he went away without a word to you, judith." "i am content." "but why should it be thus?" prudence said, almost piteously. "why? dear mouse, i have told you. he and i never did agree; 'twas ever something wrong on one side or the other; and wherefore should not he look around for a gentler companion? 'twere a wonder should he do aught else; and now he hath shown more wisdom than ever i laid to his credit." "but the ungraciousness of his going, judith," said the gentle prudence, who could in no wise understand the apparent coolness with which judith seemed to regard the desperate thing that had taken place. "heaven have mercy! why should that trouble you if it harm not me?" was the instant answer. "my spirits are not like to be dashed down for want of a 'fare you well.' in good sooth, he had given you so much of his courtesy and fair speeches that perchance he had none to spare for others." by this time they were come to the little wooden gate leading into the garden; and it was no wonder they should pause in passing through that to regard the bewildering and glowing luxuriance of foliage and blossom, though this was but a cottage inclosure, and none of the largest. the air seemed filled with the perfume of this summer abundance; and the clear sunlight shone on the various masses of color--roses red and white, pansies, snapdragon, none-so-pretty, sweet-williams of every kind, to say nothing of the clustering honeysuckle that surrounded the cottage door. "was't not worth the trouble, sweetheart?" judith said. "indeed, the good dame does well to be proud of such a pageant." as she spoke her grandmother suddenly made her appearance, glancing sharply from one to the other of them. "welcome, child, welcome," she said, "and to you, sweet mistress shawe." and yet she did not ask them to enter the cottage; there was some kind of hesitation about the old dame's manner that was unusual. "well, grandmother," said judith, gayly, "have you no grumbling? my cap i made myself; then must it be out of fashion. or i did not make it myself; then it must have cost a mint of money. or what say you to my petticoat--does not the color offend you? shall i ever attain to the pleasing of you, think you, good grandmother?" "wench, wench, hold your peace!" the old dame said, in a lower voice. "there is one within that may not like the noise of strangers--though he be no stranger to you, as he says----" "what, grandmother?" judith exclaimed, and involuntarily she shrank back a little, so startled was she. "a stranger? in the cottage? you do not mean the young gentleman that is in hiding--that i met in the lane----" "the same, judith, the same," she said, quickly; "and i know not whether he would wish to be seen by more than needs be----" she glanced at judith, who understood: moreover, the latter had pulled together her courage again. "have no fear, good grandmother," said she; and she turned to prudence. "you hear, good prue, who is within." "yes," the other answered, but somewhat breathless. "now, then, is such an opportunity as may ne'er occur again," judith said. "you will come with me, good prue? nay, but you must." "indeed i shall not!" prudence exclaimed, stepping back in affright. "not for worlds, judith, would i have aught to do with such a thing. and you, judith, for my sake, come away! we will go back to stratford!--we will look at the garden some other time!--in truth, i can see your grandmother is of my mind too. judith, for the love of me, come!--let us get away from this place!" judith regarded her with a strange kind of smile. "i have had such courtesy and fair manners shown me to-day, sweet prue," said she, with a sort of gracious calmness, "that i am fain to seek elsewhere for some other treatment, lest i should grow vain. will it please you wait for me in the garden, then? grandmother, i am going in with you to help you give your guest good welcome." "judith!" the terrified prudence exclaimed, in a kind of despair. but judith, with her head erect, and with a perfect and proud self-possession, had followed her grandmother into the house. chapter xiii a herald mercury. the distance between this luxuriant garden, all radiant and glowing in light and color, and the small and darkened inner room of the cottage, was but a matter of a few yards; yet in that brief space, so alert was her brain, she had time to reconsider much. and with her, pride or anger was always of short duration, the sunny cheerfulness of her nature refusing to harbor such uncongenial guests. why, she asked herself, should she take umbrage at the somewhat too open neglect that had just been shown her? was it not tending in the very direction she had herself desired? had she not begged and prayed him to give prudence the little spaniel-gentle? nay, had she not wilfully gone and buried in the church-yard the bit of rosemary that he had sent her to keep, putting it away from her with the chance of it summoning an unknown lover? so now, she said to herself, she would presently come out again to the poor affrighted prudence, and would reassure her, and congratulate her, moreover, with words of good cheer and comfort for the future. and then again, in this lightning-like survey of the situation, she was conscious that she was becomingly dressed--and right glad indeed that she had chanced to put on the gray velvet cap with the brass beads and the curling feather; and she knew that the young gentleman would be courteous and civil, with admiring eyes. moreover, she had a vague impression that he was somewhat too much given to speak of ben jonson; and she hoped for some opportunity to let him understand that her father was one of good estate, and much thought of by every one around, whose daughter knew what was due to his position, and could conduct herself not at all as a country wench. and so it was that the next minute found her in the twilight of the room; and there, truly enough, he was, standing at the small window. "give ye good welcome sir," said she. "what! fair mistress judith?" he said, as he quickly turned round. and he would have come forward and kissed her hand, perchance, but that a moment's hesitation prevented him. "it may be that i have offended you," said he, diffidently. "in what, good sir?" she was quite at her ease; the little touch of modest color in her face could scarcely be attributed to rustic shyness; it was but natural; and it added to the gentleness of her look. "nay, then, sweet lady, 'twas but a lack of courage that i would ask you to pardon," said he--though he did not seem conscious of heavy guilt, to judge by the way in which his black and eloquent eyes regarded judith's face and the prettinesses of her costume. "there was a promise that i should communicate with you if i returned to this part of the country; but i found myself not bold enough to take advantage of your kindness. however, fortune has been my friend, since again i meet you; 'tis the luckiest chance; i but asked your good grandmother here for a cup of water as i passed, and she would have me take a cup of milk instead; and then she bade me to come in out of the heat for a space--which i was nothing loath to do, as you may guess; and here have i been taking up the good lady's time with i know not what of idle gossip----" "but sit ye down, grandchild," the good dame said; "and you, sir, pray sit you down. here, wench," she called to the little maid that was her sole domestic; "go fill this jug from the best barrel." and then she herself proceeded to get down from the high wooden rail some of the pewter trenchers that shone there like a row of white moons in the dusk; and these she placed on the table, with one or two knives; and then she began to get forth cakes, a cheese, a ham, some spiced bread, the half of a cold gooseberry-tart, and what not. "'tis not every day we come by a visitor in these quiet parts," said she--"ay, good sir, and one that is not afraid to speak out his mind. nay, nay, grandchild, i tell thee sit thee down; thou art too fine a madam this morning to meddle wi' kitchen matters. tell the gentleman i be rather deaf; but i thank him for his good company. sit ye down, sweeting; sooth, you look bravely this morning." "have i pleased you at last, grandmother?--'tis a miracle, surely," she said, with a smile; and then she turned gravely to entertain the old dame's visitor. "i hope your fortunes have mended, sir," said she. "in a measure--somewhat; but still i am forced to take heed--" "perchance you have still the letter to my father?" she asked. "nay, madam, i considered it a prudent thing to destroy it--little as that was in my heart." "i had thought on your next coming to the neighborhood that you would have taken the chance to make my father's friendship," said she, and not without some secret disappointment; for she was anxious that this acquaintance of ben jonson's should see the new place, with all its tapestries, and carved wood, and silver-gilt bowls; with its large fair garden, too, and substantial barns and stables. perhaps she would have had him carry the tale to london? there were some things (she considered) quite as fine as the trumpery masques and mummeries of the court that the london people seemed to talk about. she would have liked him to see her father at the head of his own table, with her mother's napery shining, and plenty of good friends round the board, and her father drinking to the health of bess hall out of the silver-topped tankard that thomas combe, and russell, and sadler, and julius shawe, and the rest of them, had given him on his last birthday. or perchance she would have had him see her father riding through the town of stratford with some of these good neighbors (and who the handsomest of all the company? she would make bold to ask), with this one and that praising the evesham roan, and the wagoners as they passed touching their caps to "worthy mahster shacksper." ben jonson! well, she had seen ben jonson. there was not a maid in the town would have looked his way. whereas, if there were any secret enchantments going forward on hallowmas-eve (and she knew of such, if the ministers did not), and if the young damsels were called on to form a shape in their brain as they prayed for the handsome lover that was to be sent them in the future, she was well aware what type of man they would choose from amongst those familiar to them; and also it had more than once reached her ears that the young fellows would jokingly say among themselves that right well it was that master shakespeare was married and in safe-keeping, else they would never have a chance. in the meanwhile, and with much courtesy, this young gentleman was endeavoring to explain to her why it was he dared not go near stratford town. "truly, sweet mistress judith," said he, in his suave voice, and with modestly downcast eyes, "it is a disappointment to me in more regards than one; perchance i dare not say how much. but in these times one has to see that one's own misfortunes may not prove harmful to one's friends; and then again, ever since the french king's murder, they are becoming harder and harder against any one, however innocent he may be, that is under suspicion. and whom do they not suspect? the parliament have entreated the king to be more careful of his safety; and the recusants--as they call those that have some regard for the faith they were brought up in--must not appear within ten miles of the court. nay, they are ordered to betake themselves to their own dwellings; and by the last proclamation all roman priests, jesuits, and seminaries are banished the kingdom. i wonder not your good grandmother should have a word of pity for them that are harried this way and that for conscience' sake." "i say naught, i say naught; 'twere well to keep a still tongue," the old dame said, being still busy with the table. "but i have heard there wur more peace and quiet in former days when there wur but one faith in the land; ay, and good tending of the poor folk by the monks and the rich houses." however, the chance reference to the french king had suddenly recalled to judith that prudence was waiting her in the garden; and her conscience smote her for her neglect; while she was determined that so favorable an opportunity should not be lost of banishing once and forever her dear gossip's cruel suspicions. so she rose. "i crave your pardon, good sir," said she, "if i leave you for a moment to seek my gossip prudence shawe, that was to wait for me in the garden. i would have you acquainted with each other; but pray you, sir, forbear to say anything against the puritan section of the church, for she is well inclined that way, and she has a heart that is easily wounded." "and thank you for the caution, fair mistress judith," said he; and he rose, and bowed low, and stood hat in hand until she had left the apartment. at first, so blinding was the glare of light and color, she could hardly see; but presently, when her eyes were less dazzled, she looked everywhere, and found the garden quite empty. she called; there was no answer. she went down to the little gate; there was no one in the road. and so, taking it for granted that prudence had sought safety in flight, and was now back in stratford town, or on the way thither, she returned into the cottage with a light heart, and well content to hear what news was abroad. "pray you, sir," said old mistress hathaway, "sit in to the table; and you, grandchild, come your ways. if the fare be poor, the welcome is hearty. what, then, judith? dined already, sayst thou? body o' me, a fresh-colored young wench like you should be ready for your dinner at any time. well, well, sit thee in, and grace the table; and you shall sip a cup of claret for the sake of good company." master leofric hope, on the other hand, was not at all backward in applying himself to this extemporized meal; on the contrary, he did it such justice as fairly warmed the old dame's heart. and he drank to her, moreover, bending low over his cup of ale; but he did not do the like by judith--for some reason or another. and all the while he was telling them of the affairs of the town; as to how there was much talking of the new river that was to bring water from some ten or twelve miles off, and how one middleton was far advanced with the cutting of it, although many were against it, and would have the project overthrown altogether. of these and similar matters he spoke right pleasantly, and the old dame was greatly interested; but judith grew to think it strange that so much should be said about public affairs, and what the people were talking about, and yet no mention made of her father. and so it came about, when he went on to tell them of the new ship of war that so many were going to see at woolwich, and that the king made so much of, she said: "oh, my father knows all about that ship. 'twas but the other day i heard him and master combe speak of it; and of the king too; and my father said, 'poor man, 'tis a far smaller ship than that he will make his last voyage in.'" "said he that of the king?" she looked up in quick alarm. "but as he would have said it of me, or of you, or of any one," she exclaimed. "nay, my father is well inclined toward the king, though he be not as much at the court as some, nor caring to make pageants for the court ladies and their attendants and followers." if there were any sarcasm in this speech, he did not perceive it; for it merely led him on to speak of the new masque that ben jonson was preparing for the prince henry; and incidentally he mentioned that the subject was to be oberon, the fairy prince. "oberon?" said judith, opening her eyes. "why, my father hath writ about that!" "oh, yes, as we all know," said he, courteously; "but there will be a difference----" "a difference?" said she. "by my life, yes! there will be a difference. i wonder that master jonson was not better advised." "nay, in this matter, good mistress judith," said he, "there will be no comparison. i know 'tis the fashion to compare them----" "to compare my father and master jonson?" she said, as if she had not heard aright. "why, what comparison? in what way? pray you remember, sir, i have seen master ben jonson. i have seen him, and spoken with him. and as for my father, i'll be bound there is not his fellow for a handsome presence and gracious manners in all warwickshire--no, nor in london town neither, i'll be sworn!" "i meant not that, sweet lady," said he, with a smile; and he added, grimly: "i grant you our ben looks as if he had been in the wars; he hath had a tussle with bacchus on many a merry night, and bears the scars of these noble combats. no; 'tis the fashion to compare them as wits----" "i'd as lief compare them as men, good sir," said she, with a touch of pride; "and i know right well which should have my choice." "when it is my good fortune, dear lady," said the young man, "to have master william shakespeare's daughter sitting before me, i need no other testimony to his grace and bearing, even had i never set eyes on him." and with that he bowed low; and there was a slight flush on her face that was none of displeasure; while the old dame said: "ay, ay, there be many a wench in warwickshire worse favored than she. pray heaven it turn not her head! the wench is a good wench, but ill to manage; and 'twere no marvel if the young men got tired of waiting." to escape from any further discussion of this subject, judith proposed that they should go out and look at her grandmother's roses and pansies, which was in truth the object of her visit; and she added that if master hope (this was the first time she had named him by his name) were still desirous of avoiding observation, they could go to the little bower at the upper hedge-row, which was sufficiently screened from the view of any passer-by. the old dame was right willing, for she was exceedingly proud of this garden, that had no other tending than her own; and so she got her knitting-needles and ball of wool, and preceded them out into the warm air and the sunlight. "dear, dear me," said she, stopping to regard two small shrubs that stood withered and brown by the side of the path. "there be something strange in that rosemary, now; in good sooth there be. try as i may, i cannot bring them along; the spring frost makes sure to kill them." and then she went on again. "strange, indeed," said the young man to his companion, these two being somewhat behind, "that a plant that is so fickle and difficult to hold should be the emblem of constancy." "i know not what they do elsewhere," said judith, carelessly pulling a withered leaf or two to see if they were quite inodorous, "but hereabouts they often use a bit of rosemary for a charm, and the summoning of spirits." he started somewhat, and glanced at her quickly and curiously. but there was clearly no subtle intention in the speech. she idly threw away the leaves. "have you faith in such charms, mistress judith?" said he, still regarding her. "in truth i know not," she answered, as if the question were of but little moment. "there be some who believe in them, and others that laugh. but strange stories are told; marry, there be some of them that are not pleasant to hear of a winter's night, when one has to change the warm chimney-corner for the cold room above. there is my grandmother, she hath a rare store of them; but they fit not well with the summer-time and with such a show as this." "a goodly show, indeed," said he; and by this time they were come to a small arbor of rude lattice-work mostly smothered in foliage; and there was a seat within it, and also a tiny table; while in front they were screened from the gaze of any one going along the road by a straggling and propped-up wall of peas that were now showing their large white blossoms plentifully among the green. "'tis a quiet spot," said he, when they were seated, and the old dame had taken to her knitting; "'tis enough to make one pray never to hear more of the din and turmoil of london." "i should have thought, sir," said judith, "you would have feared to go near london, if there be those that would fain get to know of your whereabout." "truly," said he, "i have no choice. i must run the risk. from time to time i must seek to see whether the cloud that is hanging over me give signs of breaking. and surely such must now be the case, when fortune hath been so kind to me as to place me where i am at this moment--in such company--with such a quiet around. 'tis like the work of a magician; though from time to time i remind me that i should rise and leave, craving your pardon for intruding on you withal." "trouble not yourself, young sir," the old dame said, in her matter-of-fact way, as she looked up from her knitting; "if the place content you, 'tis right well; we be in no such hurry in these country parts; we let the day go by as it lists, and thank god for a sound night's rest at the end of it." "and you have a more peaceful and happy life than the london citizens, i'll be bound," said he, "with all their feasts and gayeties and the noise of drums and the like." "we hear but the murmur of such things from a far distance," judith said. "was there not a great to-do on the river when the citizens gave their welcome to the prince?" "why, there, now," said he, brightening up at this chance of repaying in some measure the courtesy of his entertainers; "there was as wonderful a thing as london ever saw. a noble spectacle, truly; for the companies would not be outdone; and such bravery of apparel, and such a banqueting in the afternoon! and perchance you heard of it but through some news-letter! shall i tell you what i saw on my own part?" "if it be not too troublesome to you, good sir." he was glad enough; for he had noticed, when he was describing such things, that judith's eyes grew absent, and he could gaze at them without fear of causing her to start and blush. moreover, it was a pretty face to tell a story to; and the day was so still and shining; and all around them there was a scent of roses in the air. "why, it was about daybreak, as i should think," he said, "that the citizens began to come forth; and a bright fair morning it was; and all of them in their best array. and you may be sure that when the companies learned that the whole of the citizens were minded to show their love for the prince henry on his coming back from richmond, they were not like to be behindhand; and such preparations had been made as you would scarce believe. well, then, so active were they in their several ways that by eight of the clock the companies were all assembled in their barges of state to wait the lord mayor and aldermen; and such a sound of drums and trumpets and fifes was there; and the water covered with the fleet, and the banks all crowded with them that had come down to see. then the lord mayor and the aldermen being arrived, the great procession set forth in state; and such a booming of cannon there was, and cheering from the crowd. 'twas a sight, on my life; for they bore the pageant with them--that was a huge whale and a dolphin; and on the whale sat a fair and lovely nymph, corinea she was called, the queen of cornwall; and she had a coronet of strange sea-shells, and strings of pearls around her neck and on her wrists; and her dress was of crimson silk, so that all could make her out from a distance; and she had a silver shield slung on to her left arm, and in her right hand a silver spear--oh, a wonderful sight she was; i marvel not the crowd cheered and cheered again. then on the other animal--that is, the dolphin--sat one that represented amphion--he was the father of music, as you must know; and a long beard he wore, and he also had a wreath of sea-shells on his head, and in his hand a harp of gold that shone in the sun. well, away they set toward chelsea; and there they waited for the prince's approach----" "and the young prince himself," judith said, quickly and eagerly; "he bears himself well, does he not? he bears himself like a prince? he would match such a pageant right royally, is't not so?" "why, he is the very model and mirror of princehood!--the pink of chivalry!--nor is there one of them at the court that can match him at the knightly exercises," said this enthusiastic chronicler, who had his reward in seeing how interested she was. "well, when the young prince was come to chelsea, there he paused; and the queen corinea addressed him in a speech of welcome--truly, i could not hear a word of it, there was such a noise among the multitude; but i was told thereafter that it presented him with their love and loyal duty; and then they all set forth toward whitehall again. by this time 'twas late in the day; and no man would have believed so many dwelt in the neighborhood of our great river; and that again was as naught to the crowd assembled when they were come again to the town. and here--as it must have been arranged beforehand, doubtless--the fleet of barges separated and formed two long lines, so as to make a lane for the prince to pass through, with great cheering and shouting, so that when they were come to the court steps, he was at the head of them all. and now it was that the dolphin approached, and amphion, that was riding on his back, bid the prince a loyal farewell in the name of all the citizens; and at the end of the speech--which, in truth the people guessed at rather than heard--there was such a tumult of huzzas, and a firing of cannon, and the drums and the trumpets sounding, and on every hand you could hear nothing but 'long live our prince of wales, the royal henry!'" "and he bore himself bravely, i'll dare be sworn!" she exclaimed. "i have heard my father speak of him; he is one that will uphold the honor of england when he comes to the throne!" "and there was such a feasting and rejoicing that evening," he continued, "within doors and without; and many an honest man, i fear me, transgressed, and laid the train for a sore-distracted head next day. then 'twas some two or three evenings after that, if i remember aright, that we had the great water-fight and the fire-works; but perchance you heard of these, sweet mistress judith?" "in truth, good sir," she answered, "i heard of these, as of the welcome you speak of, but in so scant a way as to be worth naught. 'tis not a kind of talking that is encouraged at our house; unless, indeed, when julius shawe and master combe and some of them come in of an evening to chat with my father; and then sometimes i contrive to linger, with the bringing in of a flagon of rhenish or the like, unless i am chid and sent forth. i pray you, good sir, if i do not outwear your patience, to tell us of the water-fight, too." "'tis i that am more like to outwear your patience, fair judith," said he. "i would i had a hundred fights to tell you of. but this one--well, 'twas a goodly pageant; and a vast crowd was come down to the water's edge to see what was going forward, for most of the business of the day was over, and both master and 'prentice were free. and very soon we saw how the story was going; for there was a turkish pirate, with fierce men with blackened faces; and they would plunder two english merchantmen and make slaves of the crews. this was but the beginning of the fight; and there was great firing of guns and manoeuvring of the vessels; and the merchantmen were like to fare badly, not being trained to arms like the pirate. in sooth they were sore bestead; but presently up came two ships of war to rescue; and then the coil began in good earnest, i warrant you; for there was boarding and charging and clambering over the bulwarks--ay, and many a man on both sides knocked into the sea; until in the end they had killed or secured all the pirates, and then there was naught to do but to blow up the pirate ship into the air, with a noise like thunder, and scarce a rag or spar of him remaining. 'twas a right good ending, i take it, in the minds of the worthy citizens; doubtless they hoped that every turkish rogue would be served the like. and then it was that the blowing up of the pirate ship was a kind of signal for the beginning of the fire-works; and it had grown to dusk now, so that the blazes of red light and blue light and the whizzing of the squibs and what not seemed to fill all the air. 'twas a rare climax to the destruction of the turks; and the people cheered and cheered again when 'twas well done; and then at the end came a great discharge of guns and squibs and showers of stars, that one would have thought the whole world was on fire. sure i am that the waters of the thames never saw such a sight before. and the people went home right well content, and i doubt not drank to the confusion of all pirates, as well as to the health of the young prince, that is to preserve the realm to us in years to come." they talked for some time thereafter about that and other matters, and about his own condition and occupations at the farm; and then he rose, and there was a smile on his face. "you know, fair mistress judith," said he, "that a wise man is careful not to out-stay his welcome, lest it be not offered to him again; and your good grandmother has afforded me so pleasant an hour's gossip and good company that i would fain look forward to some other chance of the same in the future." "must you go, good sir?" said judith, also rising. "i trust we have not over-taxed your patience. we country folk are hungry listeners." "to have been awarded so much of your time, sweet mistress judith," said he, bowing very low, "is an honor i am not likely to forget." and then he addressed the old dame, who had missed something of this. "give ye good thanks for your kindness, good mistress hathaway," said he. "good fortune attend ye, sir," said the old dame, contentedly, and without ceasing from her knitting. judith was standing there, with her eyes cast down. "sweet lady, by your leave," said he, and he took her hand and raised it and just touched her fingers with his lips. then he bowed low again, and withdrew. "fare you well, good sir," judith had said at the same moment, but without any word as to a future meeting. then she returned into the little arbor and sat down. "is't not like a meteor, grandmother, shooting across the sky?" said she, merrily. "beshrew me, but the day has grown dark since he left! didst ever hear of such a gallymawfrey of dolphins and whales, and prince's barges, and the roaring of cannon, and fire-works? sure 'tis well we live in the country quiet, our ears would be riven in twain else. and you, grandmother, that was ever preaching about prudent behavior, to be harboring one that may be an outlaw--a recusant; perchance he hath drawn his sword in the king's presence----" "what know you of the young gentleman, judith?" the old dame said, sharply. "marry, not a jot beyond what he hath doubtless told to yourself, good grandmother. but see you any harm in him? have you suspicion of him? would you have me think--as prudence would fain believe--that there is witchcraft about him?" "truly i see no harm in the young gentleman," the old grandmother was constrained to say. "and he be fair-spoken, and modest withal. but look you to this, wench, should you chance to meet him again while he bideth here in this neighborhood--i trow 'twere better you did not--but should that chance, see you keep a still tongue in your head about church and king and parliament. let others meddle who choose; 'tis none of your affairs: do you hear me, child? these be parlous times, as the talk is; they do well that keep the by-ways, and let my lord's coaches go whither they list." "grandmother," said judith, gravely, "i know there be many things in which i cannot please you, but this sin that you would lay to my charge--nay, dear grandam, when have you caught me talking about church and king and parliament? truly i wish them well; but i am content if they go their own way." the old dame glanced at her, to see what this demure tone of speech meant. "thou?" she said, in a sort of grumble. "thy brain be filled with other gear, i reckon. 'tis a bit of ribbon that hath hold of thee; or the report as to which of the lads shot best at the match; or perchance 'tis the purchase of some penny ballads, that you may put the pictures on your chamber wall, as if you were a farm wench just come in from the milking pail." "heaven have pity on me, good grandmother," said she, with much penitence, and she looked down at her costume, "but i can find no way of pleasing you. you scold me for being but a farm wench; and truly this petticoat, though it be pretty enough, methinks might have been made of a costlier stuff; and my cap--good grandmother, look at my cap--" she took it off, and smoothed the gray velvet of it, and arranged the beads and the feather. "--is the cap also too much of the fashion of a farm wench? or have i gone amiss the other way, and become too like a city dame? would that i knew how to please you, grandam!" "go thy ways, child; get thee home!" the old woman said, but only half angrily. "thy foolish head hath been turned by hearing of those court gambols. get you to your needle; be your mother's napery all so well mended that you can spend the whole day in idleness?" "nay, but you are in the right there, good grandmother," said judith, drawing closer to her, and taking her thin and wrinkled hand in her own warm, white, soft ones. "but not to the needle--not to the needle, good grandam; i have other eggs on the spit. did not i tell you of the portugal receipts that prudence got for me?--in good sooth i did; well, the dishes were made; and next day at dinner my father was right well pleased. 'tis little heed he pays to such matters; and we scarce thought of asking him how he liked the fare, when all at once he said: 'good mother, you must give my thanks to jane cook; 'twill cheer her in her work; nay, i owe them.' then says my mother: 'but these two dishes were not prepared by the cook, good husband; 'twas one of the maids.' 'one of the maids?' he says. 'well, which one of the maids? truly, 'tis something rare to be found in a country house.' and then there was a laughing amongst all of them; and he fixes his eyes on me. 'what?' he says, 'that saucy wench? is she striving to win her a husband at last?' and so you see, good grandmother, i must waste no more time here, for prudence hath one or two more of these receipts; and i must try them to see whether my father approves or not." and so she kissed the old dame, and bade her farewell, refusing at the same time to have the escort of the small maid across the meadows to the town. all the temporary annoyance of the morning was now over and forgotten; she was wholly pleased to have had this interview, and to have heard minutely of all the great doings in london. she walked quickly; a careless gladness shone in her face; and she was lightly singing to herself, as she went along the well-beaten path through the fields, "sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever." but it was not in the nature of any complaint against the inconstancy of man that this rhyme had come into her head. quite other thoughts came as well. at one moment she was saying to herself: "why, now, have i no spaniel-gentle with me to keep me company?" and then the next minute she was saying with a sort of laugh: "god help me, i fear i am none of the spaniel-gentle kind!" but there was no deep smiting of conscience even when she confessed so much. her face was radiant and content; she looked at the cattle, or the trees, or the children, as it chanced, as if she knew them all, and knew that they were friendly toward her; and then again the idle air would come into her brain: then sigh not so, but let them go, and be you blithe and bonny, converting all your sounds of woe into hey, nonny, nonny! chapter xiv. a tire-woman. it was not until after supper that evening that judith was free to seek out her companion, who had fled from her in the morning; and when she did steal forth--carrying a small basket in her hand--she approached the house with much more caution than was habitual with her. she glanced in at the lower windows, but could see nothing. then, instead of trying whether the latch was left loose, she formally knocked at the door. it was opened by a little rosy-cheeked girl of eleven or twelve, who instantly bobbed a respectful courtesy. "is mistress prudence within, little margery?" she said. "yes, if it please you," said the little wench, and she stood aside to let judith pass. but judith did not enter; she seemed listening. "where is she?" "in her own chamber, if it please you." "alone, then?" "yes, if it please you, mistress judith." judith patted the little maid in requital of her courtesy, and then stole noiselessly up-stairs. the door was open. prudence was standing before a small table ironing a pair of snow-white cuffs, the while she was repeating to herself verses of a psalm. her voice, low as it was, could be heard distinctly: open thou my lips, o lord, and my mouth shall shew forth thy praise. for thou desirest no sacrifice, though i would give it; thou delightest not in burnt-offering. the sacrifices of god are a contrite spirit; a contrite and a broken heart, o god, thou will not despise. be favorable unto zion for thy good pleasure; build the walls of jerusalem. then shalt thou accept the sacrifices of righteousness, even the burnt offering and oblation; then shall they offer calves upon thine altar. she happened to turn her head; and then she uttered a slight cry of surprise, and came quickly to judith, and caught her by the hand. "what said he?" she exclaimed, almost breathlessly. "you saw him? 'twas the same, was it not? how came he there? judith, tell me!" "you timid mouse that ran away!" the other said, with a complacent smile. "why, what should he say? but prithee go on with the cuffs, else the iron will be cold. and are you alone in the house, prudence? there is no one below?" "none but the maids, i trow; or julius, perchance, if he be come in from the malt-house." "quick, then, with the cuffs," judith said, "and get them finished. nay, i will tell thee all about the young gentleman thereafter. get thee finished with the cuffs, and put them on----" "but i meant them not for this evening, judith," said she, with her eyes turned away. "'tis this evening, and now, you must wear them," her friend said, peremptorily. "and more than these. see, i have brought you some things, dear mouse, that you must wear for my sake--nay, nay, i will take no denial--you must and shall--and with haste, too, must you put them on, lest any one should come and find the mistress of the house out of call. is not this pretty, good prudence?" she had opened the basket and taken therefrom a plaited ruff that the briefest feminine glance showed to be of the finest cobweb lawn, tinged a faint saffron hue, and tied with silken strings. prudence, who now divined the object of her visit, was overwhelmed with confusion. the fair and pensive face became rose red with embarrassment, and she did not even know how to protest. "and this," said judith, in the most matter-of-fact way, taking something else out of the basket, "will also become you well--nay, not so, good mouse, you shall be as prim and puritanical as you please to-morrow; to-night you shall be a little braver; and is it not handsome, too?--'twas a gift to my mother--and she knows that i have it--though i have never worn it." this second article that she held out and stroked with her fingers was a girdle of buff-colored leather, embroidered with flowers in silk of different colors, and having a margin of filigree silver-work both above and below and a broad silver clasp. "come, then, let's try----" "nay, judith," the other said, retreating a step; "i cannot--indeed i cannot----" "indeed you must, silly child!" judith said, and she caught hold of her angrily. "i say you shall. what know you of such things? must i teach you manners?" and when judith was in this authoritative mood, prudence had but little power to withstand her. her face was still burning with embarrassment, but she succumbed in silence, while judith whipped off the plain linen collar that her friend wore, and set on in its stead this small but handsome ruff. she arranged it carefully, and smoothed prudence's soft fair hair, and gave a finishing touch to the three-cornered cap; then she stepped back a pace or two to contemplate her handiwork. "there!" she exclaimed (pretending to see nothing of prudence's blushes). "a princess! on my life, a princess! and now for the girdle; but you must cast aside that housewife's pouch, sweetheart, and i will lend thee this little pomander of mine; in truth 'twill suit it well." "no, no, dear judith!" the other said, almost piteously. "indeed i cannot prank me out in these borrowed plumes. if you will have it so, i will wear the ruff; but not the girdle--not the girdle, dear cousin--that all would see was none of mine----" "what's that?" judith exclaimed, suddenly, for there was a noise below. "'tis julius come in from the barn," prudence said. "mercy on us," the other cried, with a laugh, "i thought 'twas the spaniel-gentle come already. so you will not wear the girdle? well, the ruff becomes you right fairly: and--and those roses in your cheeks, good prue--why, what is the matter? is there aught wonderful in one of julius's friends coming to see him in the evening? and as the mistress of the house you must receive him well and courteously; and be not so demure of speech and distant in manner, dearest heart, for youth must have a little merriment, and we cannot always be at our prayers." "i know not what you mean, judith, unless it be something that is far away from any thought or wish of mine." there was a touch of sincerity in this speech that instantly recalled judith from her half-gibing ways. the truth was that while she herself was free enough in confiding to this chosen gossip of hers all about such lovers or would-be lovers as happened to present themselves, prudence had never volunteered any similar confidence in return; and the very fact that there might be reasons for this reticence was enough to keep judith from seeking to remove the veil. judith herself was accustomed to make merry over the whole matter of sweethearts and rhymed messages and little tender gifts; but prudence was sensitive, and judith was careful not to wound her by indiscreet questioning. and at this moment, when prudence was standing there confused and abashed, some compunction seized the heart of her friend. she took her hand. "in good sooth, i meant not to tease you, sweetheart," said she, in a kindly way; "and if i advise you in aught, 'tis but that you should make your brother's house a pleasant resort for them that would be friendly with him and visit him. what harm can there be in receiving such with a cheerful welcome, and having a pretty house-mistress, and all things neat and comfortable? dear mouse, you so often lecture me that i must have my turn; and i do not find fault or cause of quarrel; 'tis but a wish that you would be less severe in your ways, and let your kind heart speak more freely. men, that have the burden of the world's fight to bear, love to meet women-folk that have a merry and cheerful countenance; 'twere a marvel else; and of an evening, when there is idleness and some solace after the labors of the day, why should one be glum, and thinking ever of that next world that is coming soon enough of its own accord? look you how well the ruff becomes you; and what sin is in it? the girdle, too; think you my mother would have worn it had there been aught of evil in a simple piece of leather and embroidery?" "'tis many a day since she put it aside, as i well remember," prudence said, but with a smile, for she was easily won over. "truly," said judith, with a touch of scorn, "the good preachers are pleased to meddle with small matters when they would tell a woman what she should wear, and order a maiden to give up a finger ring or a bit of lace on peril of her losing her soul. these be marvellous small deer to be so hunted and stormed about with bell, book, and candle. but now, good prudence, for this one evening, i would have you please your visitor and entertain him; and the spaniel-gentle--that, indeed, you must take from him----" "i cannot, dear judith; 'twas meant for you," prudence exclaimed. "you cannot go back from your promise, good cousin," judith said, coolly, and with some slight inattention to facts. "'twould be unmannerly of you to refuse the gift, or to refuse ample thanks for it either. and see you have plenty on the board, for men like good fare along with good company; and let there be no stint of wine or ale as they may choose, for your brother's house, prudence, must not be niggard, were it only for appearance' sake." "but you will stay, dear judith, will you not?" the other said, anxiously. "in truth you can entertain them all wherever you go; and always there is such heart in the company----" "nay, i cannot, sweet mouse," judith said, lightly. "there is much for me to do now in the evenings since susan has gone back to her own home. and now i must go, lest your visitor arrive and find you unprepared: marry, you must wear the cuffs as they are, since i have hindered you in the ironing." "but you cannot go, judith, till you have told me what happened to-day at the cottage," the other pleaded. "what happened? why, nothing," judith said, brightly. "only that my grandmother is of a mind with myself that a fairer-spoken young gentleman seldom comes into these parts, and that, when he does, he should be made welcome. bless thy heart, hadst thou but come in and seen how attentive the good dame was to him! and she would press him to have some claret wine; but he said no: perchance he guessed that good grandam had but small store of that. nay, but you should have come in, sweet mouse; then would you have been conscience-smitten about all your dark surmisings. a murderer, forsooth! a ghost! a phantom! why, so civil was his manner that he but asked for a cup of water in passing, and my grandmother must needs have him come in out of the sun, and rest him, and have some milk. was that like a ghost? i warrant you there was naught of the ghost about him when she put a solid repast before him on the table: ghosts make no such stout attacks on gooseberry tart and cheese, else they be sore belied." "but who and what is this man, judith?" "why, who can tell what any man is?" said the other. "they all of them are puzzles, and unlike other human creatures. but this one--well, he hath a rare store of knowledge as to what is going forward at the court--and among the players, too; and as we sat in the little bower there you would have sworn you could see before you the river thames, with a wonderful pageant on it--dolphins, and whales, and crowned sea-queens, and the like; and in the midst of them all the young prince henry--'long live the young prince henry!' they cried; and there was such a noise of drums and cannons and trumpets that you could scarce hear my grandmother's bees among the flowers. i warrant you the good dame was well repaid for her entertainment, and right well pleased with the young gentleman. i should not marvel to find him returning thither, seeing that he can remain there in secrecy, and have such gossip as pleases him." "but, judith, you know not what you do!" her friend protested, anxiously. "do you forget--nay, you cannot forget--that this was the very man the wizard prophesied that you should meet; and, more than that, that he would be your husband!" "my husband?" said judith, with a flush of color, and she laughed uneasily. "nay, not so, good prudence. he is not one that is likely to choose a country wench. nay, nay, the juggler knave failed me--that is the truth of it; the charm was a thing of naught; and this young gentleman, if i met him by accident, the same might have happened to you, as i showed you before. marry, i should not much crave to see him again, if anything like that were in the wind. this is stratford town, 'tis not the forest of arden; and in this neighborhood a maiden may not go forth to seek her lover, and coax him into the wooing of her. my father may put that into a play, but methinks if he heard of his own daughter doing the like, the key would quickly be turned on her. nay, nay, good prue, you shall not fright me out of doing a civil kindness to a stranger, and one that is in misfortune, by flaunting his lovership before my eyes. there be no such thing: do not i know the tokens? by my life, this gentleman is too courteous to have a lover's mind within him!" "and you will go and see him again, judith?" her friend asked, quickly. "nay, i said not that," judith answered, complacently. "'tis not the forest of arden; would to heaven it were, for life would move to a pleasanter music! i said not that i would go forth and seek him; that were not maidenly; and belike there would come a coil of talking among the gossips or soon or late; but at this time of the year, do you see, sweet cousin, the country is fair to look upon, and the air is sweeter in the meadows than it is here in the town; and if a lone damsel, forsaken by all else, should be straying silent and forlorn along the pathway or by the river-side, and should encounter one that hath but lately made her acquaintance, why should not that acquaintance be permitted in all modesty and courtesy to ripen into friendship? the harm, good prue--the harm of it? tush! your head is filled with childish fears of the wizard; that is the truth; and had you but come into the house to-day, and had but five minutes' speech of the young gentleman, you would have been as ready as any one to help in the beguilement of the tedium of his hiding, if that be possible to two or three silly women. and bethink you, was't not a happy chance that i wore my new velvet cap this morning?" but she had been speaking too eagerly. this was a slip; and instantly she added, with some touch of confusion, "i mean that i would fain have my father's friends in london know that his family are not so far out of the world, or out of the fashion." "is he one of your father's friends, judith?" prudence said, gravely. "he is a friend of my father's friends, at least," said she, "and some day, i doubt not, he will himself be one of these. truly that will be a rare sight, some evening at new place, when we confront you with him, and tell him how he was charged with being a ghost, or a pirate, or an assassin, or something of the like." "your fancy runs free, judith," her friend said. "is't a probable thing, think you, that one that dares not come forth into the day, that is hiding from justice, or perchance scheming in catholic plots, should become the friend of your house?" "you saw him not at my grandmother's board, good prue," said judith, coolly. "the young gentleman hath the trick of making himself at home wherever he cometh, i warrant you. and when this cloud blows away, and he is free to come to stratford, there is none will welcome him more heartily than i, for methinks he holdeth master benjamin jonson in too high consideration, and i would have him see what is thought of my father in the town, and what his estate is, and that his family, though they live not in london, are not wholly of moll the milkmaid kind. and i would have susan come over too; and were she to forget her preachers and her psalms for but an evening, and were there any merriment going forward, the young gentleman would have to keep his wits clear, i'll be bound. there is the house, too, i would have him see; and the silver-topped tankard with the writing on it from my father's good friends; nay, i warrant me julius would not think of denying me the loan of the king's letter to my father--were it but for an hour or two----" but here they were startled into silence by a knocking below; then there was the sound of a man's voice in the narrow passage. "'tis he, sweetheart," judith said, quickly, and she kissed her friend, and gave a final touch to the ruff and the cap. "get you down and welcome him; i will go out when that you have shut the door of the room. and be merry, good heart, be merry--be brave and merry, as you love me." she almost thrust her out of the apartment, and listened to hear her descend the stairs; then she waited for the shutting of the chamber door; and finally she stole noiselessly down into the passage, and let herself out without waiting for the little maid margery. chapter xv. a first performance. "nay, zur," said the sour-visaged matthew, as he leaned his chin and both hands on the end of a rake, and spoke in his slow-drawling, grumbling fashion--"nay, zur, this country be no longer the country it wur; no, nor never will be again." "why, what ails the land?" said judith's father, turning from the small table in the summer-house, and lying back in his chair, and crossing one knee over the other, as if he would give a space to idleness. "not the land, zur," rejoined goodman matthew, oracularly--"not the land; it be the men that live in it, and that are all in such haste to make wealth, with plundering of the poor and each other, that there's naught but lying and cheating and roguery--god-a-mercy, there never wur the loike in any country under the sun! why, zur, in my vather's time a pair o' shoes would wear you through all weathers for a year; but now, with their half-tanned leather, and their horse-hide, and their cat-skin for the inner sole, 'tis a marvel if the rotten leaves come not asunder within a month. and they be all aloike; the devil would have no choice among 'em. the cloth-maker he hideth his bad wool wi' liquid stuff; and the tailor, no matter whether it be doublet, cloak, or hose, he will filch you his quarter of the cloth ere you see it again; and the chandler--he be no better than the rest--he will make you his wares of stinking offal that will splutter and run over, and do aught but give good light; and the vintner, marry, who knoweth not his tricks and knaveries of mixing and blending, and the selling of poison instead of honest liquor? the rogue butcher, too, he will let the blood soak in, ay, and puff wind into the meat--meat, quotha!--'tis as like as not to have been found dead in a ditch!" "a bad case indeed, good matthew, if they be all preying on each other so." "'tis the poor man pays for all, zur. though how he liveth to pay no man can tell; what with the landlords racking the rents, and inclosing the commons and pasturages--nay, 'tis a noble pastime the making of parks and warrens, and shutting the poor man out that used to have his cow there and a pig or two; but no, now shall he not let a goose stray within the fence. and what help hath the poor man? may he go to the lawyers, with their leases and clauses that none can understand--ay, and their fists that must be well greased ere they set to the business? 'tis the poor man pays for all, zur, i warrant ye; nor must he grumble when the gentleman goes a-hunting and breaks down his hedges and tramples his corn. corn? 'tis the last thing they think of, beshrew me else! they are busiest of all in sending our good english grain--ay, and our good english beef and bacon and tallow--beyond the seas; and to bring back what?--baubles of glass beads and amber, fans for my ladies, and new toys from turkey! the proud dames--i would have their painted faces scratched!" "what, what, good matthew?" judith's father said, laughing. "what know you of the city ladies and their painting?" "nay, nay, zur, the london tricks be spread abroad, i warrant ye; there's not a farmer's wife nowadays but must have her french-hood, and her daughter a taffeta cap--marry, and a grogram gown lined through with velvet. and there be other towns in the land than london to learn the london tricks; i have heard of the dames and their daughters; set them up with their pinching and girding with whalebone, to get a small waist withal!--ay, and the swallowing of ashes and candles, and whatever will spoil their stomach, to give them a pale bleak color. lord, what a thing 'tis to be rich and in the fashion!--let the poor man suffer as he may. corn, i' faith!--there be plenty of corn grown in the land, god wot; but 'tis main too dear for the poor man; the rack-rents for him, and a murrain on him; the corn for the forestallers and the merchants and gentlemen, that send it out of the country; and back come the silks and civets for proud madam and her painted crew!" "god have mercy on us, man!" judith's father exclaimed, and he drove him aside, and got out into the sunlight. at the same moment he caught sight of judith herself. "come hither, wench, come hither!" he called to her. she was nothing loath. she had merely been taking some scraps to the don; and seeing matthew in possession there, she had not even stayed to look into the summer-house. but when her father came out and called to her, she went quickly toward him; and her eyes were bright enough, on this bright morning. "what would you, father?" for answer he plucked off her cap and threw it aside, and took hold of her by a bunch of her now loosened and short sun-brown curls. "father!" she protested (but with no great anger). "there be twenty minutes' work undone!" "where bought you those roses?" said he, sternly. "answer me, wench!" "i bought no roses, father!" "the paint? is't not painted? where got you such a face, madam?" "father, you have undone my hair; and the parson is coming to dinner." "nay, i'll be sworn 'tis as honest a face as good mother nature ever made. this goodman matthew hath belied you!" "what said he of me?" she asked, with a flash of anger in her eyes. her father put his hand on her neck, and led her away. "nay, nay, come thy ways, lass; thou shalt pick me a handful of raspberries. and as for thine hair, let that be as god made it; 'tis even better so; and yet, methinks"--here he stopped, and passed his hand lightly once or twice over her head, so that any half-imprisoned curls were set free--"methinks," said he, regarding the pretty hair with considerable favor, "if you would as lief have some ornament for it, i saw that in london that would answer right well. 'twas a net-work kind of cap; but the netting so fine you could scarce see it; and at each point a bead of gold. now, madame vanity, what say you to that? would you let your hair grow free as it is now, and let the sunlight play with it, were i to bring thee a fairy cap all besprinkled with gold?" "i will wear it any way you wish, father, and right gladly," said she, "and i will have no cap at all if it please you." "nay, but you shall have the gossamer cap, wench; i will not forget it when next i go to london." "i would you had never to go to london again," said she, rather timidly. he regarded her for a second with a scrutinizing look, and there was an odd sort of smile on his face. "why," said he, "i was but this minute writing about a man that had to use divers arts and devices for the attainment of a certain end--yea, and devices that all the world would not approve of, perchance; and that was ever promising to himself that when the end was gained he would put aside these spells and tricks, and be content to live as other men live, in a quiet and ordinary fashion. wouldst have me live ever in stratford, good lass?" "the life of the house goes out when you go away from us," said she, simply. "well, stratford is no wilderness," said he, cheerfully; "and i have no bitter feud with mankind that i would live apart from them. didst ever think, wench," he added, more absently, "how sad a man must have been ere he could speak so: 'happy were he could finish forth his fate in some unhaunted desert, most obscure from all societies, from love and hate of worldly folk; then might he sleep secure; then wake again, and ever give god praise, content with hips and haws and brambleberry; in contemplation spending all his days, and change of holy thoughts to make him merry; where, when he dies, his tomb may be a bush, where harmless robin dwells with gentle thrush.'" "is it that you are writing now, father?" "nay, indeed," said he, slowly, and a cloud came over his face. "that was written by one that was my good friend in by-gone days; by one that was betrayed and done to death by lying tongues, and had but sorry favor shown him in the end by those he had served." he turned away. she thought she heard him say, "my noble essex," but she was mutely following him. and then he said: "come, lass; come pick me the berries." he kept walking up and down, by himself, while her nimble fingers were busy with the bushes; and when she had collected a sufficiency of the fruit, and brought it to him, she found that he appeared to be in no hurry this morning, but was now grown cheerful again, and rather inclined to talk to her. and she was far from telling him that her proper place at this moment was within-doors, to see that the maids were getting things forward; and if she bestowed a thought of any kind on the good parson, it was to the effect that both he and the dinner would have to wait. her father had hold of her by the arm. he was talking to her of all kinds of things, as they slowly walked up and down the path, but of his friends in stratford mostly, and their various ways of living; and this she conceived to have some reference to his project of withdrawing altogether from london, and settling down for good among them. indeed, so friendly and communicative was he on this clear morning--in truth, they were talking like brother and sister--that when at last he went into the summer-house, she made bold to follow; and when he chanced to look at some sheets lying on the table, she said: "father, what is the story of the man with the devices?" for an instant he did not understand what she meant; then he laughed. "nay, pay you no heed to such things, child." "and why should not i, father, seeing that they bring you so great honor?" "honor, said you?" but then he seemed to check himself. this was not julius shawe, to whom he could speak freely enough about the conditions of an actor's life in london. "well, then, the story is of a banished duke, a man of great wisdom and skill, and he is living on a desert island with his daughter--a right fair maiden she is, too, and she has no other companion in the world but himself." "but he is kind to her and good?" she said, quickly. "truly." "what other companion would she have, then? is she not content--ay, and right well pleased withal?" "methinks the story would lag with but these," her father said, with a smile. "would you not have her furnished with a lover--a young prince and a handsome--one that would play chess with her, and walk with her while her father was busy?" "but how on a desert island? how should she find such a one?" judith said, with her eyes all intent. "there, you see, is where the magic comes in. what if her father have at his command a sprite, a goblin, that can work all wonders--that can dazzle people in the dark, and control the storm, and whistle the young prince to the very feet of his mistress?" judith sighed, and glanced at the sheets lying on the table. "alas, good father, why did you aid me in my folly, and suffer me to grow up so ignorant?" "folly, fond wench!" said he, and he caught her by the shoulders and pushed her out of the summer-house. "thank god you have naught to do with any such stuff. there, go you and seek out prudence, and get you into the fields, and give those pink roses in your cheeks an airing. is't not a rare morning? and you would blear your eyes with books, silly wench? get you gone--into the meadows with you--and you may gather me a nosegay if your fingers would have work." "i must go in-doors, father; good master blaise is coming to dinner," said she; "but i will bring you the nosegay in the afternoon, so please you. so fare you well," she added; and she glanced at him, "and pray you, sir, be kind to the young prince." he laughed and turned away; and she hurried quickly into the house. in truth, all through that day she had plenty to occupy her attention; but whether it was the maids that were asking her questions, or her mother seeking her help, or good master walter paying authoritative court to her, her eyes were entirely distraught. for they saw before them a strange island, with magic surrounding it, and two young lovers, and a grave and elderly man regarding them; and she grew to wonder how much more of that story was shut up in the summer-house, and to lament her misfortune in that she could not go boldly to her father and ask him to be allowed to read it. she felt quite certain that could she but sit down within there and peruse these sheets for herself, he would not say her nay; and from that conclusion to the next--that on the first chances she would endeavor to borrow the sheets and have them read to her--was but an obvious step, and one that she had frequently taken before. moreover, on this occasion the chance came to her sooner than she could have expected. toward dusk in the evening her father went out, saying that he was going along to see how the harts were doing. matthew gardener was gone home; the parson had left hours before; and her mother was in the brew-house, and out of hearing. finally, to crown her good fortune, she discovered that the key had been left in the door of the summer-house; and so the next minute found her inside on her knees. it was a difficult task. there was scarcely any light, for she dare not leave the door open; and the mark that she put on the sheets, to know which she had carried to prudence, was minute. and yet the sheets seemed to have been tossed into this receptacle in fairly regular order; and when at length, and after much straining of her eyes, she had got down to the marked ones, she was rejoiced to find that there remained above these a large bulk of unperused matter, and the question was as to how much it would be prudent to carry off. further, she had to discover where there was some kind of division, so that the story should not abruptly break off; and she had acquired some experience in this direction. in the end, the portion of the play that she resolved upon taking with her was modest and small; there would be the less likelihood of detection; and it was just possible that she would have no opportunity of returning the sheets that night. and then she quickly got in-doors, and put on her hood and muffler, and slipped out into the dusk. she found prudence alone in the lower room, sitting sewing, the candles on the table being already lit; and some distance off, curled up and fast asleep on the floor, lay the little spaniel-gentle. "dear heart," said judith, brightly, as she glanced at the little dog, "you have shown good sense after all; i feared me you would fall away from my wise counsel." "my brother was well inclined to the little creature," prudence said, with some embarrassment. "and you had a right merry evening, i'll be bound," judith continued, blithely. "and was there singing?--nay, he can sing well when he is in the mood--none better. did he give you 'there is a garden in her face where roses and white lilies grow,' for julius is more light-hearted in such matters than you are, dear mouse. and was there any trencher business--and wine? i warrant me julius would not have his guest sit dry-throated. 'twas a merry evening, in good sooth, sweetheart?" "_they_ talked much together," prudence said, with her eyes cast down. "they talked? mercy on us, were you not civil to him? did you not thank him prettily for the little spaniel?" "in a measure i think 'twas julius took the little creature from him," prudence said, bashfully. "beshrew me now, but you know better!--'twas given to you, you know right well. a spaniel-gentle for your brother! as soon would he think of a farthingale and a petticoat! and what did he say? had he aught special to say to you, dear mouse?" "he would have me look at an ancient book he had, with strange devices on the leaves," prudence said. "truly 'twas strange and wonderful, the ornamentation of it in gold and colors, though i doubt me 'twas the work of monks and priests. he would have me take it from him," she added, with a faint blush. "and you would not, silly one?" judith exclaimed, angrily. "would you have me place such popish emblems alongside such a book as that that dr. hall gave me? dear judith, 'twould be a pollution and a sin!" "but you gave him thanks for the offer, then?" "of a surety; 'twas meant in friendship." "well, well; right glad am i to see the little beast lying there; and methinks your gentleness hath cast a spell o'er it already, sweetheart, or 'twould not rest so soundly. and now, dear mouse, i have come to tax your patience once more: see, here is part of the new play; and we must go to your chamber, dear prue, lest some one come in and discover us." prudence laughed in her quiet fashion. "i think 'tis you that casteth spells, judith, else i should not be aiding thee in this perilous matter." but she took one of the candles in her hand nevertheless, and led the way up-stairs; and then, when they had carefully bolted the door, judith placed the roll of sheets on the table, and prudence sat down to arrange and decipher them. "but this time," judith said, "have i less weight on my conscience; for my father hath already told me part of the story, and why should not i know the rest? nay, but it promises well, i do assure thee, sweetheart. 'tis a rare beginning: the desert island, and the sprite that can work wonders, and the poor banished duke and his daughter. ay, and there comes a handsome young prince, too; marry, you shall hear of marvels! for the sprite is one that can work magic at the bidding of the duke, and be seen like a fire in the dark, and can lead a storm whither he lists----" "'tis with a storm that it begins," prudence said, for now she had arranged the sheets. and instantly judith was all attention. it is true, she seemed to care little for the first scene and the squabbles between the sailors and the gentlemen; she was anxious to get to the enchanted island; and when at length prudence introduced prospero and miranda, judith listened as if a new world were being slowly opened before her. and yet not altogether with silence, for sometimes she would utter a few words of quick assent, or even explanation; but always so as not to interfere with the gentle-voiced reader. thus it would go: "then prospero says to her-- 'be collected: no more amazement: tell your piteous heart there's no harm done. _miranda._ oh, woe the day! _prospero._ no harm. i have done nothing but in care of thee, of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who art ignorant of what thou art, naught knowing of whence i am, nor that i am more better than prospero, master of a full poor cell, and thy no greater father. _miranda._ more to know did never meddle with my thoughts.'" "a right dutiful daughter!" judith would exclaim--but as apart. "a rare good wench, i warrant; and what a gentle father he is withal!" and then, when the banished duke had come to the end of his story, and when he had caused slumber to fall upon his daughter's eyes, and was about to summon ariel, judith interposed to give the patient reader a rest. "and what say you, prudence?" said she, eagerly. "is't not a beautiful story? is she not a sweet and obedient maiden, and he a right noble and gentle father? ah, there, now, they may talk about their masques and pageants of the court, and gods and goddesses dressed up to saw the air with long speeches: see you what my father can tell you in a few words, so that you can scarcely wait, but you must on to hear the rest. and do i hurry you, good prue? will you to it again? for now the spirit is summoned that is to work the magic." "indeed, 'tis no heavy labor, judith," her friend said, with a smile. "and now here is your ariel: 'all hail! great master! grave sir, hail! i come to answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly, to swim, to dive into the fire, to ride on the curled clouds; to thy strong bidding task ariel and all his quality!' then says prospero: 'hast thou, spirit, performed to point the tempest that i bade thee? _ariel._ to every article. i boarded the king's ship; now on the beak, now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, i flamed amazement; sometimes i'd divide, and burn in many places; on the topmast, the yards and bowsprit, would i flame distinctly, then meet and join. jove's lightnings, the precursors o' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary and sight-outrunning were not.... _prospero._ my brave spirit! who was so firm, so constant, that this coil would not infect his reason? _ariel._ not a soul but felt a fever of the mad, and played some tricks of desperation. all but mariners plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, then all afire with me: the king's son ferdinand----'" "the prince, sweetheart!--the prince that is to be brought ashore." "doubtless, judith, 'the king's son ferdinand, with hair up-staring--then like reeds, not hair-- was the first man that leaped: cried, "hell is empty, and all the devils are here." _prospero._ why, that's my spirit! but was not this nigh shore? _ariel._ close by, my master. _prospero._ but are they, ariel, safe? _ariel._ not a hair perished, on their sustaining garments not a blemish, but fresher than before; and, as thou badst me, the king's son have i landed by himself; whom i left cooling of the air with sighs in an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, his arms in this sad knot.'" "and hath he not done well, that clever imp!" judith cried. "nay, but my father shall reward him--that he shall--'twas bravely done and well. and now to bring him to the maiden that hath never seen a sweetheart--that comes next, good prue? i marvel now what she will say?" "'tis not yet, judith," her friend said, and she continued the reading, while judith sat and regarded the dusky shadows beyond the flame of the candle as if wonder-land were shining there. then they arrived at ariel's song, "come unto these yellow sands," and all the hushed air around seemed filled with music; but it was distant, somehow, so that it did not interfere with prudence's gentle voice. "then says prospero to her: 'the fringed curtains of thine eye advance, and say what thou seest yond. _miranda._ what is't? a spirit? lord, how it looks about! believe me, sir, it carries a brave form. but 'tis a spirit. _prospero._ no, wench; it eats and sleeps, and hath such senses as we have, such. this gallant which thou seest was in the wreck; and but he's something stained with grief, that's beauty's canker, thou might'st call him a goodly person. he hath lost his fellows, and strays about to find them. _miranda._ i might call him a thing divine, for nothing natural i ever saw so noble.'" "and what says he? what thinks he of her?" judith said, eagerly. "nay, first the father says--to himself, as it were 'it goes on, i see, as my soul prompts it. spirit, fine spirit! i'll free thee within two days, for this.' and then the prince says: 'most sure, the goddess on whom these airs attend! vouchsafe, my prayer may know, if you remain upon this island; and that you will some good instruction give, how i may bear me here; my prime request, which i do last pronounce, is, o you wonder! if you be maid or no? _miranda._ no wonder, sir, but certainly a maid. _ferdinand._ my language! heavens! i am the best of them that speak this speech, were i but where 'tis spoken.'" "but would he take her away?" said judith, quickly (but to herself, as it were). "nay, never so! they must remain on the island--the two happy lovers--with ariel to wait on them: surely my father will so make it?" then, as it appeared, came trouble to check the too swift anticipations of the prince, though judith guessed that the father of miranda was but feigning in his wrath; and when prudence finally came to the end of such sheets as had been brought her, and looked up, judith's eyes were full of confidence and pride--not only because she was sure that the story would end happily, but also because she would have her chosen gossip say something about what she had read. "well?" said she. "'tis a marvel," prudence said, with a kind of sigh, "that shapes of the air can so take hold of us." judith smiled; there was something in her manner that prudence did not understand. "and master jonson, good prue--that they call ben jonson--what of him?" "i know not what you mean, judith." "sure you know they make so much of him at the court, and of his long speeches about greece and rome and the like; and when one comes into the country with news of what is going forward, by my life you'd think that master jonson were the only writer in the land! what say you, good prue: could worthy master jonson invent you a scene like that?" "in truth i know not, judith; i never read aught of his writing." judith took over the sheets and carefully rolled them up. "why," said she, "'twas my father brought him forward, and had his first play taken in at the theatre!" "but your father and he are great friends, judith, as i am told; why should you speak against him?" "i speak against him?" said judith, as she rose, and there was an air of calm indifference on her face. "in truth, i have naught to say against the good man. 'tis well that the court ladies are pleased with demogorgons and such idle stuff, and 'tis passing well that he knows the trade. now give ye good-night and sweet dreams, sweet mouse; and good thanks, too, for the reading." but at the door below--prudence having followed her with the candle--she turned, and said, in a whisper: "now tell me true, good cousin: think you my father hath ever done better than this magic island, and the sweet miranda, and the rest?" "you know i am no judge of such matters, judith," her friend answered. "but, dear heart, were you not bewitched by it? were you not taken away thither? saw you not those strange things before your very eyes?" "in good sooth, then, judith," said the other, with a smile, "for the time being i knew not that i was in stratford town, nor in our own country of england either." judith laughed lightly and quickly, and with a kind of pride too. and when she got home to her own room, and once more regarded the roll of sheets, before bestowing them away in a secret place, there was a fine bravery of triumph in her eyes. "ben jonson!" she said, but no longer with any anger, rather with a sovereign contempt. and then she locked up the treasure in her small cupboard of boxes, and went down-stairs again to seek out her mother, her heart now quite recovered from its envy, and beating warm and equally in its disposition toward all mankind, and her mind full of a perfect and complacent confidence. "ben jonson!" she said. chapter xvi. by the river. the next morning she was unusually demure, and yet merry withal. in her own chamber, as she chose out a petticoat of pale blue taffeta, and laid on the bed her girdle of buff-colored leather, and proceeded to array herself in these and other braveries, it was to the usual accompaniment of thoughtless and quite inconsequent ballad-singing. at one moment it was "green-sleeves was all my joy," and again "fair, fair, and twice so fair," or perhaps-- "an ambling nag, and a-down, a-down, we have borne her away to dargison." but when she came to take forth from the cupboard of boxes the portion of the play she had locked up there the night before, and when she carefully placed that in a satchel of dark blue velvet that she had attached to the girdle, she was silent; and when she went down-stairs and encountered her mother, there was a kind of anxious innocence on her face. the good parson (she explained) had remained so late on the previous afternoon, and there were so many things about the house she had to attend to, that she had been unable to get out into the fields, as her father had bade her, to bring him home some wild flowers. besides, as every one knew, large dogs got weak in the hind-legs if they were kept chained up too continuously; and it was absolutely necessary she should take don roderigo out for a run with her through the meadows, if her father would permit. "there be plenty of flowers in the garden, surely," her mother said, who was busy with some leather hangings, and wanted help. "but he would liefer have some of the little wildlings, good mother," said judith. "that i know right well; for he is pleased to see them lying on the table before him; and sometimes, too, he puts the names of them in his writing." "how know you that?" was the immediate and sharp question. "as i have heard, good mother," judith said, with calm equanimity. and then she went to the small mirror to see that her gray velvet cap and starched ruff were all right. "what can your father want with wild flowers if he is to remain the whole day at warwick!" her mother said. "is my father gone to warwick?" she asked, quickly. "if he be not already set forth." she glanced at the window; there was neither horse nor serving-men waiting there. and then she hastily went out and through the back yard into the garden; and there, sure enough was her father, ready booted for the road, and giving a few parting directions to his bailiff. "well, wench," he said, when he had finished with the man, "what would you?" she had taken from her purse all the money she could find there. "good father," said she, "will you do this errand for me at warwick?" "more vanities?" said he. "i wonder you have no commissioner to despatch to spain and flanders. what is't, then?--a muff of satin--a gimmal ring----" "no, no, not so, father; i would have you buy for me a clasp-knife--as good a one as the money will get; and the cutler must engrave on the blade, or on the handle, i care not which, a message--an inscription, as it were; 'tis but three words--_for judith's sweetheart_. could you remember that, good father? is't too much of a trouble?" "how now?" said he. "for whom do you wish me to bring you such a token?" "nay, sir," said she, demurely, "would you have me name names? the gift of a sweetheart is a secret thing." "you are a mad wench," said he (though doubtless he guessed for whom the knife was intended), and he called to matthew gardener to go round and see if master shawe were not yet ready. "but now i bethink me, child, i have a message for thee. good master walter spoke to me yesternight about what much concerns him--and you." instantly all her gay self-confidence vanished; she became confused, anxious, timid; and she regarded him as if she feared what his look or manner might convey. "yes, sir," she said, in rather a low voice. "well, you know what the good man wishes," her father said, "and he spoke fairly, and reasoneth well. your mother, too, would be right well pleased." "and you, sir?" she said, rather faintly. "i?" said he. "nay, 'tis scarce a matter that i can say aught in. 'tis for yourself to decide, wench; but were you inclined to favor the young parson, i should be well pleased enough--indeed 'tis so--a good man and honest, as i take him to be, of fair attainment, and i know of none that bear him ill-will, or have aught to say against him. nay, if your heart be set that way, wench, i see no harm; you are getting on in years to be still in the unmarried state; and, as he himself says, there would be security in seeing you settled in a home of your own, and your future no longer open and undecided. nay, nay, i see no harm. he reasons well." "but, father, know you why he would have me become his wife?" judith said, with a wild feeling overcoming her that she was drowning and must needs throw out her hands for help. "'tis for no matter of affection that i can make out--or that he might not as well choose any other in the town; but 'tis that i should help him in his work, and--and labor in the vineyard, as he said. in truth i am all unfit for such a task--there be many another far better fitted than i; my mother must know that right well. there is little that i would not do to please her; but surely we might all of us have just as much of the good man's company without this further bond. but what say you, father? what is your wish?" she added, humbly. "perchance i could bring my mind to it if all were anxious that it should be so." "why, i have told thee, wench, thou must choose for thyself. 'twould please your mother right well, as i say; and as for the duties of a parson's wife--nay, nay, they are none so difficult. have no fears on that score, good lass; i dare be sworn you are as honest and well-minded as most, though perchance you make less profession of it." (the gratitude that sprang to her eyes, and shone there, in spite of her downcast face!) "nor must you think the good parson has but that end in view; 'tis not in keeping with his calling that he should talk the language of romance. and there is more for you to think of. even if master blaise be no vehement lover, as some of the young rattlepates might be, that is but a temporary thing; 'tis the long years of life that weigh for the most; and all through these you would be in an honorable station, well thought of, and respected. nay, there be many, i can tell thee, lass, that might look askance now at the player's daughter, who would be right glad to welcome the parson's wife." "what say you, father?" said she--and she was so startled that the blood forsook her lips for a moment. "that--that there be those--who scorn the player's daughter--and would favor the parson's wife?" and then she instantly added: "i pray you, sir, did not you say that i was to decide for myself?" "truly, child, truly," said he, somewhat wondering at her manner, for her face had grown quite pale. "then i have decided, father." "and how? what answer will you have for master walter?" she spoke slowly now, and with a distinctness that was almost harsh. "this, so please you, sir--that the player's daughter shall not, and shall never, become the parson's wife, god helping her!" "why, how now? what a coil is this!" he exclaimed. "good lass, 'twas not the parson that said aught of the kind. lay not that to his charge, in fair honesty." "i have decided," she said proudly and coldly. "father, the horses are brought round--i can hear them. you will not forget the knife, and the message on the blade?" he looked at her, and laughed, but in a kindly way; and he took her by the shoulder. "nay, now, wench, thou shalt not throw over the good man for a matter that was none of his bringing forward. and why should you wish to have less than the respect of all your neighbors, all and sundry, whatever be their views? in good sooth i meant to speak for the parson, and not to harm him; and when i have more time i must undo the ill that i have done him. so soften your heart, you proud one, and be thankful for the honor he would do you; and think over it; and be civil and grateful." "nay, i will be civil enough to the good minister," said she, with a return to her ordinary placid humor, "if he speak no more of making me his wife." "he will win you yet, for as stubborn as you are," her father said, with a smile. "he hath a rare gift of reason: do not say nay too soon, wench, lest you have to recall your words. fare you well, lass, fare you well." "and forget not the knife, good father. '_with judith's love_,' or '_for judith's sweetheart_,' or what you will." and then she added, daringly: "'tis for the young prince mamillius, if you must know, good sir." he was just going away; but this caused him to stop for a second; and he glanced at her with a curious kind of suspicion. but her eyes had become quite inscrutable. whatever of dark mischief was within them was not to be made out but by further questioning, and for that he had now no time. so she was left alone, mistress of the field, and rather inclined to laugh at her own temerity; until it occurred to her that now she could go leisurely forth for her stroll along the banks of the avon, taking the great dog with her. indeed, her anger was always short-lived. or perhaps it was the feeling that this danger was got rid of--that the decision was taken, and the parson finally and altogether left behind her--that now raised her spirits. at all events, as she went along the thoroughfare, and cheerfully greeted those that met her, the neighbors said 'twas little wonder that master william shakespeare's second daughter put off the choosing of a mate for herself, for that she seemed to grow younger and more winsome every day. and she knew all the children by name, and had a word for them--scolding or merry, as the case might be--when that she passed them by; and what with the clear sunlight of the morning, and the fresher atmosphere as she got out of the town, it seemed to herself as if all the air were filled with music. "then sigh not so, but let them go, and be you blithe and bonny," she said or sung to herself; and she had not a trace of ill-will in her mind against the parson (although she did not fail to recollect that she was a player's daughter); and she was admonishing the don to take good care of her, for that phantom conspirators and such like evil creatures might be about. and so she got down to the river-side; but she did not cross; she kept along by the path that followed the windings of the stream, between the wide meadows and the luxurious vegetation that overhung the current. this english-looking landscape was at its fairest on this fair morning, for some heavy rain in the night had washed the atmosphere clear; everything seemed sharp and luminous; and the rows of trees along the summits of the distant and low-lying hills were almost black against the white and blue sky. nearer her all the foliage of the wide-branching elms was stirring and rustling before a soft westerly breeze; the flooded river was of a tawny brown; while its banks were a wilderness of wild flowers between the stems of the stunted willows--straggling rose-bushes of white and red, tall masses of goose-grass all powdered over with cream-white blossom, a patch of fragrant meadow-sweet here and there, or an occasional blood-red poppy burning among the dark, dull greens. and as for companions? well, she caught a glimpse of a brood of ducks sidling along by the reeds, and tried to follow them, but the bushes shut them out from her sight. a mare and her foal, standing under the cool shadow of the trees, gazed blankly at her as she passed. further off there were some shorn sheep in the meadows; but she could see no shepherd. the harsh note of the corn-crake sounded somewhere in the long grass; and the bees were busy; and now and again a blue-backed swallow would swoop by her and over the stream; while all around there was a smell of clover sweetening the westerly wind. at this moment, she convinced herself, she bore no ill-will at all against the good parson: only that she had it in her mind that she would be well content to remain a player's daughter. her condition, she imagined, was one that she did not desire to have bettered. why, the air that touched her cheek was like velvet; and there could be nothing in the world fairer than the pink and white roses bestarring the bushes there; and the very pulse of her blood seemed to beat to an unheard and rhythmical and subtle tune. what was it her father had said? "i dare be sworn you are as honest and well-minded as most, though perchance you make less profession of it." she laughed to herself, with a kind of pride. and she was so well content that she wished she had little willie hart here, that she might put her hand on his shoulder and pet him, and convey to him some little of that satisfaction that reigned within her own bosom. no matter; he should have the clasp-knife--"_with judith's love_;" and right proud he would be of that, she made sure. and so she went idly on her way, sometimes with "fair, fair, and twice so fair, and fair as any may be," coming uncalled for into her head; and always with an eye to the various wild flowers, to see what kind of a nosegay she would be able to gather on her homeward walk. but by and by her glances began to go further afield. master leofric hope, in his brief references to his own habits and condition at the farm, had incidentally remarked that of all his walks abroad he preferred the following of the path by the river-side; for there he was most secure from observation. nay, he said that sometimes, after continued solitude, a longing possessed him to see a town--to see a populated place filled with a fair number of his fellow-creatures--and that he would come within sight of stratford itself and have a look at the church, and the church spire, and the thin blue smoke rising over the houses. that, he said, was safer for him than coming over such an exposed thoroughfare as bardon hill; and then again, when he was of a mind to read--for this time he had brought one or two books with him--he could find many a sheltered nook by the side of the stream, where even a passer-by would not suspect his presence. nor could judith, on this fresh, warm, breezy morning, conceal from herself the true object of her coming forth. if she had tried to deceive herself, the contents of the blue velvet satchel would have borne crushing testimony against her. in truth she was now looking with some eagerness to find whether, on such a pleasant morning, it was possible that he could have remained within-doors, and with the very distinct belief that sooner or later she would encounter him. nor was she mistaken, though the manner of the meeting was unexpected. the mastiff happened to have gone on a yard or two in front of her, and she was paying but little attention to the beast, when all of a sudden it stopped, became rigid, and uttered a low growl. she sprang forward and seized it by the collar. at the same instant she caught sight of some one down by the water's edge, where, but for this occurrence, he would doubtless have escaped observation. it was leofric hope, without a doubt; for now he was clambering up through the bushes, and she saw that he had a small book in his hand. "my good fortune pursues me, fair mistress judith," said he (but with a watchful eye on the dog), "that i should so soon again have an opportunity of meeting with you. but perchance your protector is jealous? he likes not strangers?" "a lamb, sir--a very lamb!" judith said, and she patted the dog and coaxed him, and got him into a more friendly--or at least neutral and watchful--frame of mind. "i marvel not you have come forth on such a morning," said he, regarding the fresh color in her face. "'tis a rare morning; and 'tis a rare chance for one that is a prisoner, as it were, that his dungeon is not four walls, but the wide spaces of warwickshire. will you go further? may i attend you?" "nay, sir," said she, "i but came forth to look at the country, and see what blossoms i could carry back to my father; i will go as far as the stile there, and rest a few minutes, and return." "'tis like your kindness, sweet lady, to vouchsafe me a moment's conversation; a book is but a dull companion," said he, as they walked along to the stile that formed part of a boundary hedge. and when they reached it she seated herself on the wooden bar with much content, and the mastiff lay down, stretching out his paws, while the young gentleman stood idly--but not carelessly--by. he seemed more than ever anxious to interest his fair neighbor, and so to beguile her into remaining. "a dull companion," he repeated, "it is. one would rather hear the sound of one's voice occasionally. when i came along here this morning i should have been right glad even to have had a she shepherd say 'good morrow' to me----" "a what, good sir?" she asked. he laughed. "nay, 'tis a book the wits in london have much merriment over just now--a guide-book for the use of foreigners coming to this country--and there be plenty of them at present, in the train of the ambassadors. marry, the good man's english is none of the best. '_for to ask the way_' is a chapter of the book; and the one traveller saith to the other, '_ask of that she shepherd_'--in truth the phrase hath been caught up by the town. but the traveller is of a pleasant and courteous turn; when that he would go to bed, he saith to the chambermaid: 'draw the curtains, and pin them with a pin. my she friend, kiss me once, and i shall sleep the better. i thank you, fair maiden.' well, their english may be none of the best, but they have a royal way with them, some of those foreigners that come to our court. when the constable of castile was at the great banquet at whitehall--doubtless you heard of it, sweet mistress judith?--he rose and drank the health of the queen from a cup of agate of extraordinary value, all set with diamonds and rubies, and when the king had drank from the same cup the constable called a servant, and desired that the cup should be placed on his majesty's buffet, to remain there. was't not a royal gift? and so likewise he drank the health of the king from a beautiful dragon-shaped cup of crystal all garnished with gold; but he drank from the cover only, for the queen, standing up, drank the pledge from the cup itself; and then he would have that in turn transferred to her buffet, as he had given the other one to the king." "my father," said she, with much complacent good-nature--for she had got into the way of talking to this young gentleman with a marvellous absence of restraint or country shyness, "hath a tankard of great age and value, and on the silver top of it is a tribute engraved from many of his friends--truly i would that you could come and see it, good sir--and--and--my father, too, he would make you welcome, i doubt not. and what book is it," she continued, with a smile, "that you have for companion, seeing that there be no she shepherd for you to converse withal?" "'tis but a dull affair," said he, scarce looking at it, for judith's eyes were more attractive reading. "and yet if the book itself be dull, there is that within its boards that is less so. perchance you have not heard of one master browne, a young devonshire gentleman, that hath but late come to london, and that only for a space, as i reckon?" "no, sir," she said hesitatingly. "the young man hath made some stir with his poems," he continued, "though there be none of them in the booksellers' hands as yet. and as it hath been my good fortune to see one or two of them--marry, i am no judge, but i would call them excellent, and of much modesty and grace--i took occasion to pencil down a few of the lines inside the cover of this little book. may i read them to you mistress judith?" "if it please you, good sir." he opened the book, and she saw that there were some lines pencilled on the gray binding; but they must have been familiar to him, for he scarce took his eyes from judith's face as he repeated them. "they are a description," said he, "of one that must have been fair indeed: 'her cheeks, the wonder of what eye beheld, begot betwixt a lily and a rose, in gentle rising plains divinely swelled, where all the graces and the loves repose, nature in this piece all her works excelled, yet showed herself imperfect in the close, for she forgot (when she so fair did raise her) to give the world a wit might duly praise her. 'when that she spoke, as at a voice from heaven, on her sweet words all ears and hearts attended; when that she sung, they thought the planets seven by her sweet voice might well their tunes have mended; when she did sigh, all were of joy bereaven; and when she smiled, heaven had them all befriended: if that her voice, sighs, smiles, so many thrilled, oh, had she kissed, how many had she killed!'" "'tis a description of a lady of the court?" judith asked timidly. "no, by heavens," he said, with warmth; "the bonniest of our english roses are they that grow in the country air!" and his glance of admiration was so open and undisguised, and the application of his words so obvious, that her eyes fell, and in spite of herself the color mounted to her cheeks. in her embarrassment she sought safety in the blue velvet satchel. she had contemplated some other way of introducing this latest writing of her father's; but now that had all fled from her brain. she knew that the town gentlemen were given to flattery; but then she was not accustomed to it. and she could not but swiftly surmise that he had written down these lines with the especial object of addressing them to her when he should have the chance. "good sir," said she, endeavoring to hide this brief embarrassment by assuming a merry air, "a fair exchange, they say, is no robbery. methinks you will find something here that will outweigh good master browne's verses--in bulk, if not in merit." he gazed in astonishment at the parcel of sheets she handed to him, and he but glanced at the first page when he exclaimed. "why, i have heard naught of this before." "nay, sir," said she, with a calm smile, "the infant is but young--but a few weeks, as i take it; it hath had but little chance of making a noise in the world as yet. will you say what you think of it?" but now he was busy reading. then by and by she recollected something of the manner in which she had meant to introduce the play. "you see, sir, my father hath many affairs on his hands; 'tis not all his time he can give to such things. and yet i have heard that they be well spoken of in london--if not by the wits, perchance, or by the court ladies, at least by the common people and the 'prentices. we in these parts have but little skill of learning; but--but methinks 'tis a pretty story--is it not, good sir?--and perchance as interesting as a speech from a goddess among the clouds?" "in truth it is a rare invention," said he, but absently, for his whole and rapt attention was fixed on the sheets. she, seeing him so absorbed, did not interfere further. she sat still and content--perhaps with a certain sedate triumph in her eyes. she listened to the rustling of the elms overhead, and watched the white clouds slowly crossing the blue, and the tawny-hued river lazily and noiselessly stealing by below the bushes. the corn-crake was silent now--there was not even that interruption; and when the bell in the church tower began to toll, it was so soft and faint and distant that she thought it most likely he would not even hear it. and at what point was he now? at the story of how the sweet miranda came to grow up in exile? or listening to ariel's song? or watching the prince approach this new wonder of the magic island? her eyes were full of triumph. "ben jonson!" she had said. but suddenly he closed the sheets together. "it were unmannerly so to keep you waiting," said he. "nay, heed not that, good sir," she said instantly. "i pray you go on with the reading. how like you it? 'tis a pretty story, methinks; but my father hath been so busy of late--what with acres, and tithes, and sheep, and malt and the like--that perchance he hath not given all his mind to it." "it is not for one such as i, fair mistress judith," said he, with much modesty, "to play the critic when it is your father's writing that comes forward. beshrew me, there be plenty of that trade in london, and chiefly the feeble folk that he hath driven from our stage. no, sweet lady; rather consider me one of those that crowd to see each new piece of his, and are right thankful for aught he pleaseth to give us." "is that so?" said she; and she regarded him with much favor, which he was not slow to perceive. "why," said he, boldly, "what needs your father to heed if some worshipful master scoloker be of opinion that the play of the prince hamlet belongeth to the vulgar sort, and that the prince was but moon-sick; or that some one like master greene--god rest his soul, wherever it be!--should call him an upstart crow, and a johannes factotum, and the like? 'tis what the people of england think that is of import; and right sure am i what they would say--that there is no greater writer than your father now living in the land." "ah, think you so?" she said, quickly, and her face grew radiant, as it were, and her eyes were filled with gratitude. "this master greene," he continued, "was ever jibing at the players, as i have heard, and bidding them be more humble, for that their labor was but mechanical, and them attracting notice through wearing borrowed plumes. nay, he would have it that your father was no more than that--poor man, he lived but a sorry life, and 'twere ill done to cherish anger against him; but i remember to have seen the apology that he that published the book made thereafter to your father--in good truth it was fitting and right that it should be printed and given to the world; and though i forget the terms of it, 'twas in fair praise of master william shakespeare's gentle demeanor, and his uprightness of conduct, and the grace of his wit." "could you get that for me, good sir?" said she, eagerly. "is't possible that i could get it?" and then she stopped in some embarrassment, for she remembered that it was not becoming she should ask this stranger for a gift. "nay, sir, 'twould be of little use to me, that have no skill of reading." "but i pray you, sweet mistress judith, to permit me to bring you the book; 'twill be something, at least, for you to keep and show to your friends----" "if i might show it to prudence shawe, i could return it to you, good sir," said she. and then she added, "not that she--no, nor any one in stratford town--would need any such testimony to my father's qualities, that are known to all." "at least they seem to have won him the love and loyalty of his daughter," said he, gallantly; "and they know most about a man who live nearest him. nay, but i will beg you to accept the book from me when i can with safety get to london again; 'twill be a charge i am not likely to forget. and in return, fair mistress judith, i would take of you another favor and a greater." "in what manner, gentle sir?" "i have but glanced over this writing, for fear of detaining you, and but half know the value of it," said he. "i pray you let me have it with me to my lodging for an hour or two, that i may do it justice. when one hath such a chance come to him, 'tis not to be lightly treated, and i would give time and quiet to the making out the beauties of your father's latest work." she was at first somewhat startled by this proposal, and almost involuntarily was for putting forth her hand to receive the sheets again into safe-keeping; but then she asked herself what harm there could be in acceding to his request. she was eagerly anxious that he should understand how her father--even amidst those multifarious occupations that were entailed on him by his prominent position in the town--could, when he chose, sit down and write a tale far exceeding in beauty and interest any of the mummeries that the court people seemed to talk about. why should not he have a few hours' time to study this fragment withal? her father had gone to warwick for the day. nay, more, she had taken so small a portion of what had been cast aside that she knew the absence of it would not be noticed, however long it might be kept. and then this young gentleman, who was so civil and courteous, and who spoke so well of her father, was alone, and to be pitied for that he had so few means of beguiling the tedium of his hiding. "in the afternoon," said he, seeing that she hesitated, "i could with safety leave it at your grandmother's cottage, and then, perchance, you might send some one for it. nay, believe me, sweet mistress judith, i know the value of that i ask; but i would fain do justice to such a treasure." "you would not fail me, sir, in leaving it at the cottage?" said she. "you do me wrong, mistress judith, to doubt--in good sooth you do. if you can find a trusty messenger----" "nay, but i will come for it myself, good sir, and explain to my grandmother the nature of the thing, lest she suspect me of meddling with darker plots. let it be so, then, good sir, for now i must get me back to the town. i pray you forget not to leave the package; and so--farewell!" "but my thanks to you, dear lady----" "nay, sir," said she, with a bright look of her eyes "bethink you you have not yet fairly made out the matter. tarry till you have seen whether these sheets be worth the trouble--whether they remind you in aught of the work of your friend master jonson--and then your thanks will be welcome. give ye good-day, gentle sir." there was no thought in her mind that she had done anything imprudent in trusting him with this portion of the play for the matter of an hour or two; it was but a small equivalent, she recollected, for his promise to bring her from london the retractation or apology of one of those who had railed at her father, or abetted in that, and found himself constrained by his conscience to make amends. and now it occurred to her that it would look ill if, having come out to gather some wild flowers for the little table in the summer-house, she returned with empty hands; so, as she proceeded to walk leisurely along the winding path leading back to the town, she kept picking here and there such blossoms as came within her reach. if the nosegay promised to be somewhat large and straggling, at least it would be sweet-scented, and she felt pretty sure that her father would be well content with it. at first she was silent, however; her wonted singing was abandoned; perchance she was trying to recall something of the lines that master leofric hope had repeated to her with so marked an emphasis. "and what said he of our english roses?" she asked herself, with some faint color coming into her face at the mere thought of it. but then she forcibly dismissed these recollections, feeling that that was due to her own modesty, and busied herself with her blossoms and sprays; and presently, as she set out in good earnest for the town, she strove to convince herself that there was nothing more serious in her brain than the tune of "green-sleeves:" "green-sleeves, now farewell, adieu; god i pray to prosper thee; for i am still thy lover true-- come once again and love me!" chapter xvii. wild words. her light-heartedness did not last long. in the wide clear landscape a human figure suddenly appeared, and the briefest turn of her head showed her that tom quiney was rapidly coming toward her across the fields. for a second her heart stood still. had he been riding home from ludington? or from bidford? was it possible that he had come over bardon hill, and from that height espied the two down by the river? she could not even tell whether that was possible, or what he had done with his horse, or why he had not interfered sooner, if he was bent on interfering. but she had an alarmed impression that this rapid approach of his boded trouble, and she had not long to wait before that fear was confirmed. "judith, who is that man?" he demanded, with a fury that was but half held in. she turned and faced him. "i knew not," she said, coldly and slowly, "that we were on a speaking platform." "'tis no time to bandy words," said he; and his face was pale, for he was evidently striving to control the passion with which his whole figure seemed to quiver from head to heel. "who is that man? i ask. who is he, that you come here to seek him, and alone?" "i know not by what right you put such questions to me," she said; but she was somewhat frightened. "by what right? and you have no regard, then, for your good name?" there was a flash in her eyes. she had been afraid; she was no longer afraid. "my good name?" she repeated. "i thank god 'tis in none of your keeping!" in his madness he caught her by the wrist. "you shall tell me----" "unhand me, sir!" she exclaimed; and she threw off his grasp, while her cheeks burned with humiliation. "nay, i quarrel not with women," said he. "i crave your pardon. but, by god, i will get to know that man's name and purpose here if i rive it from his body!" so he strode off in the direction that leofric hope had taken; and for a moment she stood quite terror-stricken and helpless, scarcely daring to think of what might happen. a murder on this fair morning? this young fellow, that was quite beside himself in his passion of jealous anger, was famed throughout the length and breadth of warwickshire for his wrestling prowess. and the other--would he brook high words? these things flashed across her mind in one bewildering instant; and in her alarm she forgot all about her pride. she called to him, "i pray you--stay!" he turned and regarded her. "stay," said she, with her face afire. "i--i will tell you what i know of him--if you will have it so." he approached her with seeming reluctance, and with anger and suspicion in his lowering look. he was silent, too. "indeed, there is no harm," said she (and still with her face showing her mortification that she was thus forced to defend herself). "'tis a young gentleman that is in some trouble--his lodging near bidford is also a hiding, as it were--and--and i know but little of him beyond his name, and that he is familiar with many of my father's friends in london." "and how comes it that you seek him out here alone?" said he. "that is a becoming and maidenly thing!" "i promised you i would tell you what i know of the young gentleman," said she, with scornful lips. "i did not promise to stand still and suffer your insolence." "insolence!" he exclaimed, as if her audacity bewildered him. "how know you that i sought him out?" she said, indignantly. "may not one walk forth of a summer morning without being followed by suspicious eyes--i warrant me, eyes that are only too glad to suspect! to think evil is an easy thing, it seems, with many; i wonder, sir, you are not ashamed." "you brave it out well," said he, sullenly; but it was evident that her courage had impressed him, if it still left him angered and suspicious. and then he asked: "how comes it that none of your friends or your family know aught of this stranger?" "i marvel you should speak of my family," she retorted. "i had thought you were inclined to remain in ignorance of them of late. but had you asked of prudence shawe she might have told you something of this young gentleman; or had you thought fit to call in at my grandmother's cottage, you might perchance have found him seated there, and a welcome guest at her board. marry, 'tis easier far to keep aloof and to think evil, as one may see." and then she added: "well, sir, are you satisfied? may i go home without farther threats?" "i threatened you not, judith," said he, rather more humbly. "i would have my threats kept for those that would harm you." "i know of none such," she said, distinctly. "and as for this young gentleman--that is in misfortune--such as might happen to any one--and not only in hiding, but having intrusted his secret to one or two of us that pity him and see no harm in him--i say it were a cruel and unmanly thing to spy out his concealment, or to spread the rumor of his being in the neighborhood." "nay, you need not fear that of me, judith," said he. "man to man is my way, when there is occasion. but can you marvel if i would have you for your own sake avoid any farther meetings with this stranger? if he be in hiding, let him remain there, in god's name; i for one will set no beagles to hunt him out. but as for you, i would have you meddle with no such dangerous traps." "good sir," said she, "i have my conduct in my own keeping, and can answer to those that have the guardianship of me." he did not reply to this rebuke. he said: "may i walk back to the town with you, judith?" "you forget," she said, coldly, "that if we were seen together the gossips might say i had come out hither to seek you, and alone." but he paid no heed to this taunt. "i care not," said he, with an affectation of indifference, "what the gossips in stratford have to talk over. stratford and i are soon to part." "what say you?" said she, quickly--and they were walking on together now, the don leisurely following at their heels. "nay, 'tis nothing," said he, carelessly; "there are wider lands beyond the seas, where a man can fight for his own and hold it." "and you?" she said. "you have it in your mind to leave the country?" "marry, that have i!" said he, gayly. "my good friend daniel hutt hath gotten together a rare regiment, and i doubt not i shall be one of the captains of them ere many years be over." her eyes were downcast, and he could not see what impression this piece of news had made upon her--if, indeed, he cared to look. they walked for some time in silence. "it is no light matter," said she at length, and in rather a low voice, "to leave one's native land." "as for that," said he, "the land will soon be not worth the living in. why, in former times, men spoke of the merry world of england. a merry world? i trow the canting rogues of preachers have left but little merriment in it; and now they would seek to have all in their power, and to flood the land with their whining and psalm-singing, till we shall have no england left us, but only a vast conventicle. think you that your father hath any sympathy with these? i tell you no; i take it he is an englishman, and not a conventicle-man. 'tis no longer the england of our forefathers when men may neither hawk nor hunt, and women are doomed to perdition for worshipping the false idol starch, and the very children be called in from their games of a sunday afternoon. god-a-mercy, i have had enough of brother patience-in-suffering, and his dominion of grace!" this seemed to judith a strange reason for his going away, for he had never professed any strong bias one way or the other in these religious dissensions; his chief concern, like that of most of the young men in stratford, lying rather in the direction of butt-shooting, or wrestling, or having a romp with some of the wenches to the tune of "packington's pound." "nay, as i hear," said he, "there be some of them in such discontent with the king and the parliament that they even talk of transplanting themselves beyond seas, like those that went to holland: 'twere a goodly riddance if the whole gang of the sour-faced hypocrites went, and left to us our own england. and a fair beginning for the new country across the atlantic--half of them these puritanical rogues, with their fastings and preachments; and the other half the constable's brats and broken men that such as hutt are drifting out: a right good beginning, if they but keep from seizing each other by the throat in the end! no matter: we should have our england purged of the double scum!" "but," said judith, timidly, "methought you said you were going out with these same desperate men?" "i can take my life in my hand as well as another," said he gloomily. and then he added: "they be none so desperate, after all. broken men there may be amongst them, and many against whom fortune would seem to have a spite; perchance their affairs may mend in the new country." "but your affairs are prosperous," judith said--though she never once regarded him. "why should you link yourself with such men as these?" "one must forth to see the world," said he; and he went on to speak in a gay and reckless fashion of the life that lay before him, and of its possible adventures and hazards and prizes. "and what," said he, "if one were to have good fortune in that far country, and become rich in land, and have good store of corn and fields of tobacco; what if one were to come back in twenty years' time to this same town of stratford, and set up for the trade of gentleman?" "twenty years?" said she, rather breathlessly. "'tis a long time; you will find changes." "none that would matter much, methinks," said he, indifferently. "there be those that will be sorry for your going away," she ventured to say--and she forced herself to think only of prudence shawe. "not one that will care a cracked three-farthings!" was the answer. "you do ill to say so--indeed you do!" said she, with just a touch of warmth in her tone. "you have many friends; you serve them ill to say they would not heed your going." "friends?" said he. "yes, they will miss me at the shovel-board, or when there is one short at the catches." "there be others than those," said she with some little hesitation. "who, then?" said he. "you should know yourself," she answered. "think you that prudence, for one, will be careless as to your leaving the country?" "prudence?" said he, and he darted a quick glance at her. "nay, i confess me wrong, then; for there is one that hath a gentle heart, and is full of kindness." "right well i know that--for who should know better than i?" said judith. "as true a heart as any in christendom, and a prize for him that wins it, i warrant you. if it be not won already," she added, quickly. "as to that, i know not." they were now nearing the town--they could hear the dull sound of the mill, and before them was the church spire among the trees, and beyond that the gray and red huddled mass of houses, barns, and orchards. "and when think you of going?" she said, after a while. "i know not, and i care not," said he, absently. "when i spoke of my acquaintances being indifferent as to what might befall me, i did them wrong, for in truth there be none of them as indifferent as i am myself." "'tis not a hopeful mood," said she, "to begin the making of one's fortunes in a new country withal. i pray you, what ails this town of stratford, that you are not content?" "it boots not to say, since i am leaving it," he answered. "perchance in times to come, when i am able to return to it, i shall be better content. and you?" "and i?" she repeated, with some surprise. "nay, you will be content enough," said he, somewhat bitterly. "mother church will have a care of you. you will be in the fold by then. the faithful shepherd will have a charge over you, to keep you from communication with the children of anger and the devil, that rage without like lions seeking to destroy." "i know not what you mean," said she, with a hot face. "right well you know," said he, coolly; but there was an angry resentment running through his affected disdain as he went on: "there be those that protest, and go forth from the church. and there be those that protest, and remain within, eating the fat things, and well content with the milk and the honey, and their stores of corn and oil. marry, you will be well provided for--the riches of the next world laid up in waiting for you, and a goodly share of the things of this world to beguile the time withal. nay, i marvel not; 'tis the wisdom of the serpent along with the innocence of the dove. what matters the surplice, the cross in baptism, and the other relics of popery, if conformity will keep the larder full? better that than starvation in holland, or seeking a home beyond the atlantic, where, belike, the children of the devil might prove overrude companions. i marvel not, i; 'tis a foolish bird that forsakes a warm nest." and now she well knew against whom his bitter speech was levelled; and some recollection of the slight he had put upon her in the church-yard came into her mind, with the memory that it had never been atoned for. and she was astounded that he had the audacity to walk with her now and here, talking as if he were the injured one. the sudden qualm that had filled her heart when he spoke of leaving the country was put aside; the kindly reference to prudence was forgotten; she only knew that this sarcasm of his was very much out of place, and that this was far from being the tone in which he had any right to address her. "i know not," said she, stiffly, "what quarrel you may have with this or that section of the church; but it concerns me not. i pray you attack those who are better able to defend themselves than i am, or care to be. methinks your studies in that line have come somewhat late." "'tis no greater marvel," said he, "than that you should have joined yourself to the assembly of the saints; it was not always so with you." "i?" she said; but her cheeks were burning; for well she knew that he referred to his having seen her with the parson on that sunday morning, and she was far too proud to defend herself. "heaven help me now, but i thought i was mistress of my own actions!" "in truth you are, mistress judith," said he, humbly (and this was the first time that he had ever addressed her so, and it startled her, for it seemed to suggest a final separation between them--something as wide and irrevocable as that twenty years of absence beyond the seas). and then he said, "i crave your pardon if i have said aught to offend you; and would take my leave." "god be wi' you," said she, civilly; and then he left, striking across the meadows toward the bidford road, and, as she guessed, probably going to seek his horse from whomsoever he had left it with. and as she went on, and into the town, she was wondering what prudence had said to him that should so suddenly drive him to think of quitting the country. all had seemed going well. as for master leofric hope, his secret was safe; this late companion of hers seemed to have forgotten him altogether in his anger against the good parson. and then she grew to think of the far land across the ocean, that she had heard vaguely of from time to time; to think how twenty years could be spent there: and what stratford would be like when that long space was over. "twenty years," she said to herself, with a kind of sigh. "there are many things will be settled, ere that time be passed, for good or ill." chapter xviii. a conjecture. when she got back to new place she found the house in considerable commotion. it appeared that the famous divine, master elihu izod, had just come into the town, being on his way toward leicestershire, and that he had been brought by the gentleman whose guest he was to pay a visit to judith's mother. judith had remarked ere now that the preachers and other godly persons who thus honored the new place generally made their appearance a trifling time before the hour of dinner; and now, as she reached the house, she was not surprised to find that prudence had been called in to entertain the two visitors--who were at present in the garden--while within doors her mother and the maids were hastily making such preparations as were possible. to this latter work she quickly lent a helping hand; and in due course of time the board was spread with a copious and substantial repast, not forgetting an ample supply of wine and ale for those that were that way inclined. then the two gentlemen were called in, prudence was easily persuaded to stay, and, after a lengthened grace, the good preacher fell to, seasoning his food with much pious conversation. at such times judith had abundant opportunities for reverie, and for a general review of the situation of her own affairs. in fact, on this occasion she seemed in a manner to be debarred from participation in these informal services at the very outset. master izod, who was a tall, thin, dark, melancholy-visaged man--unlike his companion, godfrey buller, of the leas, near to hinckley, who, on the contrary, was a stout, yeoman-like person, whose small gray absent eyes remained motionless and vacant in the great breadth of his rubicund face--had taken for his text, as it were, a list he had found somewhere or other of those characters that were entitled to command the admiration and respect of all good people. these were: a young saint; an old martyr; a religious soldier; a conscionable statesman; a great man courteous; a learned man humble; a silent woman; a merry companion without vanity; a friend not changed with honor; a sick man cheerful; a soul departing with comfort and assurance. and as judith did not make bold to claim to be any one of these--nor, indeed, to have any such merits or excellences as would extort the approval of the membership of the saints--she gradually fell away from listening; and her mind was busy with other things; and her imagination, which was vivid enough, intent upon other scenes. one thing that had struck her the moment she had returned was that prudence seemed in an unusually cheerful mood. of course the arrival of two visitors was an event in that quiet life of theirs; and no doubt prudence was glad to be appointed to entertain the strangers--one of them, moreover, being of such great fame. but so pleased was she, and so cheerful in her manner, that judith was straightway convinced there had been no quarrel between her and tom quiney. nay, when was there time for that? he could scarcely have seen her that morning; while the night before there had certainly been no mention of his projected migration to america, else prudence would have said as much. what, then, had so suddenly driven him to the conclusion that england was no longer a land fit to live in? and why had he paid prudence such marked attention--why had he presented her with the spaniel-gentle and offered her the emblazoned missal--one evening, only to resolve the next morning that he must needs leave the country? nay, why had he so unexpectedly broken the scornful silence with which he had recently treated herself? he had given her to understand that, as far as he was concerned, she did not exist. he seemed determined to ignore her presence. and yet she could not but remember that, if this contemptuous silence on his part was broken by the amazement of his seeing her in the company of a stranger, his suspicions in that direction were very speedily disarmed. a few words and they fled. it was his far more deadly jealousy of the parson that remained; and was like to remain, for she certainly would not stoop to explain that the meeting in the church-yard was quite accidental. but why should he trouble his head about either her or the parson? had he not betaken himself elsewhere--and that with her right good-will? nay, on his own confession he had discovered how kind and gentle prudence was: there was a fit mate for him--one to temper the wildness and hot-headedness of his youth. judith had never seen the sea, and therefore had never seen moonlight on the sea; but the nearest to that she could go, in thinking of what prudence's nature was like, in its restful and sweet and serious beauty, was the moonlight she had seen on the river avon in the calm of a summer's night, the water unbroken by a ripple, and not a whisper among the reeds. could he not perceive that too, and understand? as for herself, she knew that she could at any moment cut the knot of any complications that might arise by allowing master walter to talk her over into marrying him. her father had assured her that the clear-headed and energetic young parson was quite equal to that. well, it was about time she should abandon the frivolities and coquetries of her youth; and her yielding would please many good people, especially her mother and sister, and obtain for herself a secure and established position, with an end to all these quarrels and jealousies and uncertainties. moreover, there would be safety there. for, if the truth must be told, she was becoming vaguely and uncomfortably conscious that her relations with this young gentleman who had come secretly into the neighborhood were no longer what they had been at first. their friendship had ripened rapidly; for he was an audacious personage, with plenty of self-assurance; and with all his professions of modesty and deference, he seemed to know very well that he could make his society agreeable. then those lines he had repeated: why, her face grew warm now as she thought of them. she could not remember them exactly, but she remembered their purport; and she remembered, too, the emphasis with which he had declared that the bonniest of our english roses were those that grew in the country air. now a young man cut off from his fellows as he was might well be grateful for some little solace of companionship, or for this or the other little bit of courtesy; but he need not (she considered) show his gratitude just in that way. doubtless his flattery might mean little; the town gentlemen, she understood, talked in that strain; and perhaps it was only by an accident that the verses were there in the book; but still she had the uneasy feeling that there was something in his manner and speech that, if encouraged, or suffered to continue without check, might lead to embarrassment. that is to say, if she continued to see him; and there was no need for that. she could cut short this acquaintance the moment she chose. but on the one hand she did not wish to appear uncivil; and on the other she was anxious that he should see the whole of this play that her father had written--thrown off, as it were, amid the various cares and duties that occupied his time. if master leofric hope talked of ben jonson when he came into the country, she would have him furnished with something to say of her father when he returned to town. these were idle and wandering thoughts; and in one respect they were not quite honest. in reality she was using them to cloak and hide, or to drive from her mind altogether, a suspicion that had suddenly occurred to her that morning, and that had set her brain afire in a wild way. it was not only the tune of "green-sleeves" that was in her head as she set off to walk home, though she was trying to force herself to believe that. the fact is this: when master leofric hope made the pretty speech about the country roses, he accompanied it, as has been said, by a glance of only too outspoken admiration; and there was something in this look--apart from the mere flattery of it--that puzzled her. she was confused, doubtless; but in her confusion it occurred to her that she had met that regard somewhere before. she had no time to pursue this fancy further; for in order to cover her embarrassment she had betaken herself to the sheets in her satchel; and thereafter she was so anxious that he should think well of the play that all her attention was fixed on that. but after leaving him, and having had a minute or two to think over what had happened, she recalled that look, and wondered why there should be something strange in it. and then a startling fancy flashed across her mind--the wizard! was not that the same look--of the same black eyes--that she had encountered up at the corner of the field above the weir brake?--a glance of wondering admiration, as it were? and if these two were one and the same man? of course that train, being lit, ran rapidly enough: there were all kinds of parallels--in the elaborate courtesy, in the suave voice, in the bold and eloquent eyes. and she had no magical theory to account for the transformation--it did not even occur to her that the wizard could have changed himself into a young man--there was no dismay or panic in that direction; she instantly took it for granted that it was the young man who had been personating the wizard. and why?--to what end, if this bewildering possibility were to be regarded for an instant? the sole object of the wizard's coming was to point out to her her future husband. and if this young man were himself the wizard? a trick to entrap her? ariel himself could not have flashed from place to place more swiftly than this wild conjecture; but the next moment she had collected herself. her common-sense triumphed. she bethought her of the young man she had just left--of his respectful manners--of the letter he had brought for her father--of the circumstances of his hiding. it was not possible that he had come into the neighborhood for the deliberate purpose of making a jest of her. did he look like one that would play such a trick; that would name himself as her future husband; that would cozen her into meeting him? she felt ashamed of herself for harboring such a thought for a single instant. her wits had gone wool-gathering! or was it that prudence's fears had so far got hold of her brain that she could not regard the young man but as something other than an ordinary mortal? in fair justice, she would dismiss this absurd surmise from her mind forthwith; and so she proceeded with her gathering of the flowers; and when she did set forth for home, she had very nearly convinced herself that there was nothing in her head but the tune of "green-sleeves." nay, she was almost inclined to be angry with prudence for teaching her to be so suspicious. nevertheless, during this protracted dinner, while good master izod was enlarging upon the catalogue of persons worthy of honor and emulation, judith was attacked once more by the whisperings of the demon. for awhile she fought against these, and would not admit to herself that any further doubt remained in her mind; but when at last, she found herself, despite herself, going back and back to that possibility, she took heart of grace and boldly faced it. what if it were true? supposing him to have adopted the disguise, and passed himself off as a wizard, and directed her to the spot where she should meet her future husband--what then? what ought she to do? how ought she to regard such conduct? as an idle frolic of youth? or the device of one tired of the loneliness of living at the farm, and determined at all hazards to secure companionship? or a darker snare still--with what ultimate aims she could not divine? or again (for she was quite frank), if this were merely some one who had seen her from afar, at church, or fair, or market, and considered she was a good-looking maid, and wished to have further acquaintance, and could think of no other method than this audacious prank? she had heard of lovers' stratagems in plenty; she knew of one or two of such that had been resorted to in this same quiet town of stratford. and supposing that this last was the case, ought she to be indignant? should she resent his boldness in hazarding such a stroke to win her? and then, when it suddenly occurred to her that, in discussing this possibility, she was calmly assuming that master leofric hope was in love with her--he never having said a word in that direction, and being in a manner almost a stranger to her--she told herself that no audacity on his part could be greater than this on hers; and that the best thing she could do would be to get rid once and forever of such unmaidenly conjectures. no; she would go back to her original position. the facts of the case were simple enough. he would have brought no letter to her father had he been bent on any such fantastic enterprise. was it likely he would suffer the thraldom of that farm-house, and live away from his friends and companions, for the mere chance of a few minutes' occasional talk with a stratford wench? as for the similarity between his look and that of the wizard, the explanation lay no doubt in her own fancy, which had been excited by prudence's superstitious fears. and if in his courtesy he had applied to herself the lines written by the young devonshire poet--well, that was but a piece of civility and kindness, for which she ought to be more than usually grateful, seeing that she had not experienced too much of that species of treatment of late from one or two of her would-be suitors. she was awakened from these dreams by the conversation suddenly ceasing; and in its place she heard the more solemn tones of the thanksgiving offered up by master izod: "the god of glory and peace, who hath created, redeemed, and presently fed us, be blessed forever and ever. so be it. the god of all power, who hath called from death that great pastor of the sheep, our lord jesus, comfort and defend the flock which he hath redeemed by the blood of the eternal testament; increase the number of true preachers; repress the rage of obstinate tyrants; mitigate and lighten the hearts of the ignorant; relieve the pains of such as be afflicted, but specially of those that suffer for the testimony of thy truth; and finally, confound satan by the power of our lord jesus christ. amen." and then, as the travellers were continuing their journey forthwith, they proposed to leave; and master buller expressed his sorrow that judith's father had not been at home to have made the friendship of a man so famous as master izod; and the good parson, in his turn, as they departed, solemnly blessed the house and all that dwelt therein, whether present or absent. as soon as they were gone, judith besought her mother for the key of the summer-house, for she wished to lay on her father's table the wild flowers she had brought; and having obtained it, she carried prudence with her into the garden, and there they found themselves alone, for goodman matthew had gone home for his dinner. "dear mouse," said she, quickly, "what is it hath happened to tom quiney?" "i know not, judith," the other said, in some surprise. "it is in his mind to leave the country." "i knew not that." "i dare be sworn you did not, sweetheart," said she, "else surely you would have told me. but why? what drives him to such a thing? his business prospers well, as i hear them say; and yet must he forsake it for the company of those desperate men that are going away to fight the indians beyond seas. nothing will content him. england is no longer england; stratford is no longer stratford. mercy on us, what is the meaning of it all?" "in truth i know not, judith." then judith regarded her. "good cousin, i fear me you gave him but a cold welcome yesternight." "i welcomed him as i would welcome any of my brother's friends," said prudence, calmly and without embarrassment. "but you do not understand," judith said, with a touch of impatience. "bless thy heart! young men are such strange creatures; and must have all to suit their humors; and are off and away in their peevish fits if you do not entertain them, and cringe, and say your worship to every sirrah of them! oh, they be mighty men of valor in their own esteem; and they must have us poor handmaidens do them honor; and if all be not done to serve, 'tis boot and spur and off to the wars with them, and many a fine tale thereafter about the noble ladies that were kind to them abroad. marry! they can crow loud enough; 'tis the poor hens that durst never utter a word; and all must give way before his worship! what, then? what did you do? was not the claret to his liking? did not your brother offer him a pipe of trinidado?" "indeed, judith, it cannot be through aught that happened last night, if he be speaking of leaving the country," prudence said. "i thought he was well content, and right friendly in his manner." "but you do not take my meaning," judith said. "dear heart, bear me no ill-will; but i would have you a little more free with your favors. you are too serious, sweet mouse. could you not pluck up a little of the spirit that the pretty rosalind showed--do you remember?--when she was teasing orlando in the forest? in truth these men are fond of a varying mood; when they play with a kitten they like to know it has claws. and again, if you be too civil with them, they presume, and would become the master all at once; and then must everything be done to suit their lordships' fantasies, or else 'tis up and away with them, as this one goes." "i pray you, judith," her friend said, and now in great embarrassment, "forbear to speak of such things: in truth, my heart is not set that way. right well i know that if he be leaving the country, 'tis through no discontent with me, nor that he would heed in any way how i received him. nay, 'tis far otherwise; it is no secret whom he would choose for wife. if you are sorry to hear of his going away from his home, you know that a word from you would detain him." "good mouse, the folly of such thoughts!" judith exclaimed. "why, when he will not even give me a 'good-day to you, wench'!" "you best know what reasons he had for his silence, judith; i know not." "reasons?" said she, with some quick color coming to her face. "we will let that alone, good gossip. i meddle not with any man's reasons, if he choose to be uncivil to me; god help us, the world is wide enough for all!" "did you not anger him, judith, that he is going away from his home and his friends?" "anger him? perchance his own suspicions have angered him," was the answer; and then she said, in a gentler tone: "but in truth, sweetheart, i hope he will change his mind. twenty years--for so he speaks--is a long space to be away from one's native land; there would be many changes ere he came back. twenty years, he said." judith rather timidly looked at her companion, but indeed there was neither surprise nor dismay depicted on the pale and gentle face. her eyes were absent, it is true, but they did not seem to crave for sympathy. "'tis strange," said she. "he said naught of such a scheme last night, though he and julius spoke of this very matter of the men who were preparing to cross the seas. i know not what can have moved him to such a purpose." "does he imagine, think you," said judith, "that we shall all be here awaiting him at the end of twenty years, and as we are now? or is he so sure of his own life? they say there is great peril in the new lands they have taken possession of beyond sea, and that there will be many a bloody fight ere they can reap the fruit of their labors in peace. nay, i will confess to thee, sweet mouse, i like not his going. old friends are old friends, even if they have wayward humors; and fain would i have him remain with us here in stratford--ay, and settled here, moreover, with a sweet puritan wife by his side, that at present must keep everything hidden. well no matter," she continued, lightly. "i seek no secrets--except those that be in the oaken box within here." she unlocked the door of the summer-house, and entered, and put the flowers on the table. "tell me, prue," said she, "may we venture to take some more of the play, or must i wait till i have put back the other sheets?" "you have not put them back?" "in truth, no," said judith, carelessly. "i lent them to the young gentleman, leofric hope." "judith!" her friend exclaimed, with frightened eyes. "what then?" "to one you know nothing of? you have parted with these sheets--that are so valuable?" "nay, nay, good mouse," said she; "you know the sheets are cast away as useless. and i but lent them to him for an hour or two to lighten the tedium of his solitude. nor was that all, good prue, if i must tell thee the truth; i would fain have him know that my father can do something worth speaking of as well as his friend ben jonson, and perchance even better; what think you?" "you have seen him again, then--this morning?" "even so," judith answered, calmly. "judith, why would you run into such danger?" her friend said, in obvious distress. "in truth i know not what 'twill come to. and now there is this farther bond in this secret commerce--think you that all this can remain unknown? your meeting with him must come to some one's knowledge--indeed it must, sweetheart." "nay, but this time you have hit the mark," complacently. "if you would assure yourself, good prue, that the young gentleman is no grisly ghost or phantom, methinks you could not do better than ask tom quiney, who saw him this very morning--and saw us speaking together, as i guess." "he saw you!" prudence exclaimed. "and what said he?" "he talked large and wild for a space," said judith, coolly, "but soon i persuaded him there was no great harm in the stranger gentleman. in sooth his mind was so full of his own affairs--and so bitter against all preachers, ministers, and pastors--and he would have it that england was no longer fit to live in--marry, he told me so many things in so few minutes that i have half forgotten them!" and then it suddenly occurred to her that this fantasy that had entered her mind in the morning, and that had haunted her during master elihu izod's discourse, would be an excellent thing with which to frighten prudence. 'twas but a chimera, she assured herself; but there was enough substance in it for that. and so, when she had carefully arranged the flowers on the table, and cast another longing look at the oaken chest, she locked the door of the summer-house, and put her arm within the arm of her friend, and led her away for a walk in the garden. "prudence," said she, seriously, "i would have you give me counsel. some one hath asked me what a young maiden should do in certain circumstances that i will put before you; but how can i tell, how can i judge of anything, when my head is in a whirligig of confusion with parsons' arguments, and people leaving the country, and i know not what else? but you, good mouse--your mind is ever calm and equable--you can speak sweet words in israel--you are as daniel that was so excellent a judge even in his youth----" "judith!" the other protested; but indeed judith's eyes were perfectly grave and apparently sincere. "well, then, sweetheart, listen: let us say that a young man has seen a young maiden that is not known to him but by name--perchance at church it may have been, or as she was walking home to her own door. and there may be reasons why he should not go boldly to her father's house, though he would fain do so; his fancy being taken with her in a small measure, and he of a gentle disposition, and ready to esteem her higher than she deserved. and again it might be that he wished for private speech with her--to judge of her manners and her inclinations--before coming publicly forward to pay court to her: but alack, i cannot tell the story as my father would; 'tis the veriest skeleton of a story, and i fear me you will scarce understand. but let us say that the young man is bold and ingenious, and bethinks him of a stratagem whereby to make acquaintance with the damsel. he writes to her as a wizard that has important news to tell her; and begs her to go forth and meet him; and that on a certain morning he will be awaiting her at such and such a place. now this maiden that i am telling you of has no great faith in wizards, but being curious to see the juggling, she goes forth to meet him as he asks----" "judith, i pray you speak plain; what is't you mean?" prudence exclaimed; for she had begun to suspect. "you must listen, good mouse, before you can give judgment," said judith, calmly; and she proceeded: "now you must understand that it was the young gentleman himself whom she met, though she knew it not; for he had dressed himself up as an ancient wizard, and he had a solemn manner, and latin speech, and what not. then says the wizard to her, 'i can show you the man that is to be your lover and sweetheart and husband; that will win you and wear you in the time coming; and if you would see him, go to such and such a cross-road, and he will appear.' do you perceive, now, sweet mouse, that it was a safe prophecy, seeing that he had appointed himself to be the very one who should meet her?" prudence had gradually slipped her arm away from that of her friend, and now stood still, regarding her breathlessly, while judith, with eyes quite placid and inscrutable, continued her story: "'twas a noteworthy stratagem, and successful withal; for the maiden goes to the cross-road, and there she meets the young gentleman--now in his proper costume. but she has no great faith in magic; she regards him not as a ghost summoned by the wizard; she would rather see in this meeting an ordinary accident; and the young man being most courteous and modest and civil-spoken, they become friends. do you follow the story? you see, good mouse, there is much in his condition to demand sympathy and kindness--he being in hiding, and cut off from his friends; and she, not being too industrious, and fond rather of walking in the meadows and the like, meets him now here, now there, but with no other thought than friendliness. i pray you, bear that in mind, sweetheart; for though i esteem her not highly, yet would i do her justice: there was no thought in her mind but friendliness, and a wish to be civil to one that seemed grateful for any such communion. and then one morning something happens--beshrew me if i can tell thee how it happened, and that is the truth--but something happens--an idea jumps into her head--she suspects that this young gentleman is no other than the same who was the wizard, and that she has been entrapped by him, and that he, having played the wizard, would now fain play the lover----" "judith, is't possible! is't possible!" "hold, cousin, hold; your time is not yet. i grant you 'tis a bold conjecture, and some would say not quite seemly and becoming to a maiden, seeing that he had never spoken any word to her of the kind; but there it was in her head--the suspicion that this young gentleman had tricked her, for his own amusement, or perchance to secure her company. now, sweet judge in israel, for your judgment! and on two points, please you. first supposing this conjecture to be false, how is she to atone to the young gentleman? and how is she to punish herself? and how is she to be anything but uneasy should she chance to see him again? nay, more, how is she to get this evil suspicion banished from her mind, seeing that she dare not go to him and confess, and beg him for the assurance that he had never heard of the wizard? then the second point: supposing the conjecture to be true, ought she to be very indignant? how should she demean herself? should she go to him and reproach him with his treachery? she would never forgive it, dear mouse, would she, even as a lover's stratagem?" "judith, i cannot understand you; i cannot understand how you can even regard such a possibility, and remain content and smiling----" "then i ought to be indignant? good cousin, i but asked for your advice," judith said. "i must be angry; i must fret and fume, and use hot language, and play the tragedy part? in good sooth, when i think on't, 'twas a piece of boldness to put himself forward as my future husband--it was indeed--though twas cunningly contrived. marry, but i understand now why my goodman wizard would take no money from me; 'twas myself that he would have in payment of his skill; and 'gracious lady' and 'sweet lady,' these were the lures to lead me on; and his shepherd's dial placed on the ground! then off go beard and cloak, and a couple of days thereafter he is a gay young gallant; and 'sweet lady' it is again--or 'fair lady,' was't?--'know you one master shakespeare in the town?' and such modesty, and such downcast eyes, and an appeal for one in misfortune. heaven save us, was it not well done? modesty! by my life, a rare modest gentleman! he comes down to stratford, armed with his london speech and his london manners, and he looks around. which one, then? which of all the maidens will his lordship choose for wife? 'oh!' saith he, 'there is judith shakespeare; she will do as well as another; perchance better, for new place is the fairest house in the town, and doubtless she will have a goodly marriage portion. so now how to secure her? how to charm her away from any clownish sweetheart she may chance to have? easily done, i' faith! a country wench is sure to believe in magic; 'tis but raising my own ghost out of the ground, and a summons to her, and i have her sure and safe, to win and to wear, for better or worse!'" she looked at prudence. "heaven's blessings on us all, good prue, was there ever poor maiden played such a scurril trick?" "then your eyes are opened, judith?" said prudence, eagerly; "you will have naught more to do with such a desperate villain?" again judith regarded her, and laughed. "i but told a story to frighten thee, good heart," said she. "a desperate villain? yes, truly; but 'tis i am a desperate villain to let such rascal suspicions possess me for an instant. nay, good mouse, think of it! is't possible that one would dare so much for so poor a prize? that the young gentleman hath some self-assurance, i know; and he can quickly make friends; but do you think, if any such dark design had been his, he would have entered my grandmother's cottage, and ate and drank there, and promised to renew his visit? sweet judge in israel, your decision on the other point, i pray you! what penance must i do for letting such cruel thoughts stray into my brain? how shall i purge them away? to whom must i confess? nay, methinks i must go to the young gentleman himself, and say: 'good sir, i have a friend and gossip that is named prudence shawe, who hath a strange belief in phantom-men and conspirators. i pray you pardon me that through her my brain is somewhat distraught; and that i had half a mind to accuse you of a plot for stealing me away--me, who have generally this stout mastiff with me. i speech you, sir, steal me not--nay, forgive me that i ever dreamed of your having any such purpose. 'tis our rude country manners, good sir, that teach a maid to believe a man may not speak to her without intent to marry her. i pray you pardon me--my heart is kneeling to you, could you but see--and give me such assurance that you meditated no such thing as will bring me back my scattered senses.' were not that well done? shall that be my penance, good mouse?" "dear judith, tell me true," her friend said, almost piteously, "do you suspect him of having played the wizard to cheat you and entrap you?" "good cousin," said she, in her frankest manner, "i confess: i did suspect--for an instant. i know not what put it into my head. but sure i am i have done him wrong--marry, 'twere no such deadly sin even had he been guilty of such a trick; but i believe it not--nay, he is too civil and gentle for a jest of the kind. when i see him again i must make him amends for my evil thinking: do not i owe him as much, good gossip?" this was all she could say at present, for matthew gardener here made his appearance, and that was the signal for their withdrawing into the house. but that afternoon, as judith bethought her that master leofric hope would be coming to her grandmother's cottage with the manuscript he had promised to return, she became more and more anxious to see him again. somehow she thought she could more effectually drive away this disquieting surmise if she could but look at him, and regard his manner, and hear him speak. as it turned out, however, it was not until somewhat late on in the evening that she found time to seek out little willie hart, and propose to him that he should walk with her as far as shottery. chapter xix. a daughter of england. "sweetheart willie," she said--and her hand lay lightly on his shoulder, as they were walking through the meadows in the quiet of this warm golden evening--"what mean you to be when you grow up?" he thought for a second or two, and then he rather timidly regarded her. "what would you have me to be, cousin judith?" he said. "why, then," said she, "methinks i would have you be part student and part soldier, were it possible, like the gallant sir philip sidney, that queen elizabeth said was the jewel of her reign. and yet you know, sweetheart, that we cannot all of us be of such great estate. there be those who live at the court, and have wealth and lands, and expeditions given them to fit out, so that they gain fame; that is not the lot of every one, and i know not whether it may be yours--though for brave men there is ever a chance. but this i know i would have you ready to do, whether you be in high position or in low, and that is to fight for england, if needs be, and defend her, and cherish her. why," she said, "what would you think, now, of one brought up by a gentle mother, one that owes his birth and training to this good mother, and because there is something amiss in the house, and because everything is not to his mind, he ups and says he must go away and forsake her? call you that the thought of a loyal son and one that is grateful? i call it the thought of a peevish, froward, fractious child. because, forsooth, this thing or the other is not to his worship's liking, or all the company not such as he would desire, or others of the family having different opinions--as surely, in god's name, they have a right to have--why, he must needs forsake the mother that bore him, and be off and away to other countries! sweetheart willie, that shall never be your mind, i charge you. no, you shall remain faithful to your mother england, that is a dear mother and a good mother, and hath done well by her sons and daughters for many a hundred years; and you shall be proud of her, and ready to fight for her, ay, and to give your life for the love of her, if ever the need should be!" he was a small lad, but he was sensitive and proud-spirited; and he loved dearly this cousin judith who had made this appeal to him; so that for a second the blood seemed to forsake his face. "i am too young as yet to do aught, cousin judith," said he, in rather a low voice, for his breath seemed to catch; "but--but when i am become a man i know that there will be one that will sooner die than see any spaniard or frenchman seize the country." "bravely said, sweetheart, by my life!" she exclaimed (and her approval was very sweet to his ears). "that is the spirit that women's hearts love to hear of, i can tell thee." and she stooped and kissed him in reward. "hold to that faith. be not ashamed of your loyalty to your mother england! ashamed? heaven's mercy! where is there such another country to be proud of? and where is there another mother that hath bred such a race of sons? why, times without number have i heard my father say that neither greece, nor rome, nor carthage, nor any of them, were such a race of men as these in this small island, nor had done such great things, nor earned so great a fame, in all parts of the world and beyond the seas. and mark you this, too: 'tis the men who are fiercest to fight with men that are the gentlest to women; they make no slaves of their women; they make companions of them; and in honoring them they honor themselves, as i reckon. why, now, could i but remember what my father hath written about england, 'twould stir your heart, i know; that it would; for you are one of the true stuff, i'll be sworn; and you will grow up to do your duty by your gracious mother england--not to run away from her in peevish discontent!" she cast about for some time, her memory, that she could not replenish by any book-reading, being a large and somewhat miscellaneous store-house. "'twas after this fashion," said she, "if i remember aright: 'this royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, this earth of majesty, this seat of mars, this fortress, built by nature for herself against infestion and the hand of war; this happy breed of men, this little world, this precious stone set in the silver sea, which serves it in the office of a wall, or as a moat defensive to a house, against the envy of less happier lands-- this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this england!' mark you that, sweetheart?--is't not a land worth fighting for? ay, and she hath had sons that could fight for her; and she hath them yet, i dare be sworn, if the need were to arise. and this is what you shall say, cousin willie, when you are a man and grown: 'come the three corners of the world in arms, and we shall shock them. naught shall make us rue, if england to itself do rest but true!'" these quotations were but for the instruction of this small cousin of hers, and yet her own face was proud. "shall i be a soldier, then, cousin judith?" the boy said. "i am willing enough. i would be what you would wish me to be; and if i went to the wars, you would never have need to be ashamed of me." "that know i right well, sweetheart," said she, and she patted him on the head. "but 'tis not every one's duty to follow that calling. you must wait and judge for yourself. but whatever chances life may bring you, this must you ever remain, if you would have my love, sweetheart, and that i hope you shall have always--you must remain a good and loyal son to your mother england, one not easily discontented with small discomforts, and sent forth in a peevish fit. where is there a fairer country? marry, i know of none. look around--is't not a fair enough country?" and fair indeed on this quiet evening was that wide stretch of warwickshire, with its hedges and green meadows, and low-lying wooded hills bathed in the warm sunset light. but it was the presence of judith that made it all magical and mystical to him. whatever she regarded with her clear-shining and wondrous eyes was beautiful enough for him--while her hand lay on his shoulder or touched his hair. he was a willing pupil. he drank in those lessons in patriotism: what was it he would not do for his cousin judith? what was it he would not believe if it were she who told him, in that strange voice of hers, that thrilled him, and was like music to him, whether she spoke to him in this proud, admonitory way, or was in a teasing mood, or was gentle and affectionate toward him? yes, this warwickshire landscape was fair enough, under the calm sunset sky; but he knew not what made it all so mystical and wonderful, and made the far golden clouds seem as the very gateways to heaven. "or is there one with a prouder story?" she continued. "or a land of greater freedom? why, look at me, now. here am i, a woman, easily frightened, helpless if there were danger, not able to fight any one. why, you yourself, cousin willie, if you were to draw a dagger on me, i declare to thee i would run and shriek and hide. well, look at me as i stand here: all the might and majesty of england cannot harm me; i am free to go or to stay. what needs one more? none durst put a hand on me. my mind is as free as my footsteps. i may go this way or that as i choose; and no one may command me to believe this, that, or the other. what more? and this security--think you it had not to be fought for?--think you it was not worth the fighting for? or think you we should forget to give good thanks to the men that faced the spaniards, and drove them by sea and shore, and kept our england to ourselves? or think you we should forget our good queen bess, that i warrant me had as much spirit as they, and was as much a man as any of them?" she laughed. "perchance you never heard, sweetheart, of the answer that she made to the spanish ambassador?" "no, judith," said he, but something in her manner told him that there had been no cowardice in that answer. "well," she said, "i will tell thee the story of what happened at deptford. and now i bethink me, this must you do, cousin willie, when you are grown to be a man; and whether you be soldier or sailor, or merchant, or student, 'tis most like that some day or other you will be in london; and then must you not fail to go straightway to deptford to see the famous ship of sir francis drake lying there. i tell thee, 'twas a goodly thought to place it there; that was like our brave queen bess; she would have the youth of the country regard with honor the ship that had been all round the world, and chased the spaniards from every sea. nay, so bad is my memory that i cannot recall the name of the vessel--perchance 'twas the judith--at least i have heard that he had one of that name; but there it lies, to signal the glory of england and the routing of spain." "the judith?" said he, with wondering eyes. "did he name the ship after you, cousin?" "bless the lad! all that i'm going to tell thee happened ere i was born." "no matter," said he, stoutly: "the first thing i will ask to see, if ever i get to london is that very ship." "well, then, the story," she continued, shaping the thing in her mind (for being entirely destitute of book learning, historical incidents were apt to assume a dramatic form in her imagination, and also to lose literal accuracy of outline). "you must know the spaniards were sore vexed because of the doings of francis drake in all parts of the world, for he had plundered and harried them and burned their ships and their towns, and made the very name of england a terror to them. 'tis no marvel if they wished to get hold of him; and they declared him to be no better than a pirate; and they would have the queen--that is, our last queen--deliver him over to them that they might do with him what they willed. marry, 'twas a bold demand to made of england! and the queen, how does she take it, think you?--how is she moved to act in such a pass? why, she goes down to deptford, to this very ship that i told thee of--she and all her nobles and ladies, for they would see the famous ship. then they had dinner on board, as i have heard the story; and the queen's majesty asked many particulars of his voyages from master drake, and received from him certain jewels as a gift, and was right proud to wear them. then says she aloud to them all: 'my lords, is this the man the spaniards would have me give over to them?' right well she knew he was the man; but that was her way, and she would call the attention of all of them. 'your majesty,' they said, ''tis no other.' then she swore a great oath that the queen of england knew how to make answer to such a demand. 'come hither, master drake,' says she, in a terrible voice. 'kneel!' then he knelt on his knee before her. 'my lord,' says she to one of the noblemen standing by, 'your sword!' and then, when she had the sword in her hand, she says, in a loud voice, 'my lords, this is the man that spain would have us give up to her; and this is the answer of england: arise, sir francis!'--and with that she taps him on the shoulder--which is the way of making a knight, cousin willie; and i pray you may be brave and valiant, and come to the same dignity, so that all of us here in stratford shall say, 'there, now, is one that knew how to serve faithfully his fair mother england!' but that was not all, you must know, that happened with regard to sir francis drake. for the spanish ambassador was wroth with the queen; ay, and went the length even of speaking with threats. ''twill come to the cannon,' says he. 'what?' says she, turning upon him. 'your majesty,' says he, 'i fear me this matter will come to the cannon.' and guess you her answer?--nay, they say she spoke quite calmly, and regarded him from head to foot, and that if there were anger in her heart there was none in her voice. 'little man, little man,' says she, 'if i hear any more such words from thee, by god i will clap thee straight into a dungeon!'" judith laughed, in a proud kind of way. "that was the answer that england gave," said she, "and that she is like to give again, if the don or any other of them would seek to lord it over her." three-fourths of these details were of her own invention, or rather--for it is scarcely fair to say that--they had unconsciously grown up in her mind from the small seed of the true story. but little willie hart had no distrust of any legend that his cousin judith might relate to him. whatever judith said was true, and also luminous in a strange kind of fashion; something beautiful and full of color, to be thought over and pondered over. and now as they walked along toward the village, idly and lazily enough--for she had no other errand than to fetch back the manuscript that would be lying at the cottage--his eyes were wistful. his fancies were far away. what was it, then, that he was to do for england--that judith should approve in the after-years? and for how long should he be away--in the spanish main, perchance, of which he had heard many stories, or fighting in the lowlands of holland, or whatever he was called to do--and what was there at the end? well, the end that he foresaw and desired--the reward of all his toil--was nothing more nor less than this: that he should be sitting once again in a pew in stratford church, on a quiet sunday morning, with judith beside him as of old, they listening to the singing together. he did not think of his being grown up, or that she would be other than she was now. his mind could form no other or fairer consummation than that--that would be for him the final good--to come back to stratford town to find judith as she had ever been to him, gentle, and kind, and soft-handed, and ready with a smile from her beautiful and lustrous eyes. "yes, sweetheart willie," said she, as they were nearing the cottages, "look at the quiet that reigns all around, and no priests of the inquisition to come dragging my poor old grandmother from her knitting. what has she to do but look after the garden, and scold the maid, and fetch milk for the cat? and all this peace of the land that we enjoy we may have to fight for again; and then, if the king's majesty calls either for men or for money, you shall have no word but obedience. heard you never of the scotch knight, sir patrick spens?--that the scotch king would send away to norroway at an evil time of the year? did he grumble? did he say his men were ill content to start at such a time? nay, as i have heard, when he read the king's letter the tears welled in his eyes; but i'll be sworn that was for the companions he was taking with him to face the cruel sea. 'the king's daughter from norroway, 'tis we must fetch her home,' he says; and then they up with their sails, and set out from the land that they never were to see more. what of that? they were brave men; they did what was demanded of them; though the black seas of the north were too strong for them in the end. 'twas a sad tale, in good sooth: 'o lang, lang may the ladies sit, wi' the fans into their hand, before they see sir patrick spens come sailing to the strand! 'and lang, lang may the maidens sit, wi' their gold combs in their hair, all waiting for their ain dear loves, for them they'll see nae mair. 'half owre, half owre to aberdour, 'tis fifty fathoms deep, and there lies good sir patrick spens wi' the scots lords at his feet.' but what then? i tell thee, sweetheart, any maiden that would be worth the winning would a hundred times liefer wail for a lover that had died bravely than welcome him back safe and sound as a coward. you shall be no coward, i warrant me, when you are grown up to be a man; and above all, as i say, shall you be gentle and forgiving with your mother england, even if your own condition be not all you wish; and none the less for that shall you be willing to fight for her should she be in trouble. nay, i'll answer for thee, lad: i know thee well." "but, judith," said he, "who are they you speak of, that are discontented, and would go away and leave the country?" well, it is probable she might have found some embarrassment in answering this question (if she had been pressed to name names) but that what she now beheld deprived her of the power of answering altogether. she had come over from the town with no other thought than to pay a brief visit to her grandmother, and fetch back the portion of the play, and she had not the slightest expectation of encountering master leofric hope. but there unmistakably he was, though he did not see her, for he was standing at the gate of her grandmother's cottage, and talking to the old dame, who was on the other side. there was no pretence of concealment. here he was in the public path, idly chatting, his hand resting on the gate. and as judith had her cousin willie with her, her first thought was to hurry away in any direction in order to escape an interview; but directly she saw that this was impossible, for her grandmother had descried her, if leofric hope had not. the consequence was that, as she went forward to the unavoidable meeting, she was not only surprised and a trifle confused and anxious, but also somewhat and vaguely resentful; for she had been intending, before seeing him again, to frame in her mind certain tests which might remove or confirm one or two suspicions that had caused her disquietude. and now--and unfairly, as she thought--she found herself compelled to meet him without any such legitimate safeguard of preparation. she had no time to reflect that it was none of his fault. why had not he left the play earlier? she asked herself. why had not he departed at once? why, with all his professions of secrecy, should he be standing in the open highway, carelessly talking? and what was she to say to little willie hart that would prevent his carrying back the tale to the school and the town? when she went forward, it was with considerable reluctance; and she had a dim, hurt sense of having been imposed upon, or somehow or another injured. chapter xx. varying moods. but the strange thing was that the moment he turned and saw her--and the moment she met the quick look of friendliness and frank admiration that came into his face and his eloquent dark eyes--all her misgivings, surmises, suspicions, and half-meditated safeguards instantly vanished. she herself could not have explained it; she only knew that, face to face with him, she had no longer any doubt as to his honesty; and consequently that vague sense of injury vanished also. she had been taken unawares, but she did not mind. everything, indeed, connected with this young man was of a startling, unusual character; and she was becoming familiar with that, and less resentful at being surprised. "ah, fair mistress judith," said he, "you come opportunely: i would thank you from the heart for the gracious company i have enjoyed this afternoon through your good-will; in truth, i was loath to part with such sweet friends, and perchance detained them longer than i should." "i scarce understand you, sir," said she, somewhat bewildered. "not the visions that haunt a certain magic island?" said he. her face lit up. "well, sir?" she asked, with a kind of pride; but at this point her grandmother interposed, and insisted--somewhat to judith's surprise--that they should come in and sit down, if not in the house, at least in the garden. he seemed willing enough; for without a word he opened the gate to let judith pass; and then she told him who her cousin was; and in this manner they went up to the little arbor by the hedge. "well, good sir, and how liked you the company?" said she, cheerfully, when she had got within and sat down. her grandmother had ostensibly taken to her knitting; but she managed all the same to keep a sharp eye on the young man; for she was curious, and wanted to know something further of the parcel that he had left with her. it was not merely hospitality or a freak of courtesy that had caused her to give him this sudden invitation. her granddaughter judith was a self-willed wench and mischievous; she would keep an eye on her too; she would learn more of this commerce between her and the young gentleman who had apparently dropped, as it were, from the skies. as for little willie hart, he remained outside, regarding the stranger with no great good-will; but perhaps more with wonder than with anger, for he marvelled to hear judith talk familiarly with this person, of whom he had never heard a word, as though she had known him for years. "'tis not for one such as i," said master leofric hope, modestly--and with such a friendly regard toward judith that she turned away her eyes and kept looking at this and that in the garden--"to speak of the beauties of the work; i can but tell you of the delight i have myself experienced. and yet how can i even do that? how can i make you understand that--or my gratitude either, sweet mistress judith--unless you know something of the solitude of the life i am compelled to lead? you would have yourself to live at bassfield farm; and watch the monotony of the days there; and be scarcely able to pass the time: then would you know the delight of being introduced to this fair region that your father hath invented, and being permitted to hear those creatures of his imagination speak to each other. nay, but 'tis beautiful! i am no critical judge; but i swear 'twill charm the town." "you think so, sir?" said she, eagerly, and for an instant she withdrew her eyes from the contemplation of the flowers. but immediately she altered her tone to one of calm indifference. "my father hath many affairs to engage him, you must understand, good sir; perchance, now, this play is not such as he would have written had he leisure, and--and had he been commanded by the court, and the like. perchance 'tis too much of the human kind for such purposes?" "i catch not your meaning, sweet lady," said he. "i was thinking," said she, calmly, "of the masques you told us of--at theobald's and elsewhere--that master benjamin jonson has written, and that they all seem to prize so highly: perchance these were of a finer stuff than my father hath time to think of, being occupied, as it were, with so many cares. 'tis a rude life, having regard to horses, and lands, and malt, and the rest; and--and the court ladies--they would rather have the gods and goddesses marching in procession, would they not? my father's writing is too much of the common kind, is it not, good sir?--'tis more for the 'prentices, one might say, and such as these?" he glanced at her. he was not sure of her. "the king, sweet lady," said he, "is himself learned, and would have the court familiar with the ancient tongues; and for such pageants 'tis no wonder they employ master jonson, that is a great scholar. but surely you place not such things--that are but as toys--by the side of your father's plays, that all marvel at, and applaud, and that have driven away all others from our stage?" "say you so?" she answered, with the same indifferent demeanor. "nay, i thought that master scoloker--was that his worship's name?--deemed them to be of the vulgar sort. but perchance he was one of the learned ones. the king, they say, is often minded to speak in the latin. what means he by that, good sir, think you? hath he not yet had time to learn our english speech?" "wench, what would you?" her grandmother interposed, sharply. "nay, good sir, heed her not; her tongue be an unruly member, and maketh sport of her, as i think; but the wench meaneth no harm." "the king is proud of his learning, no doubt," said he; and he would probably have gone on to deprecate any comparison between the court masques and her father's plays but that she saw here her opportunity, and interrupted him. "i know it," she said, "for the letter that the king sent to my father is writ in the latin." "nay, is it so?" said he. she affected not to observe his surprise. "'twas all the same to my father," she continued, calmly, "whether the letter was in one tongue or the other. he hath one book now--how is it called?--'tis a marvellous heap of old stories--the jests----" "not the _gesta romanorum_?" he said. "the same, as i think. well, he hath one copy that is in english, and of our own time, as i am told; but he hath also another and a very ancient copy, that is in the latin tongue; and this it is--the latin one, good sir--that my father is fondest of; and many a piece of merriment he will get out of it, when julius shawe is in the house of an evening." "but the _gesta_ are not jests, good mistress judith," said he, looking somewhat puzzled. "i know not; i but hear them laughing," said she, placidly. "and as for the book itself, all i know of it is the outside; but that is right strange and ancient, and beautiful withal: the back of it white leather stamped with curious devices; and the sides of parchment printed in letters of red and black; and the silver clasps of it with each a boar's head. i have heard say that that is the crest of the scotch knight that gave the volume to my father when they were all at aberdeen; 'twas when they made laurence fletcher a burgess; and the knight said to my father, 'good sir, the honor to your comrade is a general one, but i would have you take this book in particular, in the way of thanks and remembrance for your wit and pleasant company'--that, or something like that, said he; and my father is right proud of the book, that is very ancient and precious; and often he will read out of it--though it be in the latin tongue. oh, i assure you, sir," she added, with a calm and proud air, "'tis quite the same thing to him. if the king choose to write to him in that tongue, well and good. marry, now i think of it, i make no doubt that julius shawe would lend me the letter, did you care to see it." he looked up quickly and eagerly. "goes your goodness so far, sweet mistress judith? would you do me such a favor and honor?" "nay, young sir," the grandmother said, looking up from her knitting, "tempt not the wench; she be too ready to do mad things out of her own mind. and you, grandchild, see you meddle not in your father's affairs." "why, grandam," judith cried, "'tis the common property of stratford town. any one that goeth into julius shawe's house may see it. and why julius shawe's friends only? beshrew me, there are others who have as good a title to that letter--little as my father valueth it." "nay, i will forego the favor," said he at once, "though i owe you none the less thanks, dear lady, for the intention of your kindness. in truth, i know not how to make you sensible of what i already owe you; for, having made acquaintance with those fair creations, how can one but long to hear of what further befell them? my prayer would rather go in that direction--if i might make so bold." he regarded her now with a timid look. well, she had not undertaken that he should see the whole of the play, nor had she ever hinted to him of any such possibility; but it had been in her mind, and for the life of her she could not see any harm in this brief loan of it. harm? had not even this brief portion of it caused him to think of her father's creations as if they were of a far more marvellous nature than the trumpery court performances that had engrossed his talk when first she met him? "there might be some difficulty, good sir," said she, "but methinks i could obtain for you the further portions, if my good grandmother here would receive them and hand them to you when occasion served." "what's that, wench?" her grandmother said, instantly. "'tis but a book, good grandam, that i would lend master hope to lighten the dulness of his life at the farm withal: you cannot have any objection, grandmother?" "'tis a new trade to find thee in, wench," said her grandmother. "i'd 'a thought thou wert more like to have secret commerce in laces and silks." "i am no pedler, good madam," said he, with a smile; "else could i find no pleasanter way of passing the time than in showing to you and your fair granddaughter my store of braveries. nay, this that i would beg of you is but to keep the book until i have the chance to call for it; and that is a kindness you have already shown in taking charge of the little package i left for mistress judith here." "well, well, well," said the old dame, "if 'tis anything belonging to her father, see you bring it back, and let not the wench get into trouble." "i think you may trust me so far, good madam," said he, with such simplicity of courtesy and sincerity that even the old grandmother was satisfied. in truth she had been regarding the two of them with some sharpness during these few minutes to see if she could detect anything in their manner that might awaken suspicion. there was nothing. no doubt the young gentleman regarded judith with an undisguised wish to be friendly with her, and say pretty things; but was that to be wondered at? 'twas not all the lads in stratford that would be so modest in showing their admiration for a winsome lass. and this book-lending commerce was but natural in the circumstances. she would have been well content to hear that his affairs permitted him to leave the neighborhood, and that would happen in good time; meanwhile there could be no great harm in being civil to so well-behaved a young gentleman. so now, as she had satisfied herself that the leaving of the package meant nothing dark or dangerous, she rose and hobbled away in search of the little maid, to see that some ale were brought out for the refreshment of her visitor. "sweetheart willie," judith called, "what have you there? come hither!" her small cousin had got hold of the cat, and was vainly endeavoring to teach it to jump over his clasped hands. he took it up in his arms, and brought it with him to the arbor, though he did not look in the direction of the strange gentleman. "we shall be setting forth for home directly," said she. "wilt thou not sit down and rest thee?" "'tis no such distance, cousin," said he. he seemed unwilling to come in; he kept stroking the cat, with his head averted. so she went out to him, and put her arm round his neck. "this, sir," said she, "is my most constant companion, next to prudence shawe; i know not to what part of all this neighborhood we have not wandered together. and such eyes he hath for the birds' nests; when i can see naught but a cloud of leaves he will say, why, 'tis so and so, or so and so; and up the tree like a squirrel, and down again with one of the eggs, or perchance a small naked birdling, to show me. but we always put them back, sweetheart, do we not?--we leave no bereft families, or sorrowing mother bird to find an empty nest. we do as we would be done by; and 'tis no harm to them that we should look at the pretty blue eggs, or take out one of the small chicks with its downy feathers and its gaping bill. and for the fishing, too--there be none cleverer at setting a line, as i hear, or more patient in watching; but i like not that pastime, good cousin willie, for or soon or late you are certain to fall through the bushes into the river, as happened to dickie page last week, and there may not be some one there to haul you out, as they hauled out him." "and how fares he at the school?" said the young gentleman in the arbor. "oh, excellent well, as i am told," said she, "although i be no judge of lessons myself. marry, i hear good news of his behavior; and if there be a bloody nose now and again, why, a boy that's attacked must hold his own, and give as good as he gets--'twere a marvel else--and 'tis no use making furious over it, for who knows how the quarrel began? nay, i will give my cousin a character for being as gentle as any, and as reasonable; and if he fought with master crutchley's boy, and hit him full sore, i fear, between the eyes--well, having heard something of the matter, i make no doubt it served young crutchley right, and that elder people should have a care in condemning when they cannot know the beginning of the quarrel. well, now i bethink me, sweetheart, tell me how it began, for that i never heard. how began the quarrel?" "nay, 'twas nothing," he said, shamefacedly. "nothing? nay, that i will not believe. i should not wonder now if it were about some little wench. what? nay, i'll swear it now! 'twas about the little wench that has come to live at the vicarage--what's her name?--minnie, or winnie?" "'twas not, then, judith," said he. "if you must know, i will tell you; i had liefer say naught about it. but 'twas not the first time he had said so--before all of them--that my uncle was no better than an idle player, that ought to be put in the stocks and whipped." "why, now," said she, "to think that the poor lad's nose should be set a-bleeding for nothing more than that!" "it had been said more than once, cousin judith; 'twas time it should end," said he, simply. at this moment master leofric hope called to him. "come hither, my lad," said he. "i would hear how you get on at school." the small lad turned and regarded him, but did not budge. his demeanor was entirely changed. with judith he was invariably gentle, submissive, abashed: now, as he looked at the stranger, he seemed to resent the summons. "come hither, my lad." "thank you, no, sir," he said; "i would as lief be here." "sweetheart, be these your manners?" judith said. but the young gentleman only laughed good-naturedly. "didst thou find any such speeches in the _sententiæ pueriles_?" said he. "they were not there when i was at school." "when go we back to stratford, judith?" said the boy. "presently, presently," said she (with some vague impression that she could not well leave until her grandmother's guest showed signs of going also). "see, here is my grandam coming with various things for us; and i warrant me you shall find some gingerbread amongst them." the old dame and the little maid now came along, bringing with them ale and jugs and spiced bread and what not, which were forthwith put on the small table; and though judith did not care to partake of these, and was rather wishful to set out homeward again, still, in common courtesy, she was compelled to enter the arbor and sit down. moreover, master hope seemed in no hurry to go. it was a pleasant evening, the heat of the day being over; the skies were clear, fair, and lambent with the declining golden light: why should one hasten away from this quiet bower, in the sweet serenity and silence, with the perfume of roses all around, and scarce a breath of air to stir the leaves? he but played with this slight refection; nevertheless, it was a kind of excuse for the starting of fresh talk; and his talk was interesting and animated. then he had discovered a sure and easy way of pleasing judith, and instantly gaining her attention. when he spoke of the doings in london, her father was no longer left out of these: nay, on the contrary, he became a central figure; and she learned more now of the globe and blackfriars theatres than ever she had heard in her life before. nor did she fail to lead him on with questions. which of her father's friends were most constant attendants at the theatre? doubtless they had chairs set for them on the stage? was there any one that her father singled out for especial favor? when they went to the tavern in the evening, what place had her father at the board? did any of the young lords go with them? how late sat they? did her father outshine them all with his wit and merriment, or did he sit quiet and amused?--for sometimes it was the one and sometimes the other with him here in stratford. did they in london know that he had such a goodly house, and rich lands, and horses? and was there good cooking at the tavern--portugal dishes and the like? or perchance (she asked, with an inquiring look from the beautiful, clear eyes) it was rather poor? and the napery, now: it was not always of the cleanest? and instead of neat-handed maids, rude serving-men, tapsters, drawers, and so forth? and the ale--she could be sworn 'twas no better than the warwickshire ale; no, nor was the claret likely to be better than that brought into the country for the gentlefolk by such noted vintners as quiney. her father's lodging--that he said was well enough, as he said everything was well enough, for she had never known him utter a word of discontent with anything that happened to him--perchance 'twas none of the cleanliest? for she had heard that the london housewives were mostly slovens, and would close you doors and windows against the air, so that a countryman going to that town was like to be sickened. and her father--did he ever speak of his family when he was in london? did they know he had belongings? nay, she was certain he must have talked to his friends and familiars of little bess hall, for how could he help that? "you forget, sweet mistress judith," said he, in his pleasant way, "that i have not the honor of your father's friendship, nor of his acquaintance even, and what i have told you is all of hearsay, save with regard to the theatre, where i have seen him often. and that is the general consent: that this one may have more learning, and that one more sharpness of retort, but that in these encounters he hath a grace and a brilliancy far outvying them all, and, moreover, with such a gentleness as earns him the general good-will. such is the report of him; i would it had been in my power to speak from my own experience." "but that time will come, good sir," said she, "and soon, i trust." "in the mean while," said he, "bethink you what a favor it is that i should be permitted to come into communion with those fair creations of his fancy; and i would remind you once more of your promise, sweet mistress judith; and would beseech your good grandmother to take charge of anything you may leave for me. nay, 'twill be for no longer than an hour or two that i would detain it; but that brief time i would have free from distractions, so that the mind may dwell on the picture. do i make too bold, sweet lady? or does your friendship go so far?" "in truth, sir," she answered, readily, "if i can i will bring you the rest of the play--but perchance in portions, as the occasion serves; 'twere no great harm should you carry away with you some memory of the duke and his fair daughter on the island." "the time will pass slowly until i hear more of them," said he. "and meanwhile, good grandmother," said she, "if you will tell me where i may find the little package, methinks i must be going." at this he rose. "i beseech your pardon if i have detained you, sweet lady," said he, with much courtesy. "nay, sir, i am indebted to you for welcome news," she answered, "and i would i had longer opportunity of hearing. and what said you--that he outshone them all?--that it was the general consent?" "can you doubt it?" he said, gallantly. "nay, sir, we of his own household--and his friends in stratford--we know and see what my father is: so well esteemed, in truth, as julius shawe saith, that there is not a man in warwickshire would cheat him in the selling of a horse, which they are not slow to do, as i hear, with others. but i knew not he had won so wide and general a report in london, where they might know him not so well as we." "let me assure you of that, dear lady," he said, "and also that i will not forget to bring or send you the printed tribute to his good qualities that i spoke of, when that i may with safety go to london. 'tis but a trifle; but it may interest his family; marry, i wonder he hath not himself spoken of it to you." "he speak of it!" said she, regarding him with some surprise, as if he ought to have known better. "we scarce know aught of what happeneth to him in london. when he comes home to warwickshire it would seem as if he had forgotten london and all its affairs, and left them behind for good." "left them behind for good, say you, wench?" the old dame grumbled, mostly to herself, as she preceded them down the path. "i would your father had so much sense. what hath he to gain more among the players and dicers and tavern brawlers and that idle crew? let him bide at home, among respectable folk. hath he not enough of gear gathered round him, eh? it be high time he slipped loose from those mummers that play to please the cut-purses and their trulls in london. hath he not enough of gear?" "what say you, grandmother? you would have my father come away from london and live always in warwickshire? well, now, that is nearer than you think, or my guesses are wrong." but her grandmother had gone into the cottage; and presently she returned with the little package. then there was a general leave-taking at the gate; and leofric hope, after many expressions of his thanks and good-will, set out on his own way, judith and her cousin taking the path through the meadows. for some time they walked in silence; then, as soon as the stranger was out of ear-shot, the lad looked up and said, "who is that, judith?" "why," said she, lightly, "i scarcely know myself; but that he is in misfortune and hiding, and that he knoweth certain of my father's friends, and that he seems pleased to have a few words with one or other of us to cheer his solitude. you would not begrudge so much, sweetheart? nay, there is more than that i would have you do: his safety depends on there being no talk about him in the town; and i know you can keep a secret, cousin willie; so you must not say a word to any one--whether at school, or at home, or at new place--of your having seen him. you will do as much for my sake, sweetheart?" "yes; but why for your sake, cousin?" said the boy, looking up. "why should you concern yourself?" "nay, call it for anybody's sake, then," said she. "but i would not have him betrayed by any one that i had aught to do with--and least of all by you, sweetheart, that i expect to show nothing but fair and manly parts. nay, i trust you. you will not blab." and then, as they walked on, it occurred to her that this young gentleman's secret--if he wished it kept--was becoming somewhat widely extended in his neighborhood. in her own small circle how many already knew of his presence?--her grandmother, prudence shawe, herself, tom quiney, and now this little willie hart. and she could not but remember that not much more than half an hour ago she had seen him at the garden gate, carelessly chatting, and apparently not heeding in the least what passers-by might observe him. but that was always the way: when she left him, when she was with her own thoughts, curious surmises would cross her mind; whereas, when she met him, these were at once discarded. and so she took to arguing with herself as to why she should be so given to do this young man injustice in his absence, when every time she encountered him face to face she was more than ever convinced of his honesty. fascination? well, she liked to hear of london town and the goings on there; and this evening she had been particularly interested in hearing about the globe theatre, and the spectators, and the tavern to which her father and his friends repaired for their supper; but surely that would not blind her if she had any reason to think that the young man was other than he represented? and then, again, this evening he had been markedly deferential. there was nothing in his manner of that somewhat too open gallantry he had displayed in the morning when he made his speech about the english roses. had she not wronged him, then, in imagining even for a moment that he had played a trick upon her in order to make her acquaintance? it is true, she had forgotten to make special remark of his eyes, as to whether they were like those of the wizard; for indeed the suspicion had gone clean out of her mind. but now she tried to recall them; and she could not fairly say to herself that there was a resemblance. nay, the wizard was a solemn person, who seemed to rebuke her light-heartedness; he spoke gravely and slow; whereas this young man, as any one could see, had a touch of merriment in his eye that was ready to declare itself on further acquaintance, only that his deference kept him subdued, while his talk was light and animated and rapid. no, she would absolve him from this suspicion; and soon, indeed, as she guessed, he would absolve himself by removing from the neighborhood, and probably she would hear no more of him, unless, perchance, he should remember to send her that piece of print concerning her father. and then her thoughts went far afield. she had heard much of london that evening; and london, in her mind, was chiefly associated with her father's plays, or such as she knew of them; and these again were represented to her by a succession of figures, whose words she thought of, whose faces she saw, when, as now, her fancies were distant. and she was more silent than usual as they went on their way across the meadows, and scarce addressed a word to her companion; insomuch that at last he looked up into her face, and said, "judith, why are you so sad this evening?" "sad, sweetheart? surely no," she answered; and she put her hand on his head. "what makes thee think so?" "did dame hathaway speak harshly to you?" said he. "methought i heard her say something. another time i will bid her hold her peace." "nay, nay, not so," said she; and as they were now come to a stile, she paused there, and drew the boy toward her. not that she was tired; but the evening was so quiet and still, and the whole world seemed falling into a gentle repose. there was not a sound near them; the earth was hushed as it, sank to sleep; far away they could hear the voices of children going home with their parents, or the distant barking of a dog. it was late, and yet the skies seemed full of light, and all the objects around them were strangely distinct and vivid. behind them, the northwestern heavens were of a pale luminous gold; overhead and in front of them, the great vault was of a beautiful lilac-gray, deepening to blue in the sombre east; and into this lambent twilight the great black elms rose in heavy masses. the wide meadows still caught some of the dying radiance; and there was a touch of it on the westward-looking gables of one or two cottages; and then through this softened glow there came a small keen ray of lemon yellow--a light in one of the far-off windows that burned there like a star. so hushed this night was, and so calm and beautiful, that a kind of wistfulness fell over her mind--scarcely sadness, as the boy had imagined--but a dull longing for sympathy, and some vague wonder as to what her life might be in the years to come. "why, sweetheart," said she, absently, and her hand lay affectionately on his shoulder, "as we came along here this evening we were speaking of all that was to happen to you in after-life; and do you never think you would like to have the picture unrolled now, and see for yourself, and have assurance? does not the mystery make you impatient, or restless, or sad--so that you would fain have the years go by quick, and get to the end? nay, i trow not; the day and the hour are sufficient for thee; and 'tis better so. keep as thou art, sweetheart, and pay no heed to what may hereafter happen to thee." "what is't that troubles you, judith?" said he, with an instinctive sympathy, for there was more in her voice than in her words. "why, i know not myself," said she, slowly, and with her eyes fixed vacantly on the darkening landscape. "nothing, as i reckon. 'tis but beating one's wings against the invisible to seek to know even to-morrow. and in the further years some will have gone away from stratford, and some to far countries, and some will be married, and some grown old; but to all the end will be the same; and i dare say now that, hundreds of years hence, other people will be coming to stratford, and they will go into the church-yard there, and walk about and look at the names--that is, of you and me and all the rest of us--and they will say, 'poor things, they vexed themselves about very small matters while they were alive, but they are all at peace at last.'" "but what is it that troubles you, judith?" said he; for this was an unusual mood with her, who generally was so thoughtless and merry and high-hearted. "why, nothing, sweetheart, nothing," said she, seeming to rouse herself. "'tis the quiet of the night that is so strange, and the darkness coming. or will there be moonlight? in truth, there must be, and getting near to the full, as i reckon. a night for jessica! heard you ever of her sweetheart?" "no, judith." "well, she was a fair maiden that lived long ago, somewhere in italy, as i think. and she ran away with her lover, and was married to him, and was very happy; and all that is now known of her is connected with music and moonlight and an evening such as this. is not that a fair life to lead after death: to be in all men's thoughts always as a happy bride, on such a still night as this is now? and would you know how her lover spoke to her?--this is what he says: 'how sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! here will we sit, and let the sounds of music creep to our ears; soft stillness and the night become the touches of sweet harmony. sit, jessica: look, how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; there's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st but in his motion like an angel sings, still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims: such harmony is in immortal souls; but, whilst this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.-- come, ho, and wake diana with a hymn; with sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, and draw her home with music.' is not that a gentle speech? and so shall you speak to your bride, sweetheart, in the years to come, when you have wooed her and won her. and then you will tell her that if she loves you not--ay, and if she loves you not dearly and well--then is she not like one that you knew long ago, and that was your cousin, and her name was judith shakespeare. come, sweetheart," said she, and she rose from the stile and took his hand in hers. "shall i draw thee home? but not with sweet music, for i have not susan's voice. i would i had, for thy sake." "you have the prettiest voice in the whole world, cousin judith," said he. and so they walked on and into the town, in silence mostly. the world had grown more solemn now: here and there in the lilac-gray deeps overhead a small silver point began to appear. and sure he was that whatever might happen to him in the years to come, no sweetheart or any other would ever crush out from his affection or from his memory this sweet cousin of his; for him she would always be the one woman, strange and mystical and kind; there never would be any touch like the touch of her hand, so gentle was it as it rested on his hair; and there never would be anything more wonderful and gracious to look forward to than the old and familiar sitting in the church pew by judith's side, with the breathless fascination of knowing that she was so near, and the thrill of hearing her join (rather timidly, for she was not proud of her voice) in the singing of the choir. chapter xxi. a discovery. "that be so as i tell ye, zur," said matthew gardener, as he slowly sharpened a long knife on the hone that he held in his hand; "it all cometh of the pampering of queasy stomachs nowadays that cannot hold honest food. there be no such folk now as there wur in former days, when men wur hardy, and long-lived, and healthy; and why, zur?--why, but that they wur content wi' plain dishes of pulse or herbs, and for the most worshipful no more than a dish of broth and a piece of good wholesome beef withal. but nowadays, lord! lord!--dish after dish, with each his several sauce; and this from portugal and that from france, so that gluttony shall have its swing, and never a penny be kept for the poor. nay, i tell ye, zur, rich and poor alike wur stronger and healthier when there wur no such waste in the land; when a man would wear his frieze coat and hosen of the color of the sheep that bore them; and have his shirt of honest hemp or flax, and could sleep well with his head on a block of wood and a sheep-skin thrown o'er it. but nowadays must he have his shirt of fine lawn and needle-work; ay, and his soft pillow to lie on, so that his lily-white body shall come to no scratching; nor will he drink any longer small drink, no, nor water, but heavy ales and rich wines; and all goeth to the belly, and naught to his poorer neighbor. and what cometh of this but tender stomachs, and riot, and waste?--and lucky if bocardo be not at the end of it all." as it chanced on this fine morning, judith's father had strolled along to look at some trained apple-trees at the further end of the garden, and finding goodman matthew there, and having a mind for idleness, had sat down on a bench to hear what news of the condition of the land matthew might have to lay before him. "nay, but, good matthew," said he, "if these luxuries work such mischief, 'tis the better surely that the poor have none of them. they, at least, cannot have their stomachs ruined with sauces and condiments." "lord bless ye, zur," said the ancient, with a wise smile, "'tis not in one way, but in all ways, that the mischief is done; for the poorest, seeing such waste and gluttony everywhere abroad, have no continence of their means, but will spend their last penny on any foolishness. lord! lord! they be such poor simple creatures! they that have scarce a rag to their backs will crowd at the mops and fairs, and spend their money--on what? why, you must ha' witnessed it, zur--the poor fools!--emptying their pouches to see a woman walking on a rope, or a tumbler joining his hands to his heels, or a hen with two heads. the poor simple creatures!--and yet i warrant me they be none so poor but that the rascal doctor can make his money out o' them: 'tis a foine way o' making a fortune that, going vagrom about the country with his draughts and pills--not honest medicines that a body might make out o' wholesome herbs, but nauseous stinking stuff that robs a man of his breath in the very swallowing of it. and the almanac-makers, too--marry, that, now, is another thriving trade!--the searching of stars, and the prophesying of dry or wet weather! weather? what know they of the weather, the town-bred rogues, that lie and cheat to get at the poor country folks' money? god 'a mercy, a whip to their shoulders would teach them more o' the weather than ever they are like to get out of the stars! and yet the poor fools o' countrymen--that scarce know a b from a battle-door--will sit o' nights puzzling their brains o'er the signs o' the heavens; and no matter what any man with eyes can see for himself--ay, and fifty times surer, as i take it--they will prophesy you a dry month or a wet month, because the almanac saith so; and they will swear to you that taurus--that is a lion--and the virgin scales have come together, therefore there must be a blight on the pear-trees! heard you ever the like, zur?--that a man in lunnon, knowing as much about husbandry and farm-work as a cat knows about quoit-throwing, is to tell me the weather down here in warwickshire? god help us, they be poor weak creatures that think so; i'd liefer look at the cover of a penny ballad, if i wanted to know when there was to be frost o' nights." at this juncture the old man grinned, as if some secret joke were tickling his fancy. "why, zur," said he, looking up from the hone, "would you believe this, zur--they be such fools that a rogue will sell them a barren cow for a milch cow if he but put a strange calf to her. 'tis done, zur--'tis done, i assure ye." "in truth, a scurvy trick!" judith's father said. he was idly drawing figures on the ground with a bit of stick he had got hold of. perhaps he was not listening attentively; but at all events he encouraged matthew to talk. "but surely with years comes wisdom. the most foolish are not caught twice with such a trick." "what of that, zur?" answered matthew. "there be plenty of other fools in the land to make the trade of roguery thrive. 'tis true that a man may learn by his own experience; but what if he hath a son that be growing up a bigger fool than himself? and that's where 'tis nowadays, zur; there be no waiting and prudence; but every saucy boy must match on to his maid, and marry her ere they have a roof to put over their heads. 'tis a fine beginning, surely! no waiting, no prudence--as the rich are wasteful and careless, so are the poor heedless of the morrow; and the boy and the wench they must have their cottage at the lane end, run up of elder poles, and forthwith begin the begetting of beggars to swarm over the land. a rare beginning! body o' me, do they think they can live on nettles and grass, like nebuchadnezzar?" and so the old man continued to rail and grumble and bemoan, sometimes with a saturnine grin of satisfaction at his own wit coming over his face; and judith's father did not seek to controvert; he listened, and drew figures on the ground, and merely put in a word now and again. it was a pleasant morning--fresh, and clear, and sunny; and this town of stratford was a quiet place at that hour, with the children all at school. sometimes judith's father laughed; but he did not argue; and goodman matthew, having it all his own way, was more than ever convinced not only that he was the one wise man among a generation of fools, but also that he was the only representative and upholder of the spartan virtues that had characterized his forefathers. it is true that on more than one occasion he had been found somewhat overcome with ale; but this, when he had recovered from his temporary confusion, he declared was entirely due to the rascal brewers of those degenerate days--and especially of warwickshire--who put all manner of abominations into their huff-cap, so that an honest worcestershire stomach might easily be caught napping, and take no shame. and meanwhile what had been happening in another part of the garden? as it chanced, judith had been sent by her mother to carry to the summer-house a cup of wine and some thin cakes; and in doing so she of course saw that both her father and goodman matthew were at the further end of the garden, and apparently settled there for the time being. the opportunity was too good to be lost. she swiftly went back to the house, secured the portion of the play that was secreted there, and as quickly coming out again, exchanged it for an equal number of new sheets. it was all the work of a couple of minutes; and in another second she was in her own room, ready to put the precious prize into her little cupboard of boxes. and yet she could not forbear turning over the sheets, and examining them curiously, and she was saying to herself: "you cruel writing, to have such secrets, and refuse to give them up! if it were pictures, now, i could make out something with a guess; but all these little marks, so much alike, what can one make of them?--all alike--with here and there a curling, as if my father had been amusing himself--and all so plain and even, too, with never a blot: marry, i marvel he should make the other copy, unless with the intent to alter as he writes. and those words with the big letters at the beginning--these be the people's names--ferdinand, and sweet miranda, and the duke, and the ill beast that would harm them all. why, in heaven's mercy, was i so fractious? i might even now be learning all the story--here by myself--the only one in the land: i might all by myself know the story that will set the london folk agog in the coming winter. and what a prize were this, now, for master ben jonson! could one but go to him and say, 'good sir, here be something better than your masques and mummeries, your greeks and clouds and long speeches: put your name to it, good sir--nay, my father hath abundant store of such matter, and we in warwickshire are no niggards--put your name to it, good sir, and you will get the court ladies to say you have risen a step on the ladder, else have they but a strange judgment!' what would the goodman do? beshrew me, prudence never told me the name of the play! but let us call it _the magic island_. _the magic island, by master benjamin jonson._ what would the wits say?" but here she heard some noise on the stairs; so she quickly hid away the treasure in the little drawer, and locked it up safe there until she should have the chance of asking prudence to read it to her. that did not happen until nearly nightfall; for prudence had been away all day helping to put the house straight of a poor woman that was ill and in bed. moreover, she had been sewing a good deal at the children's clothes and her eyes looked tired--or perhaps it was the wan light that yet lingered in the sky that gave her that expression, the candles not yet being lit. judith regarded her, and took her hand tenderly, and made her sit down. "sweet mouse," said she, "you are wearing yourself out in the service of others; and if you take such little heed of yourself, you will yourself fall ill. and now must i demand of you further labor. or will it be a refreshment for you after the fatigues of the day? see, i have brought them all with me--the sprite ariel, and the sweet prince, and miranda; but in good sooth i will gladly wait for another time if you are tired----" "nay, not so, judith," she answered. "there is nothing i could like better--but for one thing." "what, then?" "mean you to show this also to the young gentleman that is at bidford?" "and wherefore not, good prue? he hath seen so much of the story, 'twere a pity he should not have the rest. and what a small kindness--the loan but for an hour or two; and i need not even see him, for i have but to leave it at my grandmother's cottage. and if you heard what he says of it--and how grateful he is: marry, it all lies in this, sweet prue, that you have not seen him, else would you be willing enough to do him so small a favor." by this time prudence had lit the candles; and presently they made their way up-stairs to her own room. "and surely," said judith, as her gentle gossip was arranging the manuscript, "the story will all end well, and merrily for the sweet maiden, seeing how powerful her father is? will he not compel all things to her happiness--he that can raise storms, and that has messengers to fly round the world for him?" "and yet he spoke but harshly to the young man when last we saw them," prudence said. "why, what's this?" she had run her eye down the first page; and now she began reading: "'_enter_ ferdinand _bearing a log_. _ferdinand._ there be some sports are painful, and their labor delight in them sets off. this my mean task would be as heavy to me as odious, but the mistress which i serve quickens what's dead, and makes my labors pleasures. oh, she is ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed; and he's composed of harshness. i must remove some thousands of these logs and pile them up, upon a sore injunction. my sweet mistress weeps when she sees me work; and says such baseness had never like executor.'" judith's face had gradually fallen. "why, 'tis cruel," said she; "and 'tis cruel of my father to put such pain on the sweet prince, that is so gentle, and so unfortunate withal." but prudence continued the reading: "'_enter_ miranda. _miranda._ alas, now, pray you, work not so hard: i would the lightning had burnt up those logs, that you are enjoined to pile! pray, set it down and rest you; when this burns, 'twill weep for having wearied you. my father is hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself; he's safe for these three hours. _ferdinand._ o most dear mistress, the sun will set before i shall discharge what i must strive to do. _miranda._ if you'll sit down, i'll bear your logs the while: pray give me that-- i'll carry it to the pile.'" at this point judith's eyes grew proud and grateful (as though miranda had done some brave thing), but she did not speak. "'_ferdinand._ no, precious creature: i had rather crack my sinews, break my back, than you should such dishonor undergo, while i sit lazy by. _miranda._ you look wearily. _ferdinand._ no, noble mistress; 'tis fresh morning with me, when you are by at night. i do beseech you (chiefly that i may set it in my prayers), what is your name? _miranda._ miranda.--o my father, i have broke your hest to say so! _ferdinand._ admired miranda! indeed, the top of admiration; worth what's dearest to the world! full many a lady i have eyed with best regard; and many a time the harmony of their tongues hath into bondage brought my too diligent ear; for several virtues have i liked several women; never any with so full soul but some defect in her did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, and put it to the foil. but you, o you, so perfect and so peerless, are created of every creature's best! _miranda._ i do not know one of my sex: no woman's face remember, save, from my glass, mine own; nor have i seen more that i may call men than you, good friend, and my dear father; how features are abroad, i am skill-less of; but, by my modesty (the jewel in my dower), i would not wish any companion in the world but you; nor can imagination form a shape, besides yourself, to like of: but i prattle something too wildly, and my father's precepts i therein do forget.'" "nay, is she not fair and modest!" judith exclaimed--but apart; and, as the reading proceeded, she began to think of how master leofric hope would regard this maiden. would he not judge her to be right gentle, and timid, and yet womanly withal, and frank in her confiding? and he--supposing that he were the young prince--what would he think of such a one? was it too submissive that she should offer to carry the logs? ought she to so openly confess that she would fain have him to be her companion? and then, as judith was thus considering, this was what she heard, in prudence's gentle voice: "'_miranda._ do you love me? _ferdinand._ o heaven, o earth, bear witness to this sound, and crown what i profess with kind event, if i speak true; if hollowly, invert what best is boded me, to mischief! i, beyond all limit of what else i' the world, do love, prize, honor you. _miranda._ i am a fool to weep at what i am glad of. _ferdinand._ wherefore weep you? _miranda._ at mine unworthiness, that dare not offer what i desire to give; and much less take what i shall die to want: but this is trifling; and all the more it seeks to hide itself, the bigger bulk it shows. hence, bashful cunning! and prompt me, plain and holy innocence! i am your wife, if you will marry me; if not, i'll die your maid; to be your fellow you may deny me; but i'll be your servant, whether you will or no. _ferdinand._ my mistress, dearest; and i thus humble ever. _miranda._ my husband, then? _ferdinand._ ay, with a heart as willing as bondage e'er of freedom; here's my hand. _miranda._ and mine, with my heart in't; and now farewell, till half an hour hence. _ferdinand._ a thousand thousand!'" she clapped her hands and laughed, in delight and triumph. "why, sure her father will relent," she cried. "but, judith, judith, stay," prudence said, quickly, and with scarce less gladness. "'tis so set down; for this is what her father says: 'so glad of this as they i cannot be, who are surprised withal; but by rejoicing at nothing can be more.' nay, i take it he will soon explain to us why he was so harsh with the young prince--perchance to try his constancy?" well, after that the reading went on as far as the sheets that judith had brought; but ever her mind was returning to the scene between the two lovers, and speculating as to how leofric hope would look upon it. she had no resentment against ben jonson now; her heart was full of assurance and triumph, and was therefore generous. her only vexation was that the night must intervene before there could be a chance of the young london gentleman calling at the cottage; and she looked forward to the possibility of seeing him some time or other with the determination to be more demure than ever. she would not expect him to praise this play. perchance 'twas good enough for simple warwickshire folk; but the london wits might consider it of the vulgar kind? and she laughed to herself at thinking how awkward his protests would be if she ventured to hint anything in that direction. prudence put the sheets carefully together again. "judith, judith," she said, with a quiet smile, "you lead me far astray. i ought to find such things wicked and horrible to the ear; but perchance 'tis because i know your father, and see him from day to day, that i find them innocent enough. they seem to rest the mind when one is sorrowful." "beware of them, good prue; they are the devil himself come in the guise of an angel to snatch thee away. nay, but, sweetheart, why should you be sorrowful?" "there is martha hodgson," said she, simply, "and her children, nigh to starving; and i cannot ask julius for more----" judith's purse was out in an instant. "why," said she, "my father did not use half of what i gave him for the knife he bought at warwick--marry, i guess he paid for it mostly himself; but what there is here you shall have." and she emptied the contents on to the table, and pushed them over to her friend. "you do not grudge it, judith?" said prudence. "nay, i will not ask thee that. nor can i refuse it either, for the children are in sore want. but why should you not give it to them yourself, judith?" "why?" said judith, regarding the gentle face with kindly eyes. "shall i tell thee why, sweetheart? 'tis but this: that if i were in need, and help to be given me, i would value it thrice as much if it came from your hand. there is a way of doing such things, and you have it; that is all." "i hear julius is come in," prudence said, as she took up the two candles. "will you go in and speak with him?" there was some strange hesitation in her manner, and she did not go to the door. she glanced at judith somewhat timidly. then she set the candles down again. "judith," said she, "your pity is quick, and you are generous and kind; i would you could find it in your heart to extend your kindness." "how now, good cousin?" judith said, in amazement. "what's this?" prudence glanced at her again, somewhat uneasily, and obviously in great embarrassment. "you will not take it ill, dear judith?" "by my life, i will not! not from you, dear heart, whatever it be. but what is the dreadful secret?" "tom quiney has spoken to me," she said, diffidently. judith eagerly caught both her hands. "and you! what said you? 'tis all settled, then!" she exclaimed, almost breathlessly. "it is as i imagined, judith," said prudence, calmly--and she withdrew her hands, with a touch of maidenly pride, perhaps, from what she could not but imagine to be a kind of felicitation. "he hath no fault to find with the country. if he goes away to those lands beyond seas, 'tis merely because you will say no word to hold him back." "i!" said judith, impatiently; and then she checked herself. "but you, sweetheart, what said he to you?" prudence's cheeks flushed red. "he would have me intercede for him," she said, timidly. "intercede? with whom?" "why, you know, judith; with whom but yourself? nay, but be patient--have some kindness. the young man opened his heart to me; and i know he is in trouble. 'twas last night as we were coming home from the lecture; and he would have me wait till he left a message at his door, so that thus we fell behind; and then he told me why it was that stratford had grown distasteful to him, and not to be borne, and why he was going away. how could i help saying that that would grieve you?--sure i am you cannot but be sorry to think of the young man banishing himself from his own people. and he said that i was your nearest friend; and would i speak for him? and i answered that i was all unused to such matters, but that if any pleading of mine would influence you i would right gladly do him that service; and so i would, dear judith; for how can you bear to think of the youth going away with these godless men, and perchance never to return to his own land, when a word from you would restrain him?" judith took both her hands again, and looked with a kindly smile into the timid, pleading eyes. "and 'tis you, sweet mouse, that come to me with such a prayer? was there ever so kind a heart? but that is you ever and always--never a thought for yourself, everything for others. and so he had the cruelty to ask you--you--to bring this message?" "judith," said the other, with the color coming into her face again, "you force me to speak against my will. nay, how can i hide from myself, dear friend, that you have plans and wishes--perchance suspicions--with regard to me? and if what i guess be true--if that is your meaning--indeed 'tis all built on a wrong foundation: believe me, judith, it is so. i would have you assured of it, sweetheart. you know that i like not speaking of such matters; 'tis not seemly and becoming to a maiden; and fain would i have my mind occupied with far other things; but, judith, this time i must speak plain; and i would have you put away from you all such intentions and surmises--dear heart, you do me wrong!" "in good sooth, am i all mistaken?" judith said, glancing keenly at her. "do you doubt my word, judith?" said she. "and yet," her friend said, as if to herself, and musingly, "there were several occasions: there was the fortune-teller at hampton lucy that coupled you, and quiney seemed right merry withal; and then again, when he would have us play kiss-in-the-ring on the evening after mary sadler's marriage, and i forbade it chiefly for your sake, sweet mouse, then methought you seemed none overpleased with my interference----" but here she happened to look at prudence, and she could not fail to see that the whole subject was infinitely distressing to her. there was a proud, hurt expression on the gentle face, and a red spot burning in each cheek. so judith took hold of her and kissed her. "once and forever, dearest heart," said she, "i banish all such thoughts. and i will make no more plans for thee, nor suspect thee, but let thee go in thine own way, in the paths of charity and goodness. but i mean not to give up thy friendship, sweet prue; if i cannot walk in the same path, at least i may stretch a hand over to thee; and if i but keep so near so true a saint, marry, i shall not go so far wrong." she took up one of the candles. "shall we go down and see julius?" said she. "but tom quiney, judith--what shall i say?" prudence asked, anxiously. "why, say nothing, sweetheart," was the immediate answer. "'twas a shame to burden you with such a task. when he chooses he can at any moment have speech of me, if his worship be not too proud or too suspicious. in stratford we can all of us speak the english tongue, i hope." "but, judith," said the other, slowly and wistfully, "twenty years is a long space for one to be away from his native land." "marry is it, sweet mouse," judith answered, as she opened the door and proceeded to go down the narrow wooden steps. "'tis a long space indeed, and at the end of it many a thing that seemeth of great import and consequence now will be no better than an old tale, idle and half forgotten." chapter xxii. portents. it was somewhat hard on little bess hall that her aunt judith was determined she should grow up as fearless as she herself was, and had, indeed, charged herself with this branch of her niece's education. the child, it is true, was not more timid than others of her age, and could face with fair equanimity beggars, school-boys, cows, geese, and other dangerous creatures; while as for ghosts, goblins, and similar nocturnal terrors, judith had settled all that side of the question by informing the maids of both families, in the plainest language, that any one of them found even mentioning such things to this niece of hers would be instantaneously and without ceremony shot forth from the house. but beyond and above all this judith expected too much, and would flout and scold when bess hall declined to perform the impossible, and would threaten to go away and get a small boy out of the school to become her playmate in future. at this moment, for example, she was standing at the foot of the staircase in dr. hall's house. she had come round to carry off her niece for the day, and she had dressed her up like a small queen, and now she would have her descend the wide and handsome staircase in noble state and unaided. bess hall, who had no ambition to play the part of a queen, but had, on the other hand, a wholesome and instinctive fear of breaking her neck, now stood on the landing, helpless amid all her finery, and looking down at her aunt in a beseeching sort of way. "i shall tumble down, aunt judith; i know i shall," said she, and budge she would not. "tumble down, little stupid! why, what should make you tumble down? are you going forever to be a baby? any baby can crawl down-stairs by holding on to the balusters." "i know i shall tumble down, aunt judith--and then i shall cry." but even this threat was of no avail. "come along, little goose; 'tis easy enough when you try it. do you think i have dressed you up as a grown woman to see you crawl like a baby? a fine woman--you! come along, i say!" but this lesson, happily for the half-frightened pupil, was abruptly brought to an end. judith was standing with her face to the staircase, and her back to the central hall and the outer door, so that she could not see any one entering, and indeed the first intimation she had of the approach of a stranger was a voice behind her: "be gentle with the child, judith." and then she knew that she was caught. for some little time back she had very cleverly managed to evade the good parson, or at least to secure the safety of company when she saw him approach. but this time she was as helpless as little bess herself. dr. hall was away from home; judith's sister was ill of a cold, and in bed; there was no one in the house, besides the servants, but herself. the only thing she could do was to go up to the landing, swing her niece on to her shoulder, and say to master walter that they were going round to new place, for that susan was ill in bed, and unable to look after the child. "i will walk with you as far," said he, calmly, and, indeed, as if it were rather an act of condescension on his part. she set out with no good-will. she expected that he would argue, and she had an uncomfortable suspicion that he would get the best of it. and if she had once or twice rather wildly thought that in order to get rid of all perplexities, and in order to please all the people around her, she would in the end allow master walter blaise to win her over into becoming his wife, still she felt that the time was not yet. she would have the choosing of it for herself. and why should she be driven into a corner prematurely? why be made to confess that her brain could not save her? she wanted peace. she wanted to play with bess hall, or to walk through the meadows with willie hart, teaching him what to think of england. she did not want to be confronted with clear, cold eyes, and arguments like steel, and the awful prospect of having to labor in the vineyard through the long, long, gray, and distant years. she grew to think it was scarcely fair of her father to hand her over. he at least might have been on her side. but he seemed as willing as any that she should go away among the saints, and forsake forever (as it seemed to her) the beautiful, free and clear-colored life that she had been well content to live. and then, all of a sudden, it flashed upon her mind that she was a player's daughter, and a kind of flame went to her face. "i pray you, good master blaise," said she, with a lofty and gracious courtesy, "bethink you, ere you give us your company through the town." "what mean you, judith?" said he, in some amazement. "do you forget, then, that i am the daughter of a player?--and this his granddaughter?" said she. "in truth, i know not what you mean, judith," he exclaimed. "why," said she, "may not the good people who are the saints of the earth wonder to see you consort with such as we?--or, rather, with one such as i, who am impenitent, and take no shame that my father is a player--nay, god's my witness, i am wicked enough to be proud of it, and i care not who knows it, and they that hope to have me change my thoughts on that matter will have no lack of waiting." well, it was a fair challenge; and he answered it frankly, and with such a reasonableness and charity of speech that, despite herself, she could not but admit that she was pleased, and also, perhaps, just a little bit grateful. he would not set up to be any man's judge, he said; nor was he a pharisee; the master that he served was no respecter of persons--he had welcomed all when he was upon the earth--and it behooved his followers to beware of pride and the setting up of distinctions; if there was any house in the town that earned the respect of all, it was new place; he could only speak of her father as he found him, here, in his own family, among his own friends--and what that was all men knew; and so forth. he spoke well, and modestly; and judith was so pleased to hear what he said of her father that she forgot to ask whether all this was quite consistent with his usual denunciations of plays and players; his dire prophecy as to the fate of those who were not of the saints, and his sharp dividing and shutting off of these. he did not persecute her at all. there was no argument. what he was mostly anxious about was that she should not tire herself with carrying bess hall on her shoulder. "nay, good sir," said she, quite pleasantly, "'tis a trick my father taught me; and the child is but a feather-weight." he looked at her--so handsome and buxom, and full of life and courage; her eyes lustrous, the rose-leaf tint of health in her cheeks; and always at the corner of her mouth what could only be called a disposition to smile, as if the world suited her fairly well, and that she was ready at any moment to laugh her thanks. "there be many, judith," said he, "who might envy you your health and good spirits." "when i lose them, 'twill be time enough to lament them," said she, complacently. "the hour that is passing seems all in all to you; and who can wonder at it?" he continued. "pray heaven your carelessness of the morrow have reason in it! but all are not so minded. there be strange tidings in the land." "indeed, sir; and to what end?" said she. "i know not whether these rumors have reached your house," he said, "but never at any time i have read of have men's minds been so disturbed--with a restlessness and apprehension of something being about to happen. and what marvel! the strange things that have been seen and heard of throughout the world of late--meteors, and earthquakes, and visions of armies fighting in the heavens. even so was armageddon to be foreshadowed. nay, i will be honest with you, judith, and say that it is not clear to my own mind that the great day of the lord is at hand; but many think so; and one man's reading of the book of revelation is but a small matter to set against so wide a belief. heard you not of the vision that came to the young girl at chipping camden last monday?" "indeed, no, good sir." "i marvel that prudence has not heard of it, for all men are speaking of it. 'twas in this way, as i hear. the maiden is one of rare piety and grace, given to fasting, and nightly vigils, and searching of the heart. 'twas on the night of sunday last--or perchance toward monday morning--that she was awakened out of her sleep by finding her room full of light; and looking out of the window she beheld in the darkness a figure of resplendent radiance--shining like the sun, as she said; only clear white, and shedding rays around; and the figure approached the window, and regarded her; and she dropped on her knees in wonder and fear, and bowed her head and worshipped. and as she did so, she heard a voice say to her: 'watch and pray: behold, i come quickly.' and she durst not raise her head, as she says, being overcome with fear and joy. but the light slowly faded from the room; and when at last she rose she saw something afar off in the sky, that was now grown dark again. and ever since she has been trembling with the excitement of it, and will take no food; but from time to time she cries in a loud voice, 'lord jesus, come quickly! lord jesus, come quickly!' many have gone to see her, as i hear, and from all parts of the country; but she heeds them not; she is intent with her prayers; and her eyes, the people say, look as if they had been dazzled with a great light, and are dazed and strange. nay, 'tis but one of many things that are murmured abroad at present; for there have been signs in the heavens seen in sundry places, and visions, and men's minds grow anxious." "and what think you yourself, good sir? you are one that should know." "i?" said he. "nay, i am far too humble a worker to take upon myself the saying ay or no at such a time; i can but watch and pray and wait. but is it not strange to think that we here at this moment, walking along this street in stratford, might within some measurable space--say, a year, or half a dozen years or so--that we might be walking by the pure river of water that john saw flowing from the throne of god and of the lamb? do you not remember how the early christians, with such a possibility before their eyes, drew nearer to each other, as it were, and rejoiced together, parting with all their possessions, and living in common, so that the poorest were even as the rich? 'twas no terror that overtook them, but a happiness; and they drew themselves apart from the world, and lived in their own community, praying with each other, and aiding each other. 'all that believed,' the bible tells us, 'were in one place, and had all things common. and they sold their possessions and goods, and parted them to all men, as every one had need. and they continued daily in the temple, and, breaking bread at home, did eat their meat together with gladness and singleness of heart, praising god, and had favor with all the people; and the lord added to the church from day to day such as should be saved.' such a state of spiritual brotherhood and exaltation may come among us once more; methinks i see the symptoms of its approach even now. blessed are they who will be in that communion with a pure soul and a humble mind, for the lord will be with them as their guide, though the waters should arise and overflow, or fire consume the earth." "yes, but, good sir," said she, "when the early christians you speak of thought the world was near to an end they were mistaken. and these, now, of our day----" "whatever is prophesied must come to pass," said he, "or soon or late, though it is possible for our poor human judgment to err as to the time. but surely we ought to be prepared; and what preparation, think you, is sufficient for so great and awful a change? joy there may be in the trivial things of this world--in the vanities of the hour, that pass away and are forgotten; but what are these things to those whose heart is set on the new jerusalem--the shining city? the voice that john heard proclaimed no lie: 'twas the voice of the lord of heaven and earth--a promise to them that wait and watch for his coming. 'and god shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, neither crying, neither shall there be any more pain, for the first things are passed.... and there shall be no more curse, but the throne of god and of the lamb shall be in it, and his servants shall serve him. and they shall see his face, and his name shall be in their foreheads. and there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun, for the lord god giveth them light, and they shall reign for evermore.'" she sighed. "'tis too wonderful a thing for poor sinful creatures to expect," she said. but by this time they were at the house, and he could not say anything further to her; indeed, when he proposed that she should come into the sitting-room, and that he would read to her a description of the glories of the new jerusalem, out of the book of revelation, she excused herself by saying that she must carry bess hall to see her father. so he went in and sat down, waiting for judith's mother to be sent for; while aunt and niece went out and through the back yard to the garden. "bess," said judith, on the way, "heardst thou aught of a white figure?" "no, judith," said the child, who had been engaged all the way in examining the prettinesses of her aunt's velvet cap, and ruff, and what not. "that is well," said she. when she got into the garden, she could see that good man matthew eyed their approach with little favor--for bess hall, when her grandfather had charge of her, was allowed to tear flowers, and walk over beds, or do anything she chose; but judith did not mind that much. on the other hand, she would not go deliberately and disturb her father. she would give him his choice--to come forth or not as he pleased. and so, quite noiselessly, and at a little distance off, she passed the summer-house. there was no sign. accordingly, she went on idly to the further end of the garden, and would doubtless have remained there (rather than return within-doors) amusing the child somehow, but that the next minute her father appeared. "come hither, bess! come hither, wench!" he called. nay, he came to meet them; and as he lifted the child down from judith's shoulder, something--perhaps it was the touch of the sunlight on the soft brown of her short curls--seemed to attract his notice. "why, wench," said he to judith, "methinks your hair grows prettier every day. and yet you keep it overshort--yes, 'tis overshort--would you have them think you a boy?" "i would i were a man," said she, glancing at him rather timidly. "how, then? what, now?" "for then," said she, "might i help you in your work, so please you, sir." he laughed, and said: "my work? what know you of that, wench?" the blood rushed to her face. "nay, sir, i but meant the work of the fields--in going about with the bailiff and the like. the maids say you were abroad at five this morning." "well, is't not the pleasantest time of the day in this hot weather?" he said--and he seemed amused by her interference. "but why should you give yourself so many cares, good father?" she made bold to say (for she had been meditating the saying of it for many a day back). "you that have great fame, and land, and wealth. we would fain see you rest a little more, father; and 'tis all the harder to us that we can give you no help, being but women-folk." there was something in the tone of her voice--or perhaps in her eyes--that conveyed more than her words. he put his hand on her head. "you are a good lass," said he. "and listen. you can do something for me that is of far more value to me than any help in any kind of work: nay, i tell thee 'tis of greater value to me than all of my work; and 'tis this: keep you a merry heart, wench--let me see your face right merry and cheerful as you go about--that is what you can do for me; i would have you ever as you are now, as bright and glad as a summer day." "'tis an easy task, sir, so long as you are content to be pleased with me," she managed to answer; and then little bess hall--who could not understand why she should have been so long left unnoticed--began to scramble up his knees, and was at last transferred to his arms. judith's heart was beating somewhat quickly--with a kind of pride and gladness that was very near bringing tears to her eyes; but, of course, that was out of the question, seeing that he had enjoined her to be cheerful. and so she forced herself to say, with an odd kind of smile, "i pray you, sir, may i remain with you for a space--if bess and i trouble you not?" "surely," said he, regarding her; "but what is it, then?" "why," said she, pulling herself together, "good master blaise is within-doors, and his last belief is enough to frighten a poor maiden--let alone this small child. he says the world is nigh unto its end." "nay, i have heard of some such talk being abroad," said he, "among the country folk. but why should that frighten thee? even were it true, we can make it nor better nor worse." "only this, father," said she, and she looked at him with the large, clear-shining gray eyes no longer near to tears, but rather suggesting some dark mystery of humor, "that if the end of the world be so nigh at hand, 'twould be an idle thing for the good parson to think of taking him a wife." "i ask for no secrets, wench," her father said, as he sat little bess hall on the branch of an apple-tree. "nay, sir, he but said that as many were of opinion that something dreadful was about to happen, we should all of us draw nearer together. that is well, and to be understanded; but if the world be about to end for all of us surely 'twere a strange thing that any of us should think of taking husband or wife." "i'll meddle not," her father said. "go thine own ways. i have heard thou hast led more than one honest lad in stratford a madcap dance. take heed; take heed--as thy grandmother saith--lest thou outwear their patience." and then something--she could scarce tell what--came into her head: some wild wish that he would remain always there at stratford: would she not right willingly discard all further thoughts of lovers or sweethearts if only he would speak to her sometimes as he had just been speaking; and approve of her hair; and perchance let her become somewhat more of a companion to him? but she durst not venture to say so much. she only said, very modestly and timidly, "i am content to be as i am, sir, if you are content that i should bide with you." "content?" said he, with a laugh that had no unkindness in it. "content that thou shouldst bide with us? keep that pretty face of thine merry and glad, good lass--and have no fear." chapter xxiii. a letter. when she should get back from master leofric hope the last portion of the yet unnamed play, there remained (as she considered) but one thing more--to show him the letter written by the king to her father, so that when the skies should clear over the young gentleman's head, and he be permitted to return among his friends and acquaintances, he might have something else occasionally to talk of than ben jonson and his masques and his favor at court. nor had she any difficulty in procuring the letter; for prudence was distinctly of opinion that by right it belonged to judith, who had coveted it from the beginning. however, judith only now wanted the loan of it for a day or two, until, in her wanderings, she might encounter master hope. that opportunity soon arrived; for whether it was that the young gentleman kept a sharp lookout for her, or whether she was able to make a shrewd guess as to his probable whereabouts at certain hours of the day, she had scarcely ever failed to meet him when she went over to shottery for the successive instalments of the play that he had left for her there. on this occasion she had found the last of these awaiting her at the cottage; and when she had put it into her velvet satchel, and bade good-by to her grandmother, she set out for home with a pretty clear foreknowledge that sooner or later the young gentleman would appear. was it not his duty?--to say what he thought of all this romance that he had been allowed to see; and to thank her; and say farewell? for she had a vague impression that she had done as much as could reasonably be expected of her in the way of cheering the solitude of one in misfortune: and she had gathered, moreover, that he was likely soon to leave the neighborhood. but she would not have him go without seeing the king's letter. well, when he stepped forth from behind some trees, she was not surprised; and even the don had grown accustomed to these sudden appearances. "give ye good-day, sweet lady," said he. "and to you, sir," she said. "i thank you for your care in leaving me these pages; i would not have had any harm come to them, even though my father will in time throw them away." "and my thanks to you, sweet mistress judith," said he--"how can i express them?"--and therewith he entered upon such a eulogy of the story he had just been reading as she was not likely to hear from any stratford-born acquaintance. indeed, he spoke well, and with obvious sincerity; and although she had intended to receive these praises with indifference (as though the play were but a trifle that her father had thrown off easily amid the pressure of other labors), she did not quite succeed. there was a kind of triumph in her eyes; her face was glad and proud; when he quoted a bit of one of ariel's songs, she laughed lightly. "he is a clever musician, that merry imp, is he not?" said she. "i would i had such a magic-working spirit to serve me," said he, looking at her. "one could shape one's own course then. 'under the blossom that hangs on the bough,' would be my motto; there would be no going back to london or any other town. and what think you: might he not find out for me some sweet miranda?--not that i am worthy of such a prize, or could do aught to deserve her, except in my duty and humble service to her. the miranda, i think, could be found," he said, glancing timidly at her; "nay, i swear i know myself where to find just such a beautiful and gentle maiden; but where is the ariel that would charm her heart and incline her to pity and kindness?" "here, sir," said she, quickly, "is the letter i said i would bring you, that the king wrote to my father." he did not look at the blue velvet satchel; he looked at her--perhaps to see whether he had gone too far. but she did not show any signs of confusion or resentment; at all events she pretended not to be conscious; and, for one thing, her eyes were lowered, for the satchel seemed for a second or so difficult to open. then she brought forth the letter. "perchance you can tell me the english of it, good sir?" said she. "'tis some time since master blaise read it for us, and i would hear it again." "nay, i fear my latin will scarce go so far," said he--"'tis but little practice in it i have had since my school-days; but i will try to make out the sense of it." she carefully opened the large folded sheet of paper, and handed it to him. this was what he found before him: "jacobus d. g. rex anglorum et scotorum poetæ nostro fideli et bene dilecto gulielmo shakespeare, s. p. d. "cum nuper apud londinium commorati comoediam tuam nobis inductam spectâssemus, de manu viri probi eugenii collins fabulæ libro accepto, operam dedimus ut eam diligenter perlegeremus. subtilissima illa quidem, multisque ingenii luminibus et artis, multis etiam animi oblectamentis, excogitata, nimis tamen accommodata ad cacchinationem movendam vulgi imperiti, politioris humanitatis expertis. quod vero ad opera tua futura attinet, amicissime te admonemus ut multa commentatione et meditatione exemplaria verses antistitum illorum artis comoedicæ, menandri scilicet atheniensis et plauti et terentii romani, qui minus vulgi plausum captabant quam vitiis tanquam flagellis castigandis studebant. qui optimi erant arte et summa honestate et utilitate, qualem te etiam esse volumus; virtutum artium et exercitationum doctores, atque illustrium illorum a deo ad populum regendum præpositorum adminicula. quibus fac ne te minorem præstes; neque tibi nec familiaribus tuis unquam deerimus quin, quum fiat occasio, munere regali fungamur. te interea deus opt. max. feliciter sospitet. "datum ex regia nostra apud greenwich x. kal. jun." he began his translation easily: "'to our trusty and well-beloved poet, william shakespeare: health and greeting.'" but then he began to stammer. "'when formerly--when recently--tarrying in london--thy comedy--thy comedy'--nay, fair mistress judith, i beseech your pardon; i am grown more rusty than i thought, and would not destroy your patience. perchance, now, you would extend your favor once more, and let me have the letter home with me, so that i might spell it out in school-boy fashion?" she hesitated; but only for a second. "nay, good sir, i dare not. these sheets of the play were thrown aside, and so far of little account; but this--if aught were to come amiss to this letter, how should i regard myself? if my father value it but slightly, there be others who think more of it; and--and they have intrusted it to me; i would not have it go out of my own keeping, so please you, and pardon me." it was clear that she did not like to refuse this favor to so courteous and grateful a young gentleman. however, her face instantly brightened. "but i am in no hurry, good sir," said she. "why should you not sit you on the stile there, and take time to master the letter, while i gather some wild flowers for my father? in truth, i am in no hurry; and i would fain have you know what the king wrote." "i would i were a school-boy again for five minutes," said he, with a laugh; but he went obediently to the stile, and sat down, and proceeded to pore over the contents of the letter. and then she wandered off by herself (so as to leave him quite undisturbed), and began to gather here and there a wild rose from the hedge, or a piece of meadow-sweet from the bank beneath, or a bit of yarrow from among the grass. it was a still, clear, quiet day, with some rainy clouds in the sky; and beyond these, near to the horizon, broad silver shafts of sunlight striking down on the woods and the distant hills. it looked as if a kind of mid-day sleep had fallen over the earth; there was scarce a sound; the birds were silent; and there was not even enough wind to make a stirring through the wide fields of wheat or in the elms. the nosegay grew apace, though she went about her work idly--kneeling here and stretching a hand there; and always she kept away from him, and would not even look in his direction; for she was determined that he should have ample leisure to make out the sense of the letter, of which she had but a vague recollection, only that she knew it was complimentary. even when he rose and came toward her she pretended not to notice. she would show him she was in no hurry. she was plucking the heads of red clover, and sucking them to get at the honey; or she was adding a buttercup or two to her nosegay; or she was carelessly humming to herself: "o stay and hear; your true love's coming, that can sing both high and low." "well, now, mistress judith," said he, with an air of apology, "methinks i have got at the meaning of it, however imperfectly; and your father might well be proud of such a commendation from so high a source--the king, as every one knows, being a learned man, and skilled in the arts. and i have not heard that he has written to any other of the poets of our day----" "no, sir?" said she, quickly. "not to master jonson?" "not that i am aware of, sweet lady," said he, "though he hath sometimes messages to send, as you may suppose, by one coming from the court. and i marvel not that your father should put store by this letter that speaks well of his work----" "your pardon, good sir, but 'tis not so," said judith, calmly. "doubtless if the king commend my father's writing, that showeth that his majesty is skilled and learned, as you say; and my father was no doubt pleased enough--as who would not be?--by such a mark of honor; but as for setting great value on it, i assure you he did not; nay, he gave it to julius shawe. and will you read it, good sir?--i remember me there was something in it about the ancients." "'tis but a rough guess that i can make," said he, regarding the paper. "but it seems that the king had received at the hands of one eugene collins the book of a comedy of your father's that had been presented before his majesty when he was recently in london. and very diligently, he says, he has read through the same; and finds it right subtly conceived, with many beauties and delights, and such ornaments as are to be approved by an ingenious mind. it is true his majesty hints that there may be parts of the play more calculated than might be to move the laughter of the vulgar; but you would not have a critic have nothing but praise?--and the king's praise is high indeed. and then he goes on to say that as regards your father's future work, he would in the most friendly manner admonish him to study the great masters of the comic art; that is, menander the athenian, and the romans plautus and terentius, who--who--what says the king?--less studied to capture the applause of the vulgar than to lash the vices of the day as with whips. and these he highly commends as being of great service to the state; and would have your father be the like: teachers of virtue, and also props and aids to those whom god hath placed to rule over the people. he would have your father be among these public benefactors; and then he adds that, when occasion serves, he will not fail to extend his royal favor to your father and his associates; and so commends him to the protection of god. nay, 'tis a right friendly letter; there is none in the land that would not be proud of it; 'tis not every day nor with every one that king james would take such trouble and play the part of tutor." he handed her the letter, and she proceeded to fold it up carefully again and put it in her satchel. she said nothing, but she hoped that these phrases of commendation would remain fixed in his mind when that he was returned to london. and then there was a moment of embarrassment--or at least of constraint. he had never been so near the town with her before (for his praise of her father's comedy, as they walked together, had taken some time), and there before them were the orchards and mud walls, and, further off, the spire of the church among the trees. she did not like to bid him go, and he seemed loath to say farewell, he probably having some dim notion that, now he had seen the end of the play and also this letter, there might be some difficulty in finding an excuse for another meeting. "when do you return to london?" said she, for the sake of saying something. "or may you return? i hope, good sir, your prospects are showing brighter; it must be hard for one of your years to pass the time in idleness." "the time that i have spent in these parts," said he, "has been far more pleasant and joyful to me than i could have imagined--you may easily guess why, dear mistress judith. and now, when there is some prospect of my being able to go, i like it not; so many sweet hours have been passed here, the very fields and meadows around have acquired a charm----" "nay, but, good sir," said she, a little breathlessly, "at your time of life you would not waste the days in idleness." "in truth it has been a gracious idleness!" he exclaimed. "at your time of life," she repeated, quickly, "why, to be shut up in a farm----" "the prince ferdinand," said he, "though i would not compare myself with him, found the time pass pleasantly and sweetly enough, as i reckon, though he was shut up in a cave. but then there was the fair miranda to be his companion. there is no ariel to work such a charm for me, else do you think i could ever bring myself to leave so enchanting a neighborhood?" "good sir," said she (in some anxiety to get away), "i may not ask the reason of your being in hiding, though i wish you well, and would fain hear there was no further occasion for it. and i trust there may be none when next you come to warwickshire, and that those of our household who have a better right to speak for it than i, will have the chance of entertaining you. and now i would bid you farewell." "no, dear judith!" he exclaimed, with a kind of entreaty in his voice. "not altogether? why, look at the day!--would you have me say farewell to you on such a day of gloom and cloud? surely you will let me take away a brighter picture of you, and warwickshire, and our brief meetings in these quiet spots--if go i must. in truth i know not what may happen to me; i would speak plainer; but i am no free agent; i can but beg of you to judge me charitably, if ever you hear aught of me----" and here he stopped abruptly and paused, considering, and obviously irresolute and perplexed. "why," said he at length, and almost to himself--"why should i go away at all? i will carry logs--if needs be--or anything. why should i go?" she knew instantly what he meant; and knew, also, that it was high time for her to escape from so perilous a situation. "i pray you pardon me, good sir; but i must go. come, don." "but one more meeting, sweet mistress judith," he pleaded, "on a fairer day than this--you will grant as much?" "i may not promise," said she; "but indeed i leave with you my good wishes; and so, farewell!" "god shield you, dearest lady," said he, bowing low; "you leave with me also a memory of your kindness that will remain in my heart." well, there was no doubt that she felt very much relieved when she had left him and was nearing the town; and yet she had a kind of pity for him too, as she thought of his going away by himself to that lonely farm: one so gentle, and so grateful for company, being shut up there on this gloomy day. whereas she was going back to a cheerful house; prudence was coming round to spend the afternoon with them, and help to mark the new napery; and then in the evening the whole of them, her father included, were going to sup at dr. hall's, who had purchased a dishful of ancient coins in one of his peregrinations, and would have them come and examine them. perhaps, after all, that reference to miranda was not meant to apply to her. it was but natural he should speak of miranda, having just finished the play. and carrying logs: he could not mean carrying logs for her father; that would be a foolish jest. no, no; he would remain at the farm and spend the time as best he could; and then, when this cloud blew over, he would return to london, and carry with him (as she hoped) some discreet rumor of the new work of her father's that he had praised so highly, and perchance some mention of the compliments paid by the king; and if, in course of time, the young gentleman should make his way back to stratford again, and come to see them at new place, and if his pleasant manner and courtesy proved to be quite irresistible, so that she had to allow the wizard's prophecy to come true in spite of herself, why, then, it was the hand of fate, and none of her doing, and she would have to accept her destiny with as good a grace as might be. as she was going into the town she met tom quincy. he was on the other side of the roadway, and after one swift glance at her, he lowered his eyes, and would have passed on without speaking. and then it suddenly occurred to her that she would put her pride in her pocket. she knew quite well that her maidenly dignity had been wounded by his suspicions, and that she ought to let him go his own way if he chose. but, on the other hand (and this she did not know), there was in her nature an odd element of what might be called boyish generosity--of frankness and common-sense and good comradeship. and these two had been very stanch comrades in former days, each being in a curious manner the protector of the other; for while she many a time came to his aid--being a trifle older than he, and always ready with her quick feminine wit and ingenuity when they were both of them likely to get into trouble--he, on his side, was her shield and bold champion by reason of his superior stature and his strength, and his terrible courage in face of bulls or barking dogs and the like. for the moment she only thought of him as her old companion; and she was a good-natured kind of creature, and frank and boyish in her ways, and so she stepped across the road, though there was some mud about. "why can't we be friends?" said she. "you have enough of other friends," said he. it was a rebuff; but still--she would keep down her girlish pride. "i hope you are not going away from the country?" said she. he did not meet her look; his eyes were fixed on the ground. "what is there to keep me in it?" was his answer. "why, what is there to keep any of us in it?" she said. "heaven's mercy, if we were all to run away when we found something or another not quite to our liking, what a fine thing that would be! nay, i hope there is no truth in it," she continued, looking at him, and not without some memories of their escapades together when they were boy and girl. "'twould grieve many--indeed it would. i pray you think better of it. if for no other, for my sake; we used to be better friends." there were two figures now approaching. "oh, here come widow clemms and her daughter," she said; "a rare couple. 'twill be meat and drink to them to carry back a story. no matter. now, fare you well; but pray think better of it; there be many that would grieve if you went away." he stole a look at her as she passed on: perhaps there was a trifle more than usual of color in her radiant and sunny face, because of the approach of the two women. it was a lingering kind of look that he sent after her; and then he, too, turned and went on his way--cursing the parson. chapter xxiv. a visitor. master leofric hope, on leaving judith, returned to the farm, but not to the solitude that had awakened her commiseration. when he entered his room, which was at the back of the house, and facing the southern horizon (that alone showed some streaks of sunlight on this gloomy day), he found a stranger there--and a stranger who had evidently some notion of making himself comfortable, for he had opened the window, and was now sitting on the sill, and had just begun to smoke his pipe. his hat, his sword, and sword-belt he had flung on the table. for a second the proper owner of the apartment knew not who this new tenant might be--he being dark against the light; but the next second he had recognized him, and that with no good grace. "what the devil brings you here?" said he, sulkily. "a hearty welcome, truly!" the other said, with much complacency. "after all my vexation in finding thee out! a goodly welcome for an old friend! but no matter, jack--come, hast naught to offer one to drink? i have ridden from banbury this morning; and the plague take me if i had not enough trouble ere i found the hare in her form. but 'tis snug--'tis snug. the place likes me; though i thought by now you might have company, and entered with care. come, man, be more friendly! will you not ask me to sit? must i call the landlady--or the farmer's wife--myself, and beg for a cup of something on so hot a day? where be your manners, gentleman jack?" "what the devil brings you into warwickshire?" the other repeated, as he threw his hat on the table, and dropped into a chair, and stretched out his legs, without a further look at his companion. "nay, 'tis what the devil keeps thee here--that is the graver question--though i know the answer right well. come, jack, be reasonable! 'tis for thy good i have sought thee out. what, man, would you ruin us both?--for i tell thee, the end is pressing and near." seeing that his unwilling host would not even turn his eyes toward him, he got down from the window-sill, and came along to the table, and took a chair. he was a short, stout young man, of puffy face and red hair, good-natured in look, but with a curious glaze in his light blue-gray eyes that told of the tavern and himself being pretty close companions. his dress had some show of ornament about it, though it was rather travel-stained and shabby; he wore jewelled rings in his ears; and the handkerchief which he somewhat ostentatiously displayed, if the linen might have been whiter, was elaborately embroidered with thread of coventry blue. for the rest, he spoke pleasantly and good-humoredly, and was obviously determined not to take offence at his anything but hearty reception. "hoy-day," said he, with a laugh, "what a bother i had with the good dame here, that would scarce let me come in! for how knew i what name you might be dancing your latest galliard in?--not plain jack orridge, i'll be bound!--what is't, your worship?--or your lordship, perchance?--nay, but a lord would look best in the eyes of a daughter of will shakespeare, that loveth to have trumpets and drums going, and dukes and princes stalking across his boards. but 'fore heaven, now, jack," said he, interrupting himself, and sending an appealing look round the room, "have you naught to drink in the house? came you ever to my lodging and found such scurvy entertainment?" the reluctant host left the apartment for a second or two, and presently returned, followed by the farmer's wife, who placed on the table a jug of small beer, and some bread and cheese. the bread and cheese did not find much favor with the new-comer, but he drank a large horn of the beer, and took to his pipe again. "come, jack, be friendly," said he; "'tis for thine own good i have sought thee out." "i would you would mind your own business," the other said, with a sullen frown remaining on his face. "mine and yours are one, as i take it, good coz," his companion said, coolly; and then he added in a more friendly way: "come, come, man, you know we must sink or swim together. and sinking it will be, if you give not up this madcap chase. nay, you carry the jest too far, _mon ami_. 'twas a right merry tale at the beginning--the sham wizard, and your coquetting with will shakespeare's daughter to while away the time; 'twas a prank would make them roar at the cranes in the vintry; and right well done, i doubt not--for, in truth, if you were not such a gallant gentleman, you might win to a place in the theatres as well as any of them; but to come back here again--to hide yourself away again--and when i tell you they will no longer forbear, but will clap thee into jail if they have not their uttermost penny--why, 'tis pure moonshine madness to risk so much for a jest!" "i tell thee 'tis no jest at all!" the other said, angrily. "in heaven's name, what brought you here?" "am i to have no care of myself, then, that am your surety, and have their threats from hour to hour?" he laughed in a stupid kind of way, and filled out some more beer and drank it off thirstily. "we had a merry night, last night, at banbury," said he. "i must pluck a hair of the same wolf to-day. and what say you? no jest? nay, you look sour enough to be virtuous, by my life, or to get into a pulpit and preach a sermon against fayles and tick-tack, as wiles of the devil. no jest? have you been overthrown at last--by a country wench? must you take to the plough, and grow turnips? why, i should as soon expect to see gentleman jack consort with the finsbury archers, or go a-ducking to islington ponds! our gentleman jack a farmer! the price of wheat, goodman dickon?--how fatten your pigs?--will the fine weather last, think you? have done with this foolery, man! if all comes to the worst, 'twere better we should take to the road, you and i, and snip a purse when chance might serve." "you?" said his companion, with only half-concealed contempt. "the first click of a pistol would find you behind a hedge." "why, old lad," said the other (who did not seem to have heard that remark, during his pouring out of another hornful of beer), "i know you better than you know yourself. this time, you say, 'tis serious--ay, but how many times before hast thou said the same? and ever the wench is the fairest of her kind, and a queen? for how long?--a fortnight!--perchance three weeks. oh, the wonder of her! and 'tis all a love-worship; and the praising of her hands and ankles; and tom morley's ditty about a lover and his lass, 'that through the green corn fields did pass in the pretty spring-time, ring-a-ding-ding!' ay, for a fortnight; and then gentleman jack discovers that some wench of the bankside hath brighter eyes and freer favors than the country beauty, and you hear no more of him until he has ne'er a penny left, and comes begging his friends to be surety for him, or to write to his grandam at oxford, saying how virtuous a youth he is, and in how sad a plight. good lord, that were an end!--should you have to go back to the old dame at last, and become tapster--no more acting of your lordship and worship--what ho, there! thou lazy knave, a flask of rhenish, and put speed into thy rascal heels!" the cloud on his companion's face had been darkening. "peace, drunken fool!" he muttered--but between his teeth, for he did not seem to wish to anger this stranger. "come, come, man," the other said, jovially, "unwitch thee! unwitch thee! fetch back thy senses. what?--wouldst thou become a jest and byword for every tavern table between the temple and the tower? nay, i cannot believe it of thee, jack. serious? ay, as you have been twenty times before. lord, what a foot and ankle!--and she the queen o' the world--the rose and crown and queen o' the world--and the sighing o' moonlight nights-- 'mignonne, tant je vous aime, mais vous ne m'aimez pas'-- and we are all to be virtuous and live cleanly for the rest of our lives; but the next time you see gentleman jack, lo, you, now!--'tis at the bear-house; his pockets lined with angels wrung from old ely of queenhithe; and as for his company--lord! lord! and as it hath been before, so 'twill be again, as said solomon the wise man; only that this time--mark you now, jack--this time it were well if you came to your senses at once; for i tell thee that ely and the rest of them have lost all patience, and they know this much of thy stratford doings, that if they cannot exactly name thy whereabout, they can come within a stone's-cast of thee. and if i come to warn thee--as is the office of a true friend and an old companion--why shouldst thou sit there with a sulky face, man? did i ever treat thee so in fetter lane?" while he had been talking, a savory odor had begun to steal into the apartment, and presently the farmer's wife appeared, and proceeded to spread the cloth for dinner. her lodger had given no orders; but she had taken his return as sufficient signal, and naturally she assumed that his friend would dine with him. accordingly, in due course, there was placed on the board a smoking dish of cow-heel and bacon, with abundance of ale and other garnishings; and as this fare seemed more tempting to the new-comer than the bread and cheese, he needed no pressing to draw his chair to the table. it was not a sumptuous feast; but it had a beneficial effect on both of them--sobering the one, and rendering the other somewhat more placable. master leofric hope--as he had styled himself--was still in a measure taciturn; but his guest--whose name, it appeared, was francis lloyd--had ceased his uncomfortable banter; and indeed all his talk now was of the charms and wealth of a certain widow who lived in a house near to gray's inn, on the road to hampstead. he had been asked to dine with the widow; and he gave a magniloquent description of the state she kept--of her serving-men, and her furniture, and her plate, and the manner in which she entertained her friends. "and why was i," said he--"why was poor frank lloyd--that could scarce get the wherewithal to pay for a rose for his ear--why was he picked out for so great a favor? why, but that he was known to be a friend of handsome jack orridge. 'where be your friend master orridge, now?' she says, for she hath sometimes a country trick in her speech, hath the good lady. 'business, madam--affairs of great import,' i say to her, 'keep him still in the country.' would i tell her the wolves were waiting to rend you should you be heard of anywhere within london city? 'handsome jack, they call him, is't not so?' says she. would i tell her thou wert called 'gentleman jack?' as if thou hadst but slim right to the title. then says she to one of the servants, 'fill the gentleman's cup.' lord, jack, what a sherris that was!--'twas meat and drink; a thing to put marrow in your bones--cool and clear it was, and rich withal--cool on the tongue and warm in the stomach. 'fore heaven, jack, if thou hast not ever a cup of that wine ready for me when i visit thee, i will say thou hast no more gratitude than a toad. and then says she to all the company (raising her glass the while), 'absent friends;' but she nods and smiles to me, as one would say: 'we know whom we mean; we know.' lord, that sherris, jack! i have the taste of it in my mouth now; i dream o' nights there is a jug of it by me." "dreaming or waking, there is little else in thy head," said the other; "nor in thy stomach, either." "is it a bargain, jack?" he said, looking up from his plate and regarding his companion with a fixed look. "a bargain?" "i tell thee 'tis the only thing will save us now." this frank lloyd said with more seriousness than he had hitherto shown. "heavens, man, you must cease this idling; i tell thee they are not in the frame for further delay. 'tis the widow becket or the king's highway, one or t'other, if you would remain a free man; and as for the highway, why, 'tis an uncertain trade, and i know that gentleman jack is no lover of broken heads. what else would you? live on in a hole like this? nay, but they would not suffer you. i tell you they are ready to hunt you out at this present moment. go beyond seas? ay, and forsake the merry nights at the cranes and the silver hind? when thy old grandam is driven out of all patience, and will not even forth with a couple of shillings to buy you wine and radish for your breakfast, 'tis a bad case. wouldst go down to oxford and become tapster?--gentleman jack, that all of them think hath fine fat acres in the west country, and a line of ancestors reaching back to noah the sailor or adam gardener. come, man, unwitch thee! collect thy senses. if this sorry jest of thine be growing serious--and i confess i had some thought of it, when you would draw on harry condell for the mere naming of the wench's name--then, o' heaven's name, come away and get thee out of such foolery! i tell thee thou art getting near an end, o' one way or another; and wouldst thou have me broken too, that have ever helped thee, and shared my last penny with thee?" "broken?" said his friend, with a laugh. "if there be any in the country more broken than you and i are at this moment, frank, i wish them luck of their fortunes. but still there is somewhat for you. you have not pawned those jewels in your ears yet. and your horse--you rode hither, said you not?--well, i trust it is a goodly beast, for it may have to save thee from starvation ere long." "nay, ask me not how i came by the creature," said he, "but 'tis not mine, i assure ye." "whose, then?" master frank lloyd shrugged his shoulders. "if you cannot guess my errand," said he, "you cannot guess who equipped me." "nay," said his friend, who was now in a much better humor, "read me no riddles, frank. i would fain know who knew thee so little as to lend thee a horse and see thee ride forth with it. who was't, frank?" his companion looked up and regarded him. "the widow becket," he answered, coolly. "what?" said the other, laughing. "art thou so far in the good dame's graces, and yet would have me go to london and marry her?" "'tis no laughing matter, master jack, as you may find out ere long," the other said. "the good lady lent me the horse, 'tis true; else how could i have come all the way into warwickshire?--ay, and lent me an angel or two to appease the villain landlords. i tell thee she is as bountiful as the day. lord, what a house!--i'll take my oath that master butler hath a good fat capon and a bottle of claret each evening for his supper--if he have not, his face belieth him. and think you she would be niggard with handsome jack? nay, but a gentleman must have his friends; ay, and his suppers at the tavern, when the play is over; and store of pieces in his purse to make you good company. why, man, thy fame would spread through the blackfriars, i warrant you: where is the hostess that would not simper and ogle and court'sy to gentleman jack, when that he came among them, slapping the purse in his pouch?" "'tis a fair picture," his friend said. "thy wits have been sharpened by thy long ride, frank. and think you the buxom widow would consent, were one to make bold and ask her? nay, nay; 'tis thy dire need hath driven thee to this excess of fancy." for answer master lloyd proceeded to bring forth a small box, which he opened, and took therefrom a finger ring. it was a man's ring, of massive setting; the stone of a deep blood-red, and graven with an intaglio of a roman bust. he pushed it across the table. "the horse was lent," said he, darkly. "that--if it please you--you may keep and wear." "what mean you?" leofric hope said, in some surprise. "'i name no thing, and i mean no thing,'" said he, quoting a phrase from a popular ballad. "if you understand not, 'tis a pity. i may not speak more plainly. but bethink you that poor frank lloyd was not likely to have the means of purchasing thee such a pretty toy, much as he would like to please his old friend. nay, canst thou not see, jack? 'tis a message, man! more i may not say. take it and wear it, good lad; and come back boldly to london; and we will face the harpies, and live as free men, ere a fortnight be over. what?--must i speak? nay, an' you understand not, i will tell no more." he understood well enough; and he sat for a second or two moodily regarding the ring; but he did not take it up. then he rose from the table, and began to walk up and down the room. "frank," said he, "couldst thou but see this wench----" "nay, nay, spare me the catalogue," his friend answered, quickly. "i heard thee declare that ben jonson had no words to say how fair she was: would you better his description and overmaster him? and fair or not fair, 'tis all the same with thee; any petticoat can bewitch thee out of thy senses: black almaine or new almaine may be the tune, but 'tis ever the same dance; and such a heaving of sighs and despair!-- 'thy gown was of the grassy green, thy sleeves of satin hanging by; which made thee be our harvest queen-- and yet thou wouldst not love me.' 'tis a pleasant pastime, friend jack; but there comes an end. i know not which be the worse, wenches or usurers, for landing a poor lad in jail; but both together, jack--and that is thy case--they are not like to let thee escape. 'tis not to every one in such a plight there cometh a talisman like that pretty toy there: beshrew me, what a thing it is in this world to have a goodly presence!" he now rose from the table and went to the door, and called aloud for some one to bring him a light. when that was brought, and his pipe set going, he sat him down on the bench by the empty fire-place, for the seat seemed comfortable, and there he smoked with much content, while his friend continued to pace up and down the apartment, meditating over his own situation, and seemingly not over well pleased with the survey. presently something in one of the pigeon-holes over the fire-place attracted the attention of the visitor; and having nothing better to do (for he would leave his friend time to ponder over what he had said), he rose and pulled forth a little bundle of sheets of paper that opened in his hand as he sat down again. "what's this, jack?" said he. "hast become playwright? surely all of this preachment is not in praise of the fair damsel's eyebrows?" his friend turned round, saw what he had got hold of, and laughed. "that, now," said he, "were something to puzzle the wits with, were one free to go to london. i had some such jest in mind; but perchance 'twas more of idleness that made me copy out the play." "'tis not yours, then? whose?" said master frank lloyd, looking over the pages with some curiosity. "whose? why, 'tis by one will shakespeare, that you may have heard of. would it not puzzle them, frank? were it not a good jest, now, to lay it before some learned critic and ask his worship's opinion? or to read it at the silver hind as of thy writing? would not dame margery weep with joy? out upon the mermaid!--have we not poets of our own?" he had drawn near, and was looking down at the sheets that his friend was examining. "i tell thee this, jack," the latter said, in his cool way, "there is more than a jest to be got out of a play by will shakespeare. would not the booksellers give us the price of a couple of nags for it if we were pressed so far?" "mind thine own business, fool!" was the angry rejoinder; and ere he knew what had happened his hands were empty. * * * * * and at that same moment, away over there in stratford town, judith was in the garden, trying to teach little bess hall to dance, and merrily laughing the while. and when the dancing lesson was over she would try a singing lesson; and now the child was on judith's shoulder, and had hold of her bonny sun-brown curls. "well done, bess; well done! now again-- 'the hunt is up--the hunt is up-- awake, my lady dear! o a morn in spring is the sweetest thing cometh in all the year!' well done indeed! will not my father praise thee, lass; and what more wouldst thou have for all thy pains?" chapter xxv. an appeal. great changes were in store. to begin with, there were rumors of her father being about to return to london. then dr. hall was summoned away into worcestershire by a great lady living there, who was continually fancying herself at the brink of death, and manifesting on such occasions a terror not at all in consonance with her professed assurance that she was going to a happier sphere. as it was possible that dr. hall would seize this opportunity to pay several other professional visits in the neighboring county, it was proposed that susan and her daughter should come for a while to new place, and that judith should at the same time go and stay with her grandmother at shottery, to cheer the old dame somewhat. and so it happened, on this july morning, that judith's mother having gone round to see her elder daughter about all these arrangements, judith found herself not only alone in the house, but, as rarely chanced, with nothing to do. she tried to extract some music from her sister's lute, but that was a failure; she tried half a dozen other things; and then it occurred to her--for the morning was fine and clear, and she was fond of the meadows and of open air and sunlight--that she would walk round to the grammar school and beg for a half-holiday for willie hart. he, as well as bess hall, was under her tuition; and there were things she could teach him of quite as much value (as she considered) as anything to be learned at a desk. at the same time, before going to meet the staring eyes of all those boys, she thought she might as well repair to her own room and smarten up her attire--even to the extent, perhaps, of putting on her gray beaver hat with the row of brass beads. that was not at all necessary. nothing of the kind was needful to make judith shakespeare attractive and fascinating and wonderful to that crowd of lads. the fact was, the whole school of them were more or less secretly in love with her; and this, so far from procuring willie hart such bumps and thrashings that he might have received from a solitary rival, gained for him; on the contrary, a mysterious favor and good-will that showed itself in a hundred subtle ways. for he was in a measure the dispenser of judith's patronage. when he was walking along the street with her he would tell her the name of this one or that of his companions (in case she had forgotten), and she would stop and speak to him kindly, and hope he was getting on well with his tasks. also the other lads, on the strength of willie hart's intermediation, would now make bold to say, with great politeness, "give ye good-morrow, mistress judith," when they met her, and sometimes she would pause for a moment and chat with one of them, and make some inquiries of him as to whether her cousin did not occasionally need a little help in his lessons from the bigger boys. then there was a kind of fury of assistance instantly promised; and the youth would again remember his good manners, and bid her formally farewell, and go on his way, with his heart and his cheeks alike afire, and his brain gone a-dancing. even that dread being, the head-master, had no frown for her when she went boldly up to his desk, in the very middle of the day's duties, to demand some favor. nay, he would rather detain her with a little pleasant conversation, and would at times become almost facetious (at sight of which the spirits of the whole school rose into a seventh heaven of equanimity). and always she got what she wanted; and generally, before leaving, she would give one glance down the rows of oaken benches, singling out her friends here and there, and, alas! not thinking at all of the deadly wounds she was thus dealing with those lustrous and shining eyes. well, on this morning she had no difficulty in rescuing her cousin from the dull captivity of the school-room; and hand in hand they went along and down to the river-side and to the meadows there. but seemingly she had no wish to get much farther from the town; for the truth was that she lacked assurance as yet that master leofric hope had left that neighborhood; and she was distinctly of a mind to avoid all further communications with him until, if ever, he should be able to come forward openly and declare himself to the small world in which she lived. accordingly she did not lead willie hart far along the river-side path; they rather kept to seeking about the banks and hedge-rows for wild flowers--the pink and white bells of the bind-weed she was mostly after, and these did not abound there--until at last they came to a stile; and there she sat down, and would have her cousin sit beside her, so that she should give him some further schooling as to all that he was to do and think and be in the coming years. she had far other things than lilly's grammar to teach him. the sententiæ pueriles contained no instruction as to how, for example, a modest and well-conducted youth should approach his love-maiden to discover whether her heart was well inclined toward him. and although her timid-eyed pupil seemed to take but little interest in the fair creature that was thus being provided for him in the future, and was far more anxious to know how he was to win judith's approval, either now or then, still he listened contentedly enough, for judith's voice was soft and musical. nay, he put that imaginary person out of his mind altogether. it was judith, and judith alone, whom he saw in these forecasts. would he have any other supplant her in his dreams and visions of what was to be? this world around him--the smooth-flowing avon, the wooded banks, the wide white skies, the meadows and fields and low-lying hills: was not she the very spirit and central life and light of all these? without her, what would these be?--dead things; the mystery and wonder gone out of them; a world in darkness. but he could not think of that; the world he looked forward to was filled with light, for judith was there, the touch of her hand as gentle as ever, her eyes still as kind. "so must you be accomplished at all points, sweetheart," she was continuing, "that you shame her not in any company, whatever the kind of it may be. if they be grave, and speak of the affairs of the realm, then must you know how the country is governed, as becomes a man (though, being a woman, alack! i cannot help you there), and you must have opinions about what is best for england, and be ready to uphold them, too. then, if the company be of a gayer kind, again you shall not shame her, but take part in all the merriment; and if there be dancing, you shall not go to the door, and hang about like a booby; you must know the new dances, every one; for would you have your sweetheart dance with others, and you standing by? that were a spite, i take it, for both of you!--nay, would not the wench be angry to be so used? let me see, now--what is the name of it?--the one that is danced to the tune of 'the merchant's daughter went over the field?'--have i shown you that, sweetheart?" "i know not, cousin judith," said he. "come, then," said she, blithely; and she took him by the hand and placed him opposite her in the meadow. "look you, now, the four at the top cross hands--so (you must imagine the other two, sweetheart); and all go round once--so; and then they change hands, and go back the other way--so; and then each takes his own partner, and away they go round the circle, and back to their place. is it not simple, cousin? come, now, let us try properly." and so they began again; and for music she lightly hummed a verse of a song that was commonly sung to the same tune: maid, will you love me, yes or no? tell me the truth, and let me go. "the other hand, willie--quick!" it can be no less than a sinful deed (trust me truly) to linger a lover that looks to speed (in due time duly). "why, is it not simple!" she said, laughing. "but now, instead of crossing hands, i think it far the prettier way that they should hold their hands up together--so: shall we try it, sweetheart?" and then she had to sing another verse of the ballad: consider, sweet, what sighs and sobs do nip my heart with cruel throbs, and all, my dear, for the love of you (trust me truly); but i hope that you will some mercy show (in due time duly). "and then," she continued, when they had finished that laughing rehearsal, "should the fiddles begin to squeal and screech--which is as much as to say, 'now, all of you, kiss your partners!'--then shall you not bounce forward and seize the wench by the neck, as if you were a ploughboy besotted with ale, and have her hate thee for destroying her head-gear and her hair. no, you shall come forward in this manner, as if to do her great courtesy, and you shall take her hand and bend one knee--and make partly a jest of it, but not altogether a jest--and then you shall kiss her hand, and rise and retire. think you the maiden will not be proud that you have shown her so much honor and respect in public?--ay, and when she and you are thereafter together, by yourselves, i doubt not but that she may be willing to make up to you for your forbearance and courteous treatment of her. marry, with that i have naught to do; 'tis as the heart of the wench may happen to be inclined; though you may trust me she will be well content that you show her other than ale-house manners; and if 'tis but a matter of a kiss that you forego, because you would pay her courtesy in public, why, then, as i say, she may make that up to thee, or she is no woman else. i wonder, now, what the bonnybel will be like--or tall, or dark, or fair----" "i wish never to see her, judith," said he, simply. however, there was to be no further discussion of this matter, nor yet greensward rehearsals of dancing; for they now descried coming to them the little maid who waited on judith's grandmother. she seemed in a hurry, and had a basket over her arm. "how now, little cicely?" judith said, as she drew near. "i have sought you everywhere, so please you, mistress judith," the little maid said, breathlessly, "for i was coming in to the town--on some errands--and--and i met the stranger gentleman that came once or twice to the house--and--and he would have me carry a message to you----" "prithee, good lass," said judith, instantly, and with much composure, "go thy way back home. i wish for no message." "he seemed in sore distress," the little maid said, diffidently. "how, then? did a gentleman of his tall inches seek help from such a mite as thou?" "he would fain see you, sweet mistress, and but for a moment," the girl answered, being evidently desirous of getting the burden of the message off her mind. "he bid me say he would be in the lane going to bidford, or thereabout, for the next hour or two, and would crave a word with you--out of charity, the gentleman said, or something of the like--and that it might be the last chance of seeing you ere he goes, and that i was to give his message to you very secretly." well, she scarcely knew what to do. at their last interview he had pleaded for another opportunity of saying farewell to her, and she had not definitely refused; but, on the other hand, she would much rather have seen nothing further of him in these present circumstances. his half-reckless references to prince ferdinand undergoing any kind of hardship for the sake of winning the fair miranda were of a dangerous cast. she did not wish to meet him on that ground at all, even to have her suspicions removed. but if he were really in distress? and this his last day in the neighborhood? it seemed a small matter to grant. "what say you, cousin willie?" said she, good-naturedly. "shall we go and see what the gentleman would have of us? i cannot, unless with thee as my shield and champion." "if you wish it, cousin judith," said he: what would he not do that she wished? "and cicely--shall we all go?" "nay, so please you, mistress judith," the girl said; "i have to go back for my errands. i have been running everywhere to seek you." "then, willie, come along," said she, lightly. "we must get across the fields to the evesham road." and so the apple-cheeked little maiden trudged back to the town with her basket, while judith and her companion went on their way across the meadows. there was a kind of good-humored indifference in her consent, though she felt anxious that the interview should be as brief as possible. she had had more time of late to think over all the events that had recently happened--startling events enough in so quiet and even a life; and occasionally she bethought her of the wizard, and of the odd coincidence of her meeting this young gentleman at the very spot that had been named. she had tried to laugh aside certain recurrent doubts and surmises, and was only partially successful. and she had a vivid recollection of the relief she had experienced when their last interview came to an end. "you must gather me some flowers, sweetheart," said she, "while i am speaking to this gentleman; perchance he may have something to say of his own private affairs." "i will go on to your grandmother's garden," said he, "if you wish it, cousin judith, and get you the flowers there." "indeed, no," she answered, patting him on the shoulder. "would you leave me without my champion? nay, but if you stand aside a little, that the gentleman may speak in confidence, if that be his pleasure, surely that will be enough." they had scarcely entered the lane when he made his appearance, and the moment she set eyes on him she saw that something had happened. his face seemed haggard and anxious--nay, his very manner was changed; where was the elaborate courtesy with which he had been wont to approach her? "judith," said he, hurriedly, "i must risk all now. i must speak plain. i--i scarce hoped you would give me the chance." but she was in no alarm. "now, sweetheart," said she, calmly, to the little lad, "you may get me the flowers; and if you find any more of the bind-weed bells and the st. john's wort, so much the better." then she turned to master leofric hope. "i trust you have had no ill news," said she, but in a kind way. "indeed, i have. well, i know not which way to take it," he said, in a sort of desperate fashion. "it might be good news. but i am hard pressed; 'twill be sink or swim with me presently. well, there is one way of safety opened to me: 'tis for you to say whether i shall take it or not." "i, sir?" she said; and she was so startled that she almost recoiled a step. "nay, but first i must make a confession," said he, quickly, "whatever comes of it. think of me what you will, i will tell you the truth. shall i beg for your forgiveness beforehand?" he was regarding her earnestly and anxiously, and there was nothing but kindness and a dim expression of concern in his honest, frank face and in the beautiful eyes. "no, i will not," he said. "doubtless you will be angry, and with just cause; and you will go away. well, this is the truth. the devils of usurers were after me; i had some friends not far from here; i escaped to them; and they sought out this hiding for me. then i had heard of you--you will not forgive me, but this is the truth--i had heard of your beauty; and satan himself put it into my head that i must see you. i thought it would be a pastime, to while away this cursed hiding, if i could get to know you without discovering myself. i sent you a message. i was myself the wizard. heaven is my witness that when i saw you at the corner of the field up there, and heard you speak, and looked on your gracious and gentle ways, remorse went to my heart; but how could i forego seeking to see you again? it was a stupid jest. it was begun in thoughtlessness; but now the truth is before you: i was myself the wizard; and--and my name is not leofric hope, but john orridge--a worthless poor devil that is ashamed to stand before you." well, the color had mounted to her face: for she saw clearly the invidious position that this confession had placed her in; but she was far less startled than he had expected. she had already regarded this trick as a possible thing, and she had also fully considered what she ought to do in such circumstances. now, when the circumstances were actually laid before her, she made no display of wounded pride, or of indignant anger, or anything of the kind. "i pray you," said she, with a perfect and simple dignity, "pass from that. i had no such firm belief in the wizard's prophecies. i took you as you represented yourself to be, a stranger, met by chance, one who was known to my father's friends, and who was in misfortune; and if i have done aught beyond what i should have done in such a pass, i trust you will put it down to our country manners, that are perchance less guarded than those of the town." for an instant--there was not the slightest doubt of it--actual tears stood in the young man's eyes. "by heavens," he exclaimed, "i think you must be the noblest creature god ever made! you do not drive me away in scorn; you have no reproaches? and i--to be standing here--telling you such a tale----" "i pray you, sir, pass from that," said she. "what of your own fortune? you are quitting the neighborhood?" "but how can you believe me in anything, since you know how i have deceived you?" said he, as if he could not understand how she should make no sign of her displeasure. "'twas but a jest, as you say," she answered, good-naturedly, but still with a trifle of reserve. "and no harm has come of it. i would leave it aside, good sir." "harm?" said he, regarding her with a kind of anxious timidity. "that may or may not be, sweet lady, as time will show. if i dared but speak to you--well, bethink you of my meeting you here from day to day, in these quiet retreats, and seeing such a sweetness and beauty and womanliness as i have never met in the world before--such a wonder of gentleness and kindness----" "i would ask you to spare me these compliments," said she, simply. "i thought 'twas some serious matter you had in hand." "serious enough i' faith!" he said, in an altered tone, as if she had recalled him to a sense of the position in which he stood. "but there is the one way out of it, after all. i can sell my life away for money to pacify those fiends; nay, besides that, i should live in abundance, doubtless, and be esteemed a most fortunate gentleman, and one to be envied. a gilded prison-house and slavery; but what would the fools think of that if they saw me with a good fat purse at the tavern?" again he regarded her. "there is another way yet, however, if i must needs trouble you, dear mistress judith, with my poor affairs. what if i were to break with that accursed london altogether, and go off and fight my way in another country, as many a better man hath done? ay, and there be still one or two left who would help me to escape if they saw me on the way to reform, as they would call it. and what would i not do in that way--ay, or in any way--if i could hope for a certain prize to be won at the end of it all?" "and that, good sir?" "that," said he, watching her face--"the reward that would be enough and more than enough for all i might suffer would be just this--to find judith shakespeare coming to meet me in this very lane." "oh, no, sir," was her immediate and incoherent exclamation; and then she promptly pulled herself together, and said, with some touch of pride: "indeed, good sir, you talk wildly. i scarce understand how you can be in such grave trouble." "then," said he, and he was rather pale, and spoke slowly, "it would be no manner of use for any poor ferdinand of these our own days to go bearing logs or suffering any hardships that might arise? there would be no miranda waiting for him, after all?" she colored deeply; she could not affect to misunderstand the repeated allusion; and all she had in her mind now was to leave him and get away from him, and yet without unkindness or anger. "good sir," said she, with such equanimity as she could muster, "if that be your meaning--if that be why you wished to see me again--and no mere continuance of an idle jest, plain speech will best serve our turn. i trust no graver matters occupy your mind; as for this, you must put that away. it was with no thought of any such thing that i--that i met you once or twice, and--and lent you such reading as might pass the time for you. and perchance i was too free in that, and in my craving to hear of my father and his friends in london, and the rest. but what you say now, if i understand you aright--well, i had no thought of any such thing. indeed, good sir, if i have done wrong in listening to you about my father's friends, 'twas in the hope that soon or late you would continue the tale in my father's house. but now--what you say--bids me to leave you--and yet in no anger--for in truth i wish you well." she gave him her hand, and he held it for a moment. "is this your last word, judith?" said he. "yes, yes, indeed," she answered, rather breathlessly and earnestly. "i may not see you again. i pray heaven your troubles may soon be over; and perchance you may meet my father in london, and become one of his friends; then might i hear of your better fortunes. 'twould be welcome news, believe me. and now fare you well." he stooped to touch her hand with his lips; but he said not a word; and she turned away without raising her eyes. he stood there motionless and silent, watching her and the little boy as they walked along the lane toward the village--regarding them in an absent kind of way, and yet with no great expression of sadness or hopelessness in his face. then he turned and made for the highway to bidford; and he was saying to himself as he went along: "well, there goes one chance in life, for good or ill. and what if i had been more persistent? what if she had consented, or even half consented, or said that in the future i might come back with some small modicum of hope? nay: the devil only knows where i should get logs to carry for the winning of so fair a reward. frank lloyd is right. my case is too desperate. so fare you well, sweet maiden; keep you to your quiet meadows and your wooded lanes: and the clown that will marry you will give you a happier life than ever you could have had with jack orridge and his broken fortunes." indeed, he seemed in no downcast mood. as he walked along the highway he was absently watching the people in the distant fields, or idly whistling the tune of "calen o custure me." but by and by, as he drew near the farm, his face assumed a more sombre look; and when, coming still nearer, he saw frank lloyd calmly standing at the door of the stables, smoking his pipe, there was a sullen frown on his forehead that did not promise well for the cheerfulness of that journey to london which master lloyd had sworn he would not undertake until his friend was ready to accompany him. chapter xxvi. to london town. but that was not the departure for london which was soon to bring judith a great heaviness of heart, and cause many a bitter fit of crying when that she was lying awake o' nights. she would rather have let all her lovers go, and welcome, a hundred times over. but, as the days passed, it became more and more evident, from certain preparations, that her father was about to leave stratford for the south, and finally the very moment was fixed. judith strove to keep a merry face (for so she had been bid), but again and again she was on the point of going to him and falling on her knees and begging him to remain with them. she knew that he would laugh at her; but did he quite know what going away from them meant? and the use of it? had they not abundance? still, she was afraid of being chid for meddling in matters beyond her; and so she went about her duties with as much cheerfulness as she could assume; though, when in secret conclave with prudence, and talking of this, and what the house would be like when he was gone, quiet tears would steal down her face in the dusk. to suit the convenience of one or two neighbors, who were also going to london, the day of departure had been postponed; but at last the fatal morning arrived. judith, from an early hour, was on the watch, trying to get some opportunity of saying good-by to her father by herself (and not before all the strangers who would soon be gathering together), but always she was defeated, for he was busy in-doors with many things, and every one was lending a helping hand. moreover, she was in an excited and trembling state; and more than once she had to steal away to her chamber and bathe her eyes with water lest that they should tell any tale when he regarded her. but the climax of her misfortunes was this. when the hour for leaving was drawing nigh she heard him go out and into the garden, doubtless with the intention of locking up the cupboard in the summer-house; and so she presently and swiftly stole out after him, thinking that now would be her chance. alas! the instant she had passed through the back-court door she saw that matthew gardener had forestalled her; and not only that, but he had brought a visitor with him--the master constable, grandfather jeremy, whom she knew well. anger filled her heart; but there was no time to stand on her dignity. she would not retire from the field. she walked forward boldly, and stood by her father's side, as much as to say: "well, this is my place. what do you want? why this intrusion at such a time?" grandfather jeremy was a little, thin, round-shouldered ancient, with long, straggling gray hair, and small, shrewd, ferret-like eyes that kept nervously glancing from judith's father to goodman matthew, who had obviously introduced him on this occasion. indeed, the saturnine visage of the gardener was overspread with a complacent grin, as though he were saying, "look you there, zur, there be a rare vool." judith's father, on the other hand, showed no impatience over this interruption; he kept waiting for the old man to recover his power of speech. "well, now, master constable, what would you?" he said gently. "why can't 'ee tell his worship, jeremy?" matthew gardener said, in his superior and facetious fashion, "passion o' me, man, thy tongue will wag fast enough at mother tooley's ale-house." "it wur a contrevarsie, so please your worship," the ancient constable said, but with a kind of vacant stare, as if he were half lost in looking back into his memory. "ay, and with whom?" said judith's father, to help him along. "with my poor old woman, so please your worship. she be a poor, mean creature in your honor's eyes, i make no doubt; but she hath wisdom, she hath, and a strength in contrevarsie past most. lord, lord, why be i standing here now--and holding your worship--and your worship's time and necessities--but that she saith, 'jeremy, put thy better leg avore;' 'speak out,' saith she; ''twur as good for thee as a half-ox in a pie, or a score of angels in thy pouch.' 'speak out,' she saith, 'and be not afraid, jeremy.'" "but, master constable," said judith's father, "if your good dame be such a mary ambree in argument, she should have furnished you with fewer words and more matter. what would you?" "nay, zur, i be as bold as most," said the constable, pulling up his courage, and also elevating his head somewhat with an air of authority. "i can raise hue and cry in the hundred, that can i; and if the watch bring me a rogue, he shall lie by the heels, or i am no true man. but lord, zur, have pity on a poor man that be put forward to speak for a disputation. when they wur talking of it at furst, your worship--this one and the other, and all of them to once--and would have me go forward to speak for them, 'zure,' says i, 'i would as lief go to a bride-ale with my legs swaddled in wisps as go avore mahster shaksper without a power o' voine words.' but joan, she saith, 'jeremy, fear no man, howsoever great, for there be but the one lord over us all; perzent thyself like a true countryman and an honest officer; take thy courage with thee,' saith she; 'and remember thou speakest vor thy friends as well as vor thyself. 'tis a right good worshipful gentleman,' she saith, meaning yourself, sweet mahster shaksper; 'and will a not give us a share?'" "in heaven's name, man," said judith's father, laughing, "what would you? had joan no clearer message to give you?" "i but speak her words, so please your worship," said the ancient constable, with the air of one desperately trying to recall a lesson that had been taught him. "and all of them--they wur zaying as how she hath a power o' wisdom--and, 'jeremy,' she saith, 'be not overbold with the worthy gentleman; 'tis but a share; and he be a right worthy and civil gentleman; speak him fair, jeremy,' she saith, 'and put thy better leg avore, and acquit thee as a man. nay, be bold,' she saith, 'and think of thy vriends, that be waiting without for an answer. think of them, jeremy,' she saith, 'if thy speech fail thee. 'tis but a share; 'tis but a share; and he a right worshipful and civil gentleman.'" judith's father glanced at the sun-dial on the gable of the barn. "my good friend," said he, "i hear that your wife joan is ailing; 'tis through no lack of breath, i warrant me. an you come not to the point forthwith, i must be gone. what would you? or what would your good dame have of me?--for there we shall get to it more quickly." "so please you, zur," said matthew, with his complacent grin, "the matter be like this, now: this worthy master constable and his comrades of the watch, they wur laying their heads together like; and they have heard say that you have written of them, and taken of their wisdom the couple o' nights they wur brought in to supper; and they see as how you have grown rich, so please you, zur, with such writing----" "a vast o' money--a vast o' money and lands," the other murmured. "and now, zur, they would make bold to ask for their share, for the help that they have given you. nay, zur," continued matthew gardener, who was proud of the ease with which he could put into words the inarticulate desires of this good constable, "be not angry with worthy jeremy; he but speaketh for the others, and for his wife joan too, that be as full of courage as any of them, and would have come to your worship but that she be sore troubled with an ague. lord, zur, i know not how much the worthy gentlemen want. perchance good jeremy would be content wi' the barn and the store of malt in the malt-house----" at this the small deep eyes of the ancient began to twinkle nervously; and he glanced in an anxious way from one to the other. "and the watch, now," continued matthew grinning, and regarding the old constable; "why, zur, they be poor men; 'twould go well with them to divide amongst them the store of good wine in the cellar, and perchance also the leather hangings that be so much talked of in the town. but hark you, good jeremy, remember this, now--that whoever hath the garden and orchard fall to his lot must pay me my wages, else 'tis no bargain." for the first time in her life judith saw her father in a passion of anger. his color did not change; but there was a strange look about his mouth, and his eyes blazed. "thou cursed fool," he said to the gardener, "'tis thou hast led these poor men into this folly." and then he turned to the bewildered constable, and took him by the arm. "come, good friend," said he, in a kindly way, "come into the house and i will explain these matters to thee. thou hast been mislead by that impudent knave--by my life, i will settle that score with him ere long; and in truth the aid that you and your comrades have given me is chiefly that we have passed a pleasant evening or two together, and been merry or wise as occasion offered. and i would have you spend such another to-night among yourselves, leaving the charges at the ale-house to me; and for the present, if i may not divide my store of wine among you, 'tis no reason why you and i should not have a parting cup ere i put hand to bridle----" that was all that judith heard; and then she turned to the ancient wise man and said, coolly, "were i in thy place, good matthew, i would get me out of this garden, and out of stratford town too, ere my father come back." and matthew was too frightened to answer her. the outcome of all this, however, was that judith's father did not return to the garden; and when she went into the house she found that he had taken such time to explain to jeremy constable how small a share in his writings had been contributed by these good people that certain of the members of the expedition bound for london had already arrived. indeed, their horses and attendants were at the door; and all and everything was in such a state of confusion and uproar that judith saw clearly she had no chance of saying a quiet good-by to her father all by herself. but was she to be again balked by goodman matthew? she thought not. she slipped away by the back door and disappeared. there was quite a little crowd gathered to see the cavalcade move off. dr. hall was not there, but tom quiney was--bringing with him as a parting gift for judith's father a handsome riding-whip; and the worthy parson blaise had also appeared, though there was no opportunity for his professional services amid so much bustle. and then there were hand-shakings and kissings and farewells; and judith's father was just about to put his foot in the stirrup, when susanna called out: "but where is judith? is she not coming to say good-by to my father?" then there were calls for judith, here, there, and everywhere, but no answer; and her mother was angry that the girl should detain all this assemblage. but her father, not having mounted, went rapidly through the house, and just opened the door leading into the garden. the briefest glance showed him that the mastiff was gone. then he hurried back. "'tis all well, good mother," said he, as he got into the saddle. "i shall see the wench ere i go far. i know her tricks." so the company moved away from the house, and through the streets, and down to clopton's bridge. once over the bridge, they struck to the right, taking the oxford road by shipston and enstone; and ere they had gone far along the highway, judith's father, who seemed less to join in the general hilarity and high spirits of the setting out than to be keeping a watch around, perceived something in the distance--at a corner where there was a high bank behind some trees--that caused him to laugh slightly, and to himself. when they were coming near this corner the figure that had been on the sky-line had disappeared; but down by the road-side was judith herself, looking very tremulous and ashamed as all these people came along, and the great don standing by her. her father, who had some knowledge of her ways, bade them all ride on, and then he turned his horse, and sprang down from the saddle. "well, wench," said he, and he took her by the shoulders, "what brings you here?" in answer, she could only burst into tears, and hide her face in his breast. "why, lass," said he, "what is a journey to london? and have you not enough left to comfort you? have you not sweethearts a plenty?" but she could not speak; she only sobbed and sobbed. "come, come, lass, i must be going," said he, stroking the soft brown hair. "cheer up. wouldst thou spoil the prettiest eyes in warwickshire? nay, an thou have not a right merry and beaming face when i come again, i will call thee no daughter of mine." then she raised her head--for still she could not speak--and he kissed her. "heaven's blessings on thee, good wench! i think 'tis the last time i shall ever have the courage to leave thee. fare you well, sweetheart; keep your eyes bright and your face happy--to draw me home again." then she kissed him on each cheek, and he got into the saddle and rode on. she climbed up to the top of the bank, and watched him and his companions while they were still in sight, and then she turned to go slowly homeward. and it seemed to her, when she came in view of stratford, and looked down on the wide meadows and the placid river and the silent homesteads, that a sort of winter had already fallen over the land. that long summer had been very beautiful to her--full of sunlight and color and the scent of flowers; but now a kind of winter was come, and a sadness and loneliness; and the days and days that would follow each other seemed to have no longer any life in them. chapter xxvii. evil tidings. but a far sharper winter than any she had thought of was now about to come upon her, and this was how it befell: after the departure of her father, good master walter blaise became more and more the guide and counsellor of these women-folk; and indeed new place was now given over to meetings for prayer and worship, and was also become the head-quarters in the town for the entertainment of travelling preachers, and for the institution of all kinds of pious and charitable undertakings. there was little else for the occupants of it to do: the head of the house was in london; judith was at shottery with her grandmother; susanna was relieved from much of her own domestic cares by the absence of her husband in worcestershire; and the bailiff looked after all matters pertaining to the farm. indeed, so constant were these informal services and ministerings to pious travellers that julius shawe (though not himself much given in that direction, and perhaps mostly to please his sister) felt bound to interfere and offer to open his house on occasion, or pay part of the charges incurred through this kindly hospitality. nay, he went privately to master blaise and threw out some vague hints as to the doubtful propriety of allowing a wife, in the absence of her husband, to be so ready with her charity. now master blaise was an honest and straightforward man, and he met this charge boldly and openly. he begged of master shawe to come to new place that very afternoon, when two or three of the neighbors were to assemble to hear him lecture; and both prudence and her brother went. but before the lecture, the parson observed that he had had a case of conscience put before him--as to the giving of alms and charity, by whom, for whom and on whose authority--which he would not himself decide. the whole matter, he observed, had been pronounced upon in the holiday lectures of that famous divine master william perkins, who was now gone to his eternal reward; these lectures having recently been given to the world by the aid of one thomas pickering, of emmanuel college, cambridge. and very soon it appeared, as the young parson read from the little parchment-covered book, that the passages he quoted had been carefully chosen and were singularly pertinent. for after a discourse on the duty of almsgiving, as enjoined by scripture (and it was pointed out that christ himself had lived on alms--"not by begging, as the papists affirm, but by the voluntary ministration and contribution of some to whom he preached"), master blaise read on, with an occasional glance at julius shawe: "'it may be asked whether the wife may give alms without the consent of her husband, considering that she is in subjection to another, and therefore all that she hath is another's, and not her own. answer. the wife may give alms of some things, but with these cautions: as, first, she may give of those goods that she hath excepted from marriage. secondly, she may give of those things which are common to them both, provided it be with the husband's consent, at least general and implicit. thirdly, she may not give without or against the consent of her husband. and the reason is, because both the law of nature and the word of god command her obedience to her husband in all things. if it be alleged that joanna, the wife of chuza, herod's steward, with others, did minister to christ of their goods (luke viii., ), i answer: it is to be presumed that it was not done without all consent. again, if it be said that abigail brought a present to david for the relief of him and his young men, whereof she made not nabal, her husband, acquainted ( sam. xxv., ), i answer, it is true, but mark the reason. nabal was generally of a churlish and unmerciful disposition, whereupon he was altogether unwilling to yield relief to any, in how great necessity soever; whence it was that he railed on the young men that came to him, and drove them away, ver. . again, he was a foolish man, and given to drunkenness, so as he was not fit to govern his house or to dispense his alms. besides, that abigail was a woman of great wisdom in all her actions, and that which she now did was to save nabal's and her own life--yea, the lives of his whole family; for the case was desperate, and all that they had were in present hazard. the example, therefore, is no warrant for any woman to give alms, unless it be in the like case.'" and then he summed up in a few words, saying, in effect, that as regards the question which had been put before him, it was for the wife to say whether she had her husband's general and implied consent to her pious expenditure, and to rule her accordingly. this completely and forever shut julius shawe's mouth. for he knew, and they all knew, that judith's father was well content that any preachers or divines coming to the house should be generously received; while he on his part claimed a like privilege in the entertainment of any vagrant person or persons (especially if they were making a shift to live by their wits) whom he might chance to meet. strict economy in all other things was the rule of the household; in the matter of hospitality the limits were wide. and if judith's mother half guessed, and if susanna hall shrewdly perceived, why this topic had been introduced, and why julius shawe had been asked to attend the lecture, the subject was one that brought no sting to their conscience. if the whole question rested on the general and implied consent of the husband, judith's mother had naught to tax herself with. after that there was no further remonstrance (of however gentle and underhand a kind) on the part of julius shawe; and more and more did parson blaise become the guide, instructor, and mainstay of the household. they were women-folk, some of them timid, all of them pious, and they experienced a sense of comfort and safety in submitting to his spiritual domination. as for his disinterestedness, there could be no doubt of that; for now judith was away at shottery, and he could no longer pay court to her in that authoritative fashion of his. it seemed as if he were quite content to be with these others, bringing them the news of the day, especially as regarded the religious dissensions that were everywhere abroad, arranging for the welcoming of this or that faithful teacher on his way through the country, getting up meetings for prayer and profitable discourse in the afternoon, or sitting quietly with them in the evening while they went on with their tasks of dress-making or embroidery. and so it came about that master walter was in the house one morning--they were seated at dinner, indeed, and prudence was also of the company--when a letter was brought in and handed to judith's mother. it was an unusual thing; and all saw by the look of it that it was from london; and all were eager for the news, the good parson as well as any. there was not a word said as judith's mother, with fingers that trembled a little from mere anticipation, opened the large sheet, and began to read to herself across the closely written lines. and then, as they waited, anxious for the last bit of tidings about the king or the parliament or what not, they could not fail to observe a look of alarm come into the reader's face. "oh, susan," she said, in a way that startled them, "what is this?" she read on, breathless and stunned, her face grown quite pale now; and at last she stretched out her shaking hand with the letter in it. "susan, susan, take it. i cannot understand it. i cannot read more. oh, susan, what has the girl done?" and she turned aside her chair, and began to cry stealthily; she was not a strong-nerved woman, and she had gathered but a vague impression that something terrible and irrevocable had occurred. susan was alarmed, no doubt; but she had plenty of self-command. she took the letter, and proceeded as swiftly as she could to get at the contents of it. then she looked up in a frightened way at the parson, as if to judge in her own mind as to how far he should be trusted in this matter. and then she turned to the letter again--in a kind of despair. "mother," said she at last, "i understand no more than yourself what should be done. to think that all this should have been going on, and we knowing naught of it! but you see what my father wants; that is the first thing. who is to go to judith?" at the mere mention of judith's name a flash of dismay went to prudence's heart. she knew that something must have happened; she at once bethought her of judith's interviews with the person in hiding; and she was conscious of her own guilty connivance and secrecy; so that the blood rushed to her face, and she sat there dreading to know what was coming. "mother," susan said again, and rather breathlessly, "do you not think, in such a pass, we might beg master blaise to give us of his advice? the doctor being from home, who else is there?" "nay, if i can be of any service to you or yours, good mistress hall, i pray you have no scruple in commanding me," said the parson--with his clear and keen gray eyes calmly waiting for information. judith's mother was understood to give her consent; and then susan (after a moment's painful hesitation) took up the letter. "indeed, good sir," said she, with an embarrassment that she rarely showed, "you will see there is reason for our perplexity, and--and i pray you be not too prompt to think ill of my sister. perchance there may be explanations, or the story wrongly reported. in good truth, sir, my father writes in no such passion of anger as another might in such a pass, though 'tis but natural he should be sorely troubled and vexed." again she hesitated, being somewhat unnerved and bewildered by what she had just been reading. she was trying to recall things, to measure possibilities, to overcome her amazement, all at once. and then she knew that the parson was coolly regarding her, and she strove to collect her wits. "this, good sir, is the manner of it," said she, in as calm a way as she could assume, "that my father and his associates have but recently made a discovery that concerns them much, and is even a disaster to them; 'tis no less than that a copy of my father's last written play--the very one, indeed, that he finished ere leaving stratford--hath lately been sold, they scarce know by whom as yet, to a certain bookseller in london, and that the bookseller is either about to print it and sell it, or threatens to do so. they all of them, my father says, are grievously annoyed by this, for that the publishing of the play will satisfy many who will read it at home instead of coming to the theatre, and that thus the interests of himself and his associates will suffer gravely. i am sorry, good sir, to trouble you with such matters," she added, with a glance of apology, "but they come more near home to us than you might think." "i have offered to you my service in all things--that befit my office," said master walter, but with a certain reserve, as if he did not quite like the course that matters were taking. "and then," continued susan, glancing at the writing before her, "my father says that they were much perplexed (having no right at law to stop such a publication), and made inquiries as to how any such copy could have found its way into the bookseller's hands; whereupon he discovered that which hath grieved him far more than the trouble about the play. prudence, you are her nearest gossip; it cannot be true!" she exclaimed; and she turned to the young maiden, whose face was no longer pale and thoughtful, but rose-colored with shame and alarm. "for he says 'tis a story that is now everywhere abroad in london--and a laugh and a jest at the taverns--how that one jack orridge came down to warwickshire, and made believe to be a wizard, and cozened judith--judith, prudence, our judith!--heard ye ever the like?--into a secret love affair; and that she gave him a copy of the play as one of her favors----" "truly, now, that is false on the face of it," said master blaise, appositely. "that is a tale told by some one who knows not that judith hath no skill of writing." "oh, 'tis too bewildering!" susan said, as she turned again to the letter in a kind of despair. "but to have such a story going about london--about judith--about my sister judith--how can you wonder that my father should write in haste and in anger? that she should meet this young man day after day at a farm-house near to bidford, and in secret, and listen to his stories of the court, believing him to be a worthy gentleman in misfortune! a worthy gentleman truly!--to come and make sport of a poor country maiden, and teach her to deceive her father and all of us, not one of us knowing--not one----" "susan! susan!" prudence cried, in an agony of grief, "'tis not as you think. 'tis not as it is written there. i will confess the truth. i myself knew of the young man being in the neighborhood, and how he came to be acquainted with judith. and she never was at any farm-house to meet him, that i know well, but--but he was alone, and in trouble, he said, and she was sorry for him, and durst not speak to any one but me. nay, if there be aught wrong, 'twas none of her doing, that i know: as to the copy of the play, i am ignorant; but 'twas none of her doing. susan, you think too harshly--indeed you do." "sweetheart, i think not harshly," said the other, in a bewildered way. "i but tell the story as i find it." "'tis not true, then. on her part, at least, there was no whit of any secret love affair, as i know right well," said prudence, with a vehemence near to tears. "i but tell thee the story as my father heard it. poor wench, whatever wrong she may have done, i have no word against her," judith's sister said. "i pray you continue," interposed master blaise, with his eyes calmly fixed on the letter; he had scarcely uttered a word. "oh, my father goes on to say that this orridge--this person representing himself as familiar with the court, and the great nobles, and the like--is none other than the illegitimate son of an oxfordshire gentleman who became over well acquainted with the daughter of an innkeeper in oxford town; that the father meant to bring up the lad, and did give him some smattering of education, but died; that ever since he hath been dependent on his grandmother, a widow, who still keeps the inn; and that he hath lived his life in london in any sort of company he could impose upon by reason of his fine manners. these particulars, my father says, he hath had from ben jonson, that seems to know something of the young man, and maintains that he is not so much vicious or ill-disposed as reckless and idle, and that he is as likely as not to end his days with a noose round his neck. this, saith my father, is all that he can learn, and he would have us question judith as to the truth of the story, and as to how the copy of the play was made, and whether 'twas this same orridge that carried it to london. and all this he would have inquired into at once, for his associates and himself are in great straits because of this matter, and have urgent need to know as much as can be known. then there is this further writing toward the end--'i cannot explain all to thee at this time; but 'tis so that we have no remedy against the rascal publisher. even if they do not register at the stationers' company, they but offend the company; and the only punishment that might at the best befall them would be his grace of canterbury so far misliking the play as to cause it to be burnt--a punishment that would fall heavier on us, i take it, than on them; and that is in no case to be anticipated.'" "i cannot understand these matters, good sir," judith's mother said drying her eyes. "'tis my poor wench that i think of. i know she meant no harm--whatever comes of it. and she is so gentle and so proud-spirited that a word of rebuke from her father will drive her out of her reason. that she should have fallen into such trouble, poor wench! poor wench!--and you, prudence, that was ever her intimate, and seeing her in such a coil--that you should not have told us of it!" prudence sat silent under this reproach: she knew not how to defend herself. perhaps she did not care, for all her thoughts were about judith. "saw you ever the young man?" susan said, scarcely concealing her curiosity. "nay, not i," was prudence's answer. "but your grandmother hath seen him, and that several times." "my grandmother!" she exclaimed. "for he used to call at the cottage," said prudence, "and pass an hour or two--being in hiding, as he said, and glad to have a little company. and he greatly pleased the old dame, as i have heard, because of his gracious courtesy and good breeding; and when they believed him to be in sad trouble, and pitied him, who would be the first to speak and denounce a stranger so helpless? nay, i know that i have erred. had i had more courage i should have come to you, susan, and begged you to draw judith away from any further communication with the young man; but i--i know not how it came about; she hath such a winning and overpersuading way, and is herself so fearless." "a handsome youth, perchance?" said susan, who seemed to wish to know more about this escapade of her sister's. "right handsome, as i have heard; and of great courtesy and gentle manners," prudence answered. "but well i know what it was that led judith to hold communication with him after she would fain have had that broken off." and then prudence, with such detail as was within her knowledge, explained how judith had come to think that the young stranger talked overmuch of ben jonson, and was anxious to show that her father could write as well as he (or better, as she considered). and then came the story of the lending of the sheets of the play, and prudence had to confess how that she had been judith's accomplice on many a former occasion in purloining and studying the treasures laid by in the summer-house. she told all that she knew openly and simply and frankly; and if she was in distress, it was with no thought of herself; it was in thinking of her dear friend and companion away over there at shottery, who was all in ignorance of what was about to befall her. then the three women, being somewhat recovered from their dismay, but still helpless and bewildered, and not knowing what to do, turned to the parson. he had sat calm and collected, silent for the most part, and reading in between the lines of the story his own interpretation. perhaps, also, he had been considering other possibilities--as to the chances that such an occasion offered for gathering back to the fold an errant lamb. "what your father wants done, that is the first thing, sweetheart," judith's mother said, in a tremulous and dazed kind of fashion. "as to the poor wench, we will see about her afterward. and not a harsh word will i send her; she will have punishment enough to bear--poor lass! poor lass! so heedless and so headstrong she hath been always, but always the quickest to suffer if a word were spoken to her; and now if this story be put about, how will she hold up her head--she that was so proud? but what your father wants done, susan, that is the first thing--that is the first thing. see what you can do to answer the letter as he wishes: you are quicker to understand such things than i." and then the parson spoke, in his clear, incisive, and authoritative way: "good madam, 'tis little i know of these matters in london; but if you would have judith questioned--and that might be somewhat painful to any one of her relatives--i will go and see her for you, if you think fit. if she have been the victim of knavish designs, 'twill be easy for her to acquit herself; carelessness, perchance, may be the only charge to be brought against her. and as i gather from prudence that the sheets of manuscript lent to the young man were in his possession for a certain time, i make no doubt that the copy--if it came from this neighborhood at all--was made by himself on those occasions, and that she had no hand in the mischief, save in overtrusting a stranger. doubtless your husband, good madam, is desirous of having clear and accurate statements on these and other points; whereas, if you, or mistress hall, or even prudence there, were to go and see judith, natural affection and sympathy might blunt the edge of your inquiries. you would be so anxious to excuse (and who would not, in your place?) that the very information asked for by your husband would be lost sight of. therefore i am willing to do as you think fitting. i may not say that my office lends any special sanction to such a duty, for this is but a worldly matter; but friendship hath its obligations: and if i can be of service to you, good mistress shakespeare, 'tis far from repaying what i owe of godly society and companionship to you and yours. these be rather affairs for men to deal with than for women, who know less of the ways of the world; and i take it that judith, when she is made aware of her father's wishes, will have no hesitation in meeting me with frankness and sincerity." it was this faculty of his of speaking clearly and well and to the point that in a large measure gave him such an ascendency over those women; he seemed always to see a straight path before him; to have confidence in himself, and a courage to lead the way. "good sir, if you would have so much kindness," judith's mother said. "truly, you offer us help and guidance in a dire necessity. and if you will tell her what it is her father wishes to know, be sure that will be enough; the wench will answer you, have no fear, good sir." then susan said, when he was about to go: "worthy sir, you need not say to her all that you have heard concerning the young man. i would liefer know what she herself thought of him; and how they came together; and how he grew to be on such friendly terms with her. for hitherto she hath been so sparing of her favor; though many have wished her to change her name for theirs; but always the wench hath kept roving eyes. handsome was he, prudence? and of gentle manners, said you? nay, i warrant me 'twas something far from the common that led judith such a dance." but prudence, when he was leaving, stole out after him; and when he was at the door, she put her hand on his arm. he turned, and saw that the tears were running down her face. "be kind to judith," she said--not heeding that he saw her tears, and still clinging to his arm; "be kind to judith, from my heart i beg it of you--i pray you be kind and gentle with her, good master blaise; for indeed she is like an own sister to me." chapter xxviii. renewals. as yet she was all unconscious; and indeed the dulness following her father's departure was for her considerably lightened by this visit to her grandmother's cottage, where she found a hundred duties and occupations awaiting her. she was an expert needle-woman, and there were many arrears in that direction to be made up: she managed the cooking, and introduced one or two cunning dishes, to the wonder of the little cicely; she even tried her hand at carpentering, where a shelf, or the frame of a casement, had got loose; and as a reward she was occasionally invited to assist her grandmother in the garden. the old dame herself grew wonderfully amiable and cheerful in the constant association with this bright young life; and she had a great store of ballads with which to beguile the tedium of sewing--though, in truth, these were for the most part of a monotonous and mournful character, generally reciting the woes of some poor maiden in oxfordshire or lincolnshire who had been deceived by a false lover, and yet was willing to forgive him even as she lay on her death-bed. as for judith, she took to this quiet life quite naturally and happily; and if she chanced to have time for a stroll along the wooded lanes or through the meadows, she was now right glad that there was no longer any fear of her being confronted by master leofric hope--or jack orridge, as he had called himself. of course she thought of him often, and of his courteous manners, and his eloquent and yet modest eyes, and she hoped all was going well with him, and that she might perchance hear of him through her father. nor could she forget (for she was but human) that the young man, when disguised as a wizard, had said that he had heard her named as the fairest maid in warwickshire; and subsequently, in his natural character, that he had heard ben jonson speak well of her looks, and she hoped that if ever he recalled these brief interviews, he would consider that she had maintained a sufficiency of maidenly dignity, and had not betrayed the ignorance or awkwardness of a farm-bred wench. nay, there were certain words of his that she put some store by--as coming from a stranger. for the rest, she was in no case likely to undervalue her appearance: her father had praised her hair, and that was enough. one morning she had gone down to the little front gate, for some mischievous boys had lifted it off its hinges, and she wanted to get it back again on the rusty iron spikes. but it had got jammed somehow, and would not move; and in her pulling, some splinter of the wood ran into her hand, causing not a little pain. just at this moment--whether he had come round that way on the chance of catching a glimpse of her, it is hard to say--tom quiney came by; but on the other side of the road, and clearly with no intention of calling at the cottage. "good-morrow, judith," said he, in a kind of uncertain way, and would have gone on. well, she was vexed and impatient with her fruitless efforts, and her hand smarted not a little; so she looked at him and said, half angrily, "i wish you would come and lift this gate." it was but a trifling task for the tall and straight-limbed young fellow who now strode across the highway. he jerked it up in a second, and then set it down again on the iron spikes, where it swung in its wonted way. "but your hand is bleeding, judith!" he exclaimed. "'tis nothing," she said. "it was a splinter. i have pulled it out." but he snatched her hand peremptorily, before she could draw it away, and held it firmly and examined it. "why, there's a bit still there; i can see it." "i can get it out for myself," said she. "no, you cannot," he answered. "'tis far easier for some one else. stay here a second, and i will fetch out a needle." he went into the cottage, and presently reappeared, not only with a needle, but also a tin vessel holding water, and a bit of linen and a piece of thread. then he took judith's soft hand as gently as he could in his muscular fingers, and began to probe for the small fragment of wood, just visible there. he seemed a long time about it; perhaps he was afraid of giving her pain. "do i hurt you, judith?" he said. "no," she answered, with some color of embarrassment in her face. "be quick." "but i must be cautious," said he. "i would it were my own hand; i would make short work of it." "let me try myself," said she, attempting to get away her hand from his grasp. but he would not allow that; and in due time he managed to get the splinter out. then he dipped his fingers in the water and bathed the small wound in that way; and then he must needs wrap the piece of linen round her hand--very carefully, so that there should be no crease--and thereafter fasten the bandage with the bit of thread. he did not look like one who could perform a surgical operation with exceeding delicacy; but he was as gentle as he could be, and she thanked him--in an unwilling kind of way. then all at once her face brightened. "why," said she, "i hear that you gave my father a riding-whip on his going." "did you not see it, judith?" he said, with some disappointment. "i meant you to have seen it. the handle was of ivory, and of a rare carving." "i was not at the door when they went away--i met my father as they passed along the road," said she. "but i shall see it, doubtless, when he comes home again. and what said he? was he pleased? he thanked you right heartily, did he not?" "yes, truly; but 'twas a trifling matter." "my father thinks more of the intention than of the value of such a gift," said she--"as i would." it was an innocent and careless speech, but it seemed to suddenly inspire him with a kind of wild wish. "ah," said he, regarding her, "if you, judith, now, would but take some little gift from me--no matter what--that would be a day i should remember all my life." "will you not come into the house?" said she, quickly. "my grandam will be right glad to see you." she would have led the way; but he hesitated. "nay, i will not trouble your grandmother, judith," said he. "i doubt not but that she hath had enough of visitors since you came to stay with her." "since i came?" she said, good-naturedly--for she refused to accept the innuendo. "why, let me consider, now. the day before yesterday my mother walked over to see how we did; and before that--i think the day before that--mistress wyse came in to tell us that they had taken a witch at abbots morton; and then yesterday farmer bowstead called to ask if his strayed horse had been seen anywhere about these lanes. there, now, three visitors since i have come to the cottage: 'tis not a multitude." "there hath been none other?" said he, looking at her with some surprise. "not another foot hath crossed the threshold to my knowledge," said she, simply, and as if it were a matter of small concern. but this intelligence seemed to produce a very sudden and marked alteration in his manner. not only would he accompany her into the house, but he immediately became most solicitous about her hand. "i pray you be careful, judith," said he, almost as if he would again take hold of her wrist. "'tis but a scratch," she said. "nay, now, if there be but a touch of rust, it might work mischief," said he, anxiously. "i pray you be careful; and i would bathe it frequently, and keep on the bandage until you are sure that all is well. nay, i tell you this, judith: there are more than you think of that would liefer lose a finger than that you should have the smallest hurt." and in-doors, moreover, he was most amiable and gentle and anxious to please, and bore some rather sharp sayings of the old dame with great good-nature; and whatever judith said, or suggested, or approved of, that was right, once and for all. she wished to hear more of the riding-whip also. where was the handle carved? had her father expressed any desire for such ornamentation? "truly 'twas but a small return for his kindness to us the other day," said the young man, who was half bewildered with delight at finding judith's eyes once more regarding him in the old frank and friendly fashion, and was desperately anxious that they should continue so to regard him (with no chilling shadow of the parson intervening). "for cornelius greene being minded to make one or two more catches," he continued--and still addressing those eyes that were at once so gentle and so clear and so kind--"he would have me go to your father and beg him to give us words for these, out of any books he might know of. not that we thought of asking him to write the words himself--far from that--but to choose them for us; and right willingly he did so. in truth, i have them with me," he added, searching for and producing a paper with some written lines on it. "shall i read them to you, judith?" he did not notice the slight touch of indifference with which she assented; for when once she had heard that these compositions (whatever they might be) were not her father's writing, she was not anxious to become acquainted with them. but his concern, on the other hand, was to keep her interested and amused and friendly; and cornelius greene and his doings were at least something to talk about. "the first one we think of calling 'fortune's wheel,'" said he; "and thus it goes: 'trust not too much, if prosperous times do smile, nor yet despair of rising, if thou fall: the fatal lady mingleth one with th' other, and lets not fortune stay, but round turns all.' and the other one--i know not how to call it yet--but cornelius takes it to be the better of the two for his purpose; thus it is: 'merrily sang the ely monks when rowed thereby canute the king. "row near, my knights, row near the land, that we may hear the good monks sing."' see you now how well it will go, judith--_merrily sang--merrily sang--the ely monks--the ely monks--when rowed thereby_--canute the king!" said he, in a manner suggesting the air. "'twill go excellent well for four voices, and cornelius is already begun. in truth, 'twill be something new at our merry-meetings----" "ay, and what have you to say of your business, good master quiney?" the old dame interrupted, sharply. "be you so busy with your tavern catches and your merry-makings that you have no thought of that?" "indeed, i have enough regard for that, good mistress hathaway," said he, in perfect good-humor; "and it goes forward safely enough. but methinks you remind me that i have tarried here as long as i ought; so now i will get me back to the town." he half expected that judith would go to the door with him; and when she had gone so far, he said, "will you not come a brief way across the meadows, judith?--'tis not well you should always be shut up in the cottage--you that are so fond of out-of-doors." he had no cause for believing that she was too much within-doors; but she did not stay to raise the question; she good-naturedly went down the little garden path with him, and across the road, and so into the fields. she had been busy at work all the morning; twenty minutes' idleness would do no harm. then, when they were quite by themselves, he said seriously: "i pray you take heed, judith, that you let not the blood flow too much to your hand, lest it inflame the wound, however slight you may deem it. see, now, if you would but hold it so, 'twould rest on mine, and be a relief to you." he did not ask her to take his arm, but merely that she should rest her hand on his; and this seemed easy to do, and natural (so long as he was not tired). but also it seemed very much like the time when they used to go through those very meadows as boy and girl together, the tips of their fingers intertwined: and so she spoke in a gentle and friendly kind of fashion to him. "and how is it with your business, in good sooth?" she asked. "i hope there be no more of these junketings, and dancings, and brawls." "dear judith," said he, "i know not who carries such tales of me to you. if you knew but the truth, i am never in a brawl of mine own making or seeking; but one must hold one's own, and the more that is done, the less are any likely to interfere. nay," he continued, with a modest laugh, "i think i am safe for quiet now with any in warwickshire; 'tis only a strange lad now and again that may come among us and seek cause of quarrel; and surely 'tis better to have it over and done with, and either he or we to know our place? i seek no fighting for the love of it; my life on that; but you would not have any stranger come into stratford a-swaggering, and biting his thumb at us, and calling us rogues of fiddlers?" "mercy on us, then," she cried, "are you champion for the town--or perchance for all of warwickshire? a goodly life to look forward to! and what give they their watch-dog? truly they must reward him that keeps such guard, and will do battle for them all?" "nay, i am none such, judith," said he; "i but take my chance like the others." he shifted her hand on his, that it might rest the more securely, and his touch was gentle. "and your merchandise--pray you, who is so kind as to look after that when you are engaged in those pastimes?" she asked. "i have no fault to find with my merchandise, judith," said he. "that i look after myself. i would i had more inducement to attend to it, and to provide for the future. but it goes well; indeed it does." "and daniel hutt?" "he has left the country now." "and his vagabond crew--have they all made their fortunes?" "why, judith, they cannot have reached america yet," said he. "i am glad that you have not gone," she remarked, simply. "well," he said, "why should i strive to push my fortunes there more than here? to what end? there be none that i could serve either way." and then it seemed to him that it was an ungracious speech; and he was anxious to stand well with her, seeing that she was disposed to be friendly. "judith," he said, suddenly, "surely you will not remain over at shottery to-morrow, with all the merriment of the fair going on in the town? nay, but you must come over--i could fetch you, at any hour that you named, if it so pleased you. there is a famous juggler come into the town, as i hear, that can do the most rare and wonderful tricks, and hath a dog as cunning as himself; and you will hear the new ballads, to judge which you would have; and the peddlers would show you their stores. now, in good sooth, judith, may not i come for you? why, all the others have someone to go about with them; and she will choose this or that posy or ribbon, and wear it for the jest of the day; but i have no one to walk through the crowd with me, and see the people, and hear the bargainings and the music. i pray you, judith, let me come for you. it cannot be well for you always to live in such dulness as is over there at shottery." "if i were to go to the fair with you," said she, and not unkindly, "methinks the people would stare, would they not? we have not been such intimate friends of late." "you asked me not to go to america, judith," said he. "well, yes," she admitted. "truly i did so. why should you go away with those desperate and broken men? surely 'tis better you should stay among your own people." "i stayed because you bade me, judith," said he. she flushed somewhat at this; but he was so eager not to embarrass or offend her that he instantly changed the subject. "may i, then, judith? if you would come but for an hour!" he pleaded, for he clearly wanted to show to everybody that judith was under his escort at the fair; and which of all the maidens (he asked himself) would compare beside her? "why, there is not one of them but hath his companion, to buy for her some brooch, or pretty coif, or the like----" "are they all so anxious to lighten their purses?" said she, laughing. "nay, but truly i may not leave my grandmother, lest the good dame should think that i was wearying of my stay with her. pray you, get some other to go to the fair with you--you have many friends, as i know, in the town----" "oh, do you think 'tis the fair i care about?" said he, quickly. "nay, now, judith, i would as lief not go to the fair at all--or but for a few minutes--if you will let me bring you over some trinket in the afternoon. nay, a hundred times would i rather not go--if you would grant me such a favor; 'tis the first i have asked of you for many a day." "why," she said, with a smile, "you must all of you be prospering in stratford, since you are all so eager to cast abroad your money. the peddlers will do a rare trade to-morrow, as i reckon." this was almost a tacit permission, and he was no such fool as to press her for more. already his mind ran riot--he saw himself ransacking all the packs and stalls in the town. "and now," she said, as she had come within sight of the houses, "i will return now or the good dame will wonder." "but i will walk back with you, judith," said he, promptly. she regarded him, with those pretty eyes of hers clearly laughing. "methought you came away from the cottage," said she, "because of the claims of your business; and now you would walk all the way back again?" "your hand, judith," said he, shamefacedly, "you must not let it hang down by your side." "nay, for such a dangerous wound," said she, with her eyes gravely regarding him, "i will take precautions; but cannot i hold it up myself--so--if need were?" he was so well satisfied with what he had gained that he would yield to her now as she wished. and yet he took her hand once more, gently and timidly, as if unwilling to give up his charge of it. "i hope it will not pain you, judith," he said. "i trust it may not lead me to death's door," she answered, seriously; and if her eyes were laughing, it was with no unkindness. and then they said good-bye to each other, and she walked away back to shottery, well content to have made friends with him again, and to have found him for the time being quit of his dark suspicions and jealousies of her; while as for him, he went on to the town in a sort of foreknowledge that all stratford fair would not have anything worthy to be offered to judith; and wondering whether he could not elsewhere, and at once, and by any desperate effort, procure something fine and rare and beautiful enough to be placed in that poor wounded hand. chapter xxix. "the rose is from my garden gone." now when parson blaise set forth upon the mission that had been intrusted to him, there was not a trace of anger or indignation in his mind. he was not even moved by jealous wrath against the person with whom judith had been holding these clandestine communications, nor had he any sense of having been himself injured by her conduct. for one thing, he knew enough of judith's pride and self-reliance to be fairly well satisfied that she was not likely to have compromised herself in any serious way; and for another, his own choice of her, from among the stratford maidens, as the one he wished to secure for helpmate, was the result not so much of any overmastering passion as of a cool and discriminating judgment. nay, this very complication that had arisen, might he not use it to his own advantage? might it not prove an argument more powerful than any he had hitherto tried? and so it was that he set out, not as one armed to punish, but with the most placable intentions; and the better to give the subject full consideration, he did not go straight across the meadows to the cottage, but went through the town, and away out the alcester road, before turning round and making for shottery. nor did it occur to him that he was approaching this matter with any mean or selfish ends in view. far from that. the man was quite honest. in winning judith over to be his wife, by any means whatever, was he not adding one more to the number of the lord's people? was he not saving her from her own undisciplined and wayward impulses, and from all the mischief that might arise from these? what was for his good was for her good, and the good of the church also. she had a winning way; she was friends with many who rather kept aloof from the more austere of their neighbors; she would be a useful go-between. her cheerfulness, her good temper, nay, her comely presence and bright ways--all these would be profitably employed. nor did he forget the probability of a handsome marriage-portion, and the added domestic comfort and serenity that that would bring himself. even the marriage-portion (which he had no doubt would be a substantial one) might be regarded as coming into the church in a way; and so all would work together for good. when he reached the cottage he found the old dame in the garden, busy with her flowers and vegetables, and was told that judith had just gone within-doors. indeed, she had but that minute come back from her stroll across the fields with quiney, and had gone in to fetch a jug, so that she might have some fresh water from the well in the garden. he met her on the threshold. "i would say a few words with you, judith--and in private," said he. she seemed surprised, but was in no ill-humor, so she said, "as you will, good sir," and led the way into the main apartment, where she remained standing. "i pray you be seated," said he. she was still more surprised; but she obeyed him, taking her seat under the window, so that her face was in shadow, while the light from the small panes fell full on him sitting opposite her. "judith," said he, "i am come upon a serious errand, and yet would not alarm you unnecessarily. nay, i think that when all is done, good may spring out of the present troubles----" "what is it?" she said quickly. "is any one ill? my mother----" "no, judith," he said; "'tis no trial of that kind you are called to face. the lord hath been merciful to you and yours these several years; while others have borne the heavy hand of affliction and lost their dearest at untimeous seasons, you have been spared for many years now, all but such trials as come in the natural course: would i could see you as thankful as you ought to be to the giver of all good. and yet i know not but that grief over such afflictions is easier to bear than grief over the consequences of our own wrong-doing; memory preserves this last the longer; sorrow is not so enduring, nor cuts so deep, as remorse. and then to think that others have been made to suffer through our evil-doing--that is an added sting; when those who have expected naught but filial obedience and duty--and the confidence that should exist between children and their parents----" but this phrase about filial obedience had struck her with a sudden fear. "i pray you, what is it, sir? what have i done?" she said, almost in a cry. then he saw that he had gone too fast and too far. "nay, judith," he said, "be not over-alarmed. 'tis perchance but carelessness, and a disposition to trust yourself in all circumstances to your own guidance that have to be laid to your charge. i hope it may be so; i hope matters may be no worse; 'tis for yourself to say. i come from your mother and sister, judith," he continued, in measured tones. "i may tell you at once that they have learned of your having been in secret communication with a stranger who has been in these parts, and they would know the truth. i will not seek to judge you beforehand, nor point out to you what perils and mischances must ever befall you, so long as you are bent on going your own way, without government or counsel; that you must now perceive for yourself--and i trust the lesson will not be brought home to you too grievously." "is that all?" judith had said quickly to herself, and with much relief. "good sir," she said to him, coolly, "i hope my good mother and susan are in no bewilderment of terror. 'tis true, indeed, that there was one in this neighborhood whom i met and spoke with on several occasions; if there was secrecy, 'twas because the poor young gentleman was in hiding; he dared not even present the letter that he brought commending him to my father. nay, good master blaise, i pray you comfort my mother and sister, and assure them there was no harm thought of by the poor young man." "i know not that, judith," said he, with his clear, observant eyes trying to read her face in the dusk. "but your mother and sister would fain know what manner of man he was, and what you know of him, and how he came to be here." then the fancy flashed across her mind that this intervention of his was but the prompting of his own jealousy, and that he was acting as the spokesman of her mother and sister chiefly to get information for himself. "why, sir," said she, lightly, "i think you might as well ask these questions of my grandmother, that knoweth about as much as i do concerning the young man, and was as sorry as i for his ill fortunes." "i pray you take not this matter so heedlessly, judith," he said, with some coldness. "'tis of greater moment than you think. no idle curiosity has brought me hither to-day; nay, it is with the authority of your family that i put these questions to you, and i am charged to ask you to answer them with all of such knowledge as you may have." "well, well," said she, good-naturedly; "his name----" she was about to say that his name was leofric hope, but she checked herself, and some color rose to her face--though he could not see that. "his name, good sir, as i believe, is john orridge," she continued, but with no embarrassment; indeed she did not think that she had anything very serious either to conceal or to confess; "and i fear me the young man is grievously in debt, or otherwise forced to keep away from those that would imprison him; and being come to warwickshire he brought a letter to my father, but was afraid to present it. he hath been to the cottage here certain times, for my grandmother, as well as i, was pleased to hear of the doings in london; and right civil he was, and well-mannered; and 'twas news to us to hear about the theatres, and my father's way of living there. but why should my mother and susan seek to know aught of him? surely prudence hath not betrayed the trust i put in her--for indeed the young man was anxious that his being in the neighborhood should not be known to any in stratford. however, as he is now gone away, and that some weeks ago, 'tis of little moment, as i reckon; and if ever he cometh back here, i doubt not but that he will present himself at new place, that they may judge of him as they please. that he can speak for himself, and to advantage and goodly showing, i know right well." "and that is all you can say of this man, judith," said he, with some severity in his tone--"with this man that you have been thus familiar with?" "marry is it!" she said, lightly. "but i have had guesses, no doubt; for first i thought him a gentleman of the court, he being apparently acquainted with all the doings there; and then methought he was nearer to the theatres, from his knowledge of the players. but you would not have had me ask the young man as to his occupation and standing, good sir? 'twould have been unseemly in a stranger, would it not? could i dare venture on questions, he being all unknown to any of us?" and now a suspicion flashed upon him that she was merely befooling him, so he came at once and sharply to the point. "judith," said he, endeavoring to pierce with his keen eyes the dusk that enshrouded her, "you have not told me all. how came he to have a play of your father's in his possession?" "now," said she, with a quick anger, "that is ill done of prudence! no one but prudence knew; and for so harmless a secret--and that all over and gone, moreover--and the young man himself away, i know not where--nay, by my life! i had not thought that prudence would serve me so. and to what end? why, good sir, i myself lent the young man the sheets of my father's writing--they were the sheets that were thrown aside--and i got each and all of them safely back, and replaced them. prudence knew what led me to lend him my father's play; and where was the harm of it? i thought not that she would go and make trouble out of so small a thing." by this time the good parson had come to see pretty clearly how matters stood--what with prudence's explanations and judith's present confessions; and he made no doubt that this stranger--whether from idleness, or for amusement, or with some more sinister purpose, he had no means of knowing--had copied the play when he had taken the sheets home with him to the farm; while as to the appearance in london of the copy so taken, it was sufficiently obvious that judith was in complete ignorance, and could afford no information whatever. so that now the first part of his mission was accomplished. he asked her a few more questions, and easily discovered that she knew nothing whatever about the young man's position in life, or whether he had gone straight from the farm to london, or whether he was in london now. as to his being in possession, or having been in possession, of a copy of her father's play, it was abundantly evident that she had never dreamed of any such thing. and now he came to the more personal part of his mission, that was for him much more serious. "judith," said he, "'tis not like you should know what sad and grievous consequences may spring from errors apparently small. how should you? you will take no heed or caution. the advice of those who would be nearest and dearest to you is of no account with you. you will go your own way--as if one of your years and experience could know the pitfalls that lie in a young maiden's path. the whole of life is but a jest to you--a tale without meaning--something to pass the hour withal. and think you that such blindness and wilfulness bring no penalty? nay, sooner or later the hour strikes; you look back and see what you have done--and the offers of safe guidance that you have neglected or thrust aside." "i pray you, sir, what is it now?" she said, indifferently (and with a distinct wish that he would go away and release her, and let her get out into the light again). "methought i had filled up the measure of my iniquities." "thus it is--thus it will be always," said he, with a kind of hopelessness, "so long as you harden your heart and have no thought but for the vanities of the moment." and then he addressed her more pointedly. "but even now methinks i can tell you what will startle you out of your moral sloth, which is an offence in the eyes of the lord, as it is a cause for pity and almost despair to all who know you. it was a light matter, you think, that you should hold this secret commerce with a stranger; careless of the respect due to your father's house; careless of the opinion and the anxious wishes of your friends; careless, even, of your good name----" "my good name?" said she, quickly and sharply. "i pray you, sir, have heed what you say." "have heed to what i have to tell you, judith," said he, sternly. "ay, and take warning by it. think you that i have pleasure in being the bearer of evil tidings?" "but what now, sir? what now? heaven's mercy on us, let us get to the end of the dreadful deeds i have done!" she exclaimed, with some anger and impatience. "i would spare you, but may not," said he, calmly. "and, now, what if i were to tell you that this young man whom you encouraged into secret conversation--whose manners seemed to have had so much charm for you--was a rascal, thief, and villain? how would your pride bear it if i told you that he had cozened you with some foolish semblance of a wizard?" "good sir, i know it," she retorted. "he himself told me as much." "perchance. perchance 'twas part of his courteous manners to tell you as much!" was the scornful rejoinder. "but he did not tell you all--he did not tell you that he had copied out every one of those sheets of your father's writing; that he was about to carry that stolen copy to london, like the knave and thief that he was; that he was to offer it for money to the booksellers. he did not tell you that soon your father and his associates in the theatre would be astounded by learning that a copy of the new play had been obtained, in some dark fashion, and sold; that it was out of their power to recover it; that their interests would be seriously affected by this vile conspiracy; or that they would by and by discover that this purloined play, which was like to cause them so much grievous loss and vexation of mind, had been obtained here--in this very neighborhood--and by the aid of no other than your father's daughter." "who--told--you--this?" she asked in a strange, stunned way: her eyes were terror-stricken, her hands all trembling. "a good authority," said he--"your father. a letter is but now come from london." she uttered a low, shuddering cry; it was a moan almost. "see you now," said he (for he knew that all her bravery was struck down, and she entirely at his mercy), "what must ever come of your wilfulness and your scorn of those who would aid and guide you? loving counsel and protection are offered you--the natural shield of a woman; but you must needs go your own way alone. and to what ends? think you that this is all? not so. for the woman who makes to herself her own rule of conduct must be prepared for calumnious tongues. and bethink you what your father must have thought of you--the only daughter of his household now--when he learned the story of this young man coming into warwickshire, and befooling you with his wizard's tricks, and meeting you secretly, and cozening you of the sheets of your father's play. these deeds that are done in the dark soon reach to daylight; and can you wonder, when your father found your name abroad in london--the heroine of a common jest--a byword--that his vexation and anger should overmaster him? what marvel that he should forthwith send to stratford, demanding to know what further could be learned of the matter--perchance fondly trusting, who knows, to find that rumor had lied? but there is no such hope for him--nor for you. what must your mother say in reply? what excuse can she offer? or how make reparation to those associates of your father who suffer with him? and how get back your good name, that is being bandied about the town as the heroine of a foolish jest? your father may regain possession of his property--i know not whether that be possible or no--but can he withdraw the name of his daughter from the ribald wit of the taverns? and i know which he valueth the more highly, if his own daughter know it not." he had struck hard; he knew not how hard. "my father wrote thus?" she said; and her head was bent, and her hands covering her face. "i read the letter no more than an hour ago," said he. "your mother and sister would have me come over to see whether such a story could be true; but prudence had already admitted as much----" "and my father is angered?" she said, in that low, strange voice. "can you wonder at it?" he said. again there came an almost inarticulate moan, like that of an animal stricken to death. as for him, he had now the opportunity of pouring forth the discourse to her that he had in a measure prepared as he came along the highway. he knew right well that she would be sorely wounded by this terrible disclosure; that the proud spirit would be in the dust; that she would be in a very bewilderment of grief. and he thought that now she might consent to gentle leading, and would trust herself to the only one (himself, to wit) capable of guiding her through her sorrows; and he had many texts and illustrations apposite. she heard not one word. she was as motionless as one dead; and the vision that rose before her burning brain was the face of her father as she had seen it for a moment in the garden, on the morning of his departure. that terrible swift look of anger toward old matthew she had never forgotten--the sudden lowering of the brows, the flash in the eyes, the strange contraction of the mouth; and that was what she saw now--that was how he was regarding her--and that, she knew, would be the look that would meet her always and always as she lay and thought of him in the long, wakeful nights. she could not go to him. london was far away. she could not go to him and throw herself at his feet, and beg and pray with outstretched and trembling hands for but one word of pity. the good parson had struck hard. and yet in a kind of way he was trying to administer consolation--at all events, counsel. he was enlarging on the efficacy of prayer. and he said that if the canaanitish woman of old had power to intercede for her daughter, and win succor for her, surely that would not be denied to such an one as judith's mother, if she sought, for her daughter, strength and fortitude in trouble where alone these could be found. "the canaanitish woman," said he, "had but the one saving grace, but that an all-powerful one, of faith; and even when the disciples would have her sent away, she followed worshipping, and saying 'lord, help me.' and the lord himself answered and said, 'it is not good to take the children's bread, and to cast it to whelps.' but she said, 'truth, lord; yet indeed the whelps eat of the crumbs which fall from their master's table.' then our lord answered, and said, 'o woman, great is thy faith; be it to thee as thou desirest.' and her daughter was made whole at that hour." judith started up; she had not heard a single word. "i pray you, pardon me, good sir," she said, for she was in a half-frantic state of misery and despair; "my--my grandmother will speak with you--i--i pray you pardon me----" she got up into her own little chamber--she scarce knew how. she sat down on the bed. there were no tears in her eyes, but there was a terrible weight on her chest that seemed to stifle her; and she was breathless, and could not think aright, and her trembling hands were clinched. sometimes she wildly thought she wanted prudence to come to her; and then a kind of shudder possessed her--and a wish to go away--she cared not where--and be seen no more. that crushing weight increased, choking her; she could not rest; she rose, and went quickly down the stair, and through the garden into the road. "judith, wench!" called her grandmother, who was talking to the parson. she took no heed. she went blindly on; and all these familiar things seemed so different now. how could the children laugh so? she got into the bidford road; she did not turn her eyes toward any whom she met, to see whether she knew them or no--there was enough within her own brain for her to think of. she made her way to the summit of bardon hill, and there she looked over the wide landscape; but it was toward london that she looked, and with a strange and trembling fear. and then she seemed anxious to hide away from being seen, and went down by hedge-rows and field-paths, and at last she was by the river. she regarded it, flowing so stealthily by, in the sad and monotonous silence. here was an easy means of slipping away from all this dread thing that seemed to surround her and overwhelm her--to glide away as noiselessly and peacefully as the river itself to any unknown shore, she cared not what. and then she sat down, still looking vaguely and absently at the water, and began to think of all that had happened to her on the banks of this stream; and she looked at these visionary pictures and at herself in them as if they were apart and separated from her, and she never to be like that again. was it possible that she ever could have been so careless and so happy, with no weight at all resting on her heart, but singing out of mere thoughtlessness, and teaching willie hart the figures of dances, herself laughing the while? it seemed a long time ago now, and that he was cut off from her too, and all of them, and that there was to be no expiation for evermore for this that she had done. how long she sat there she knew not. everything was a blank to her but this crushing consciousness that what had happened could never be recalled; that her father and she were forever separated now--and his face regarding her with the terrible look she had seen in the garden; that all the happy past was cut away from her, and she an outcast, and a byword, and a disgrace to all that knew her. and then she thought, in the very weariness of her misery, that if she could only walk away anywhere--anywhere alone, so that no one should meet her or question her--until she was broken and exhausted with fatigue, she would then go back to her own small room, and lie down on the bed, and try if sleep would procure some brief spell of forgetfulness, some relief from her aching head and far heavier heart. but when she rose she found that she was trembling from weakness, and a kind of shiver as of cold went through her, though the autumn day was warm enough. she walked slowly, and almost dragged herself, all the way home. her hand shook so that she could scarce undo the latch of the gate. she heard her grandmother in the inner apartment, but she managed to creep noiselessly up-stairs into her own little chamber, and there she sank down on the bed, and lay in a kind of stupor, pressing her hands on her throbbing brow. it was some two hours afterward that her grandmother, who did not know that judith had returned, was walking along the little passage, and was startled by hearing a low moaning above--a kind of dull cry of pain--so slight that she had to listen again ere she could be sure that it was not mere fancy. instantly she went up the few wooden steps and opened the door. judith was lying on the bed, with all her things on, just as she had seen her go forth. and then--perhaps the noise of the opening of the door had wakened her--she started up, and looked at her grandmother in a wild and dazed kind of way, as if she had just shaken off some terrible dream. "oh, grandmother," she said, springing to her, and clinging to her like a child, "it is not true--it is not true--it cannot be true!" but then she fell to crying--crying as if her heart would break. the whole weight of her misery came back upon her, and the hopelessness of it, and her despair. "why, good lass," said her grandmother, smoothing the sun-brown hair that was buried in her bosom, and trying to calm the violence of the girl's sobbing, "thou must not take on so. thy father may be angered, 'tis true, but there will come brighter days for thee. nay, take not on so, good lass!" "oh, grandmother, you cannot understand!" she said, and her whole form was shaken with sobs. "you cannot understand. grandmother, grandmother, there was--there was but the one rose--in my garden--and that is gone now." chapter xxx. in time of need. late that night, in the apartment below, tom quiney was seated by the big fireplace, staring moodily into the chips and logs that had been lit there, the evenings having grown somewhat chill now. there was a little parcel lying unopened and unheeded on the table. he had not had patience to wait for the fair of the morrow; he had ridden all the way to warwick to purchase something worthy of judith's acceptance, and he had come over to the cottage in high hopes of her being still in that kindly mood that reminded him of other days. then came the good dame's story of what had befallen; and how that the parson had been over, bringing with him these terrible tidings; and how that since then judith would not hear of any one being sent for, and would take no food, but was now lying there, alone in the dark, moaning to herself at times. and the good dame--as this tall young fellow sat there listening to her, with his fists clinched, and the look on his face ever growing darker--went on to express her fear that the parson had been over-hard with her grandchild; that probably he could not understand how her father had been the very idol of her life-long worship; that the one thing she was ever thinking of was how to win his approval--to be rewarded by even a nod of encouragement. "nay, i liked not the manner of his speaking, when he wur come to me in the garden," the old dame continued. "i liked it not. he be sharp of tongue, the young pahrson, and there were too much to my mind of discipline, and chastening of proud spirits, and the like o' that. to my mind he have not years enough to be placed in such authority." "the church is behind him," said this young fellow, almost to himself, and his eyes were burning darkly as he spoke. "i may not put hand on him. the church is behind him. marry, 'tis a goodly shelter for men that be of the woman kind." then he looked up quickly, and his words were savage.--"what think you, good grandmother, were one to seize him by the neck and heel and break his back on the rail of clopton's bridge? were it not well done? by my life i think it were well done!" "nay, nay, now," said she, quickly, for she was somewhat alarmed, seeing his face set hard with passion and his eyes afire. "i would have no brawling. there be plenty of harm done already. perchance the good pahrson hath not spoken so harshly after all. in good sooth, now, none but her own people can understand how the wench hath ever looked up to her father--for a word or a nod commending her, as i say--and when she be told now that she hath wrought mischief, and caused herself to be talked about, and her father vexed, and all the rest of the tale, why 'tis like to drive her out of her mind. and now this be all her cry--that she may see no one of her people any more, she would bide with me here; 'grandmother, grandmother,' she saith, 'i will bide with you, if you will suffer me. i will show myself in stratford no more; they shall have no shame through me.' nay, but the wench be half out of her senses, as i think, and saith wild things--that she would go and sell herself to be a slave in the indies, could she restore the money to her father or bring him back this that he hath lost. 'tis a terrible plight for the poor wench; and always she saith, 'grandmother, grandmother, let me bide with you; i will never go back to new place; grandmother, i can work as well as any, and you will let me bide with you.' poor lass--poor lass!" "but how came the parson to interfere?" quiney said, hotly. "i'll be sworn judith's father did not write to him. how came he to be preaching his discipline and chastisement? how came he to be intrusted with the task of abusing her and crushing the too proud spirit? by heavens, now, there may be occasion erelong to tame some one's proud spirit, but not the spirit of a defenceless young maid--marry, that is work fit only for parsons. man to man is the better way--and it will come erelong." "nay, softly, softly, good master quiney," said the old dame in her gentlest tones. "would you mar all the good opinion that judith hath of you? why, to-day, now, just ere the parson came, i wur in the garden, putting things straight a bit, and as she came through she says to me, quite pleasant-like, i have just been across the fields, grandmother, with master quiney--or tom quiney, as she said, being friendly and pleasant-like--and i hear less now of his quarrelling and fighting among the young men; and his business goeth on well; and to-morrow, grandmother, he is going to buy me something at the fair." "said she all that?" he asked, quickly, and with a flush of color rushing to his face. "marry did she, and looked pleased; for 'tis a right friendly wench, and good-natured withal," the old dame said, glad to see that these words had for the moment scattered his wrath to the winds; and she went on for some little time talking to him in her garrulous easy fashion about judith's frank and honest qualities, and her goodhearted ways, and the pretty daintinesses of her coaxing when she was so inclined. it was a story he was not loath to listen to, and yet it seemed so strange; they were talking of her almost as of one passed away--as if the girl lying there in that darkened room, instead of torturing her brain with incessant and lightning-like visions of all the harm she had caused in london, were now far removed from all such troubles, and hushed in the calm of death. he went to the table and opened the box, and took out the little present he had brought for judith. it was a pair of lace cuffs, with a slender silver circle at the wrist, the lace going back from that in a succession of widening leaves. it was not only a pretty present, it was also (in proportion to his means) a costly one, as the old dame's sharp eyes instantly saw. "i think she would have been pleased with them," he said, absently. and then he said, "good grandmother, it were of no use to lay them near her in the morning--on a chair or at the window--that perchance she might look at them?" "nay, nay," the grandmother said, shaking her head, "'tis no child's trouble that hath befallen the poor wench, that she can be comforted with pretty trifles." "i meant not that," said he, flushing somewhat. "'tis that i would have her know that--that there were friends thinking of her all the same--those that would rather have her gladdened and tended and made much of, than--than--chidden with any chastisement." this word chastisement seemed to recall his anger. "i say that judith hath done no wrong at all," he said, as if he were confronting some one not there; "and that i will maintain; and let no man in my hearing say aught else. why, now, the story as you tell it, good grandmother--'tis as plain as daylight--a child can see it--all that she did was done to magnify her father and his writing; and if the villain sold the play--or let it slip out of his hands--was that her doing? doubtless it is a sore mischance; but i see not that judith is to be blamed for it; and right well i know that if her father were to hear how she is smitten down with grief he would be the first to say, 'good lass, there is no such harm done. a great harm would be your falling sick; get you up and out, seek your friends again, and be happy as you were before.' that is what he would say, i will take my oath of it; and if the parson and his chastisements were to come across him, by my life i would not seek to be in the parson's shoes!" "i must make another trial with the poor wench," said the good grandmother, rising, "that hath eaten nothing all the day. in truth her only crying is to be left alone now, and that hereafter i am to let her bide with me. it be a poor shelter, i think, for one used to live in a noble house; but there 'tis, so long as she wisheth it." "nay, but this cannot be suffered to go on, good mistress hathaway," said he, as he rose and got his cap; "for if judith take no food, and will see no one, and be alone with her trouble, of a surety she will fall ill. now to-morrow morning i will bring prudence over. if any can comfort her, prudence can; and that she will be right willing, i know. they have been as sisters." "that be well thought of, master quiney," said the grandmother, as she went to the door with him. "take care o' the ditch the other side of the way; it be main dark o' nights now." "good-night to you, good grandmother," said he, as he disappeared in the darkness. but it was neither back home nor yet to stratford town that tom quiney thought of going all that long night. he felt a kind of constraint upon him (and yet a constraint that kept his heart warm with a secret satisfaction) that he should play the part of a watch-dog, as it were--as if judith were sorely ill, or in danger, or in need of protection somehow; and he kept wandering about in the dark, never at any great radius from the cottage. his self-imposed task was the easier now that, as the black clouds overhead slowly moved before the soft westerly wind, gaps were opened, and here and there clusters of stars were visible, shedding a faint light down on the sombre roads and fields and hedges. many strange fancies occurred to him during that long and silent night, as to what he could do, or would like to do, for judith's sake. breaking the parson's neck was the first and most natural, and the most easily accomplished; but fleeing the country, which he knew must follow, did not seem so desirable a thing. he wanted to do something--he knew not what. he wished he had been less of a companion with the young men, and less careful to show, with them, that stratford town and the county of warwick could hold their own against all comers. if he had been more considerate and gentle with judith, perhaps she would not have sought the society of the parson. he knew he had not the art of winning her over, like the parson. he could not speak so plausibly. nor had he the authority of the church behind him. it was natural for women to think much of that, and to be glad of the shelter of authority. parsons themselves (he considered) were a kind of half women, being in women's secrets, and entitled to speak to them in ghostly confidence. but if judith, now, wanted some one to do something for her, no matter what, in his rough-and-ready way--well, he wondered what that could be that he would refuse. and so the dark hours went by. with the gray of the dawn he began to cast his eyes abroad, as if to see if any one were stirring, or approaching the cluster of cottages nestled down there among the trees. the daylight widened and spread up in the trembling east; the fields and the woods became clear; here and there a small tuft of blue smoke began to arise from a cottage chimney. and now he was on bardon hill, and could look abroad over the wide landscape lying between shottery and stratford town; and if any one--any one bringing lowering brows and further cruel speech to a poor maid already stricken down and defenceless--had been in sight, what then? watchfully and slowly he went down from the hill, and back to the meadows lying between the hamlet and stratford, there to interpose, as it were, and question all comers. and well it was, for the sake of peace and charity, that the good parson did not chance to be early abroad on this still morning; and well it was for the young man himself. there was no wise-eyed athene to descend from the clouds and bid this wrathful achilles calm his heart. he was only an english country youth, though sufficiently greek-like in form; and he was hungry and gray-faced with his vigil of the night, and not in a placable mood. nay, when a young man is possessed with the consciousness that he is the defender of some one behind him--some one who is weak and feminine and suffering--he is apt to prove a dangerous antagonist; and it was well for all concerned that he had no occasion to pick a quarrel on this morning in these quiet meadows. in truth he might have been more at rest had he known that the good parson was in no hurry to follow up his monitions of the previous day; he wished these to sink into her mind and take root there, so that thereafter might spring up such wholesome fruits as repentance and humility, and the desire of godly aid and counsel. by-and-by he slipped away home, plunged his head into cold water to banish the dreams of the night, and then, having swallowed a cup of milk to stay his hunger, he went along to chapel street, to see if he could have speech of prudence. he found that not only were all of the household up and doing, but that prudence herself was ready to go out, being bent on one of her charitable errands; and it needed but a word to alter the direction of her kindness: of course she would at once go to see judith. "truly i had fears of it," said she, as they went through the fields, the pale, calm face having grown more and more anxious as she listened to all that he had to tell her. "her father was as the light of the world to her. with the others of us she hath ever been headstrong in a measure, and careless--and yet so lovable withal, and merry, that i for one could never withstand her--nay, i confess i tried not to withstand her, for never knew i of any wilfulness of hers springing from anything but good-nature and her kind and generous ways. but that she was ever ready to brave our opinions i know, and perchance make light of our anxieties, we not having her courage; and in all things she seemed to be a guide unto herself, and to walk sure and have no fear. in all things but one. indeed 'tis true what her grandmother told you, and who should know better than i, who was always with her? the slightest wish of her father's--that was law to her. a word of commending from him, and she was happy for days. and think what this must be now--she that was so proud of his approval--that scarce thought of aught else. nay, for myself i can see that they have told him all a wrong story in london, that know i well; and 'tis no wonder that he is vexed and angry; but judith--poor judith----" she could say no more just then; she turned aside her face somewhat. "do you know what she said to her grandmother, prudence, when she fell a crying? that there had been but the one rose in her garden, and that was gone now." "'tis what susan used to sing," said prudence, with rather trembling lips. "'_the rose is from my garden gone_,' 'twas called. ay, and hath she that on her mind now? truly i wish that her mother and susan had let me break this news to her; none know as well as i what it must be to her." and here tom quiney quickly asked her whether it was not clear to her that the parson had gone beyond his mission altogether--and that in a way that would have to be dealt with afterward, when all these things were amended? prudence, with some faint color in her pale face, defended master blaise to the best of her power, and said she knew he could not have been unduly harsh; nay, had she not herself, just as he was setting forth, besought him to be kind and considerate with judith? hereupon quiney rather brusquely asked what the good man could mean by phrases about discipline and chastenings and chastisements; to which prudence answered gently that these were but separate words, and that she was sure master blaise had fulfilled what he undertook in a merciful spirit, which was his nature. after that there was a kind of silence between these two; perhaps quiney considered that no good end could be served at present by stating his own ideas on that subject. the proper time would come, in due course. at length they reached the cottage. but here, to their amazement, and to the infinite distress of prudence, when judith's grandmother came down the wooden steps again, she shook her head, saying that the wench would see no one. "i thought as 'twould be so," she said. "but me, good grandmother! me!" prudence cried, with tears in her eyes. "surely she will not refuse to see me!" "no one, she saith," was the answer. "poor wench, her head do ache so bad. and when one would cheer her or comfort her a morsel, 'tis another fit of crying--that will wear her to skin and bone, if she do not pluck up better heart. she hath eaten naught this morning neither; 'tis for no wilfulness, poor lass, for she tried an hour ago; and now 'tis best as i think to leave her alone." "by your leave, good grandmother," said prudence, with some firmness, "that will i not. if judith be in such trouble, 'tis not likely that i should go away and leave her. it hath never been the custom between us two." "as you will, prudence," the grandmother said. "young hearts have their confidences among themselves. perchance you may be able to rouse her." prudence went up the stairs silently and opened the door. judith was lying on the bed, her face turned away from the light, her hands clasped over her forehead. "judith!" there was no answer. "judith," said her friend, going near, "i am come to see you." there was a kind of sob--that was all. "judith, is your head so bad? can i do nothing for you?" she put over her hand--the soft and cool and gentle touch of which had comforted many a sick-bed--and she was startled to find that both judith's hands and forehead were burning hot. "no, sweetheart," was the answer, in a low and broken voice, "you can do nothing for me now." "nay, nay, judith, take heart," prudence said, and she gently removed the hot fingers from the burning forehead, and put her own cooler hand there, as if to dull the throbbing of the pain. "sweetheart, be not so cast down! 'twill be all put right in good time." "never--never!" the girl said, without tears, but with an abject hopelessness of tone. "it can never be undone now. he said my name was become a mockery among my father's friends. for myself, i would not heed that--nay, they might say of me what they pleased--but that my father should hear of it--a mockery and scorn--and they think i cared so little for my father that i was ready to give away his papers to any one pretending to be a sweetheart and befooling me--and my father to know it all, and to hear such things said--no, that can never be undone now. i used to count the weeks and the days and the very hours when i knew he was coming back--that was the joy of my life to me--and now, if i were to know that he were coming near to stratford i should fly and hide somewhere--anywhere--in the river as lief as not. nay, i make no complaint. 'tis my own doing, and it cannot be undone now." "judith, judith, you break my heart!" her friend cried. "surely to all troubles there must come an end." "yes, yes," was the answer, in a low voice, and almost as if she were speaking to herself. "that is right. there will come an end. i would it were here now." all prudence's talking seemed to be of no avail. she reasoned and besought--oftentimes with tears in her eyes--but judith remained quite listless and hopeless; she seemed to be in a stunned and dazed condition after the long sleeplessness of the night; and prudence was afraid that further entreaties would only aggravate her headache. "i will go and get you something to eat now," said she. "your grandmother says you have had nothing since yesterday." "do not trouble; 'tis needless, sweetheart," judith said; and then she added with a brief shiver, "but if you could fetch a thick cloak, dear prudence, and throw it over me--surely the day is cold somewhat." a few minutes after (so swift and eager was everybody in the house) judith was warmly wrapped up; and by the side of the bed, on a chair, was some food the good grandmother had been keeping ready, and also a flask of wine that quiney had brought with him. "look you, judith," said prudence, "here is some wine that thomas quiney hath brought for you--'tis of a rare quality, he saith--and you must take a little. nay, you must and shall, sweetheart; and then perchance you may be able to eat." she sipped a little of the wine; it was but to show her gratitude and send him her thanks. she could not touch the food. she seemed mostly anxious for rest and quiet; and so prudence noiselessly left her and stole down the stair again. prudence was terribly perplexed and in a kind of despair almost. "i know not what to do," she said. "i would bring over her mother and susan, but that she begs and prays me not to do that--nay, she cannot see them she says. and there is no reasoning with her. it cannot be undone now--that is her constant cry. what to do i cannot tell; for surely, if she remain so, and take no comfort, she will fall ill." "ay, and if that be so who is to blame?" said quiney, who was walking up and down in considerable agitation. "i say that letter should never have been put into the parson's hands. was it meant to be conveyed to judith? i warrant me it was not! did her father say that he wished her chidden? did he ask any of you to bid the parson go to her with his upbraidings? would he himself have been so quick and eager to chasten her proud spirit? i tell you no. he is none of the parson kind. vexed he might have been, but he would have taken no vengeance. what--on his own child? by heavens, i'll be sworn now that if he were here, at this minute, he would take the girl by the hand, and laugh at her for being so afraid of his anger--ay, i warrant me he would--and would bid her be of good cheer, and brighten her face, that was ever the brightest in warwickshire, as i have heard him say. that would he--my life on it!" "ah," said prudence, wistfully, "if you could only persuade judith of that!" "persuade her?" said he. "why, i would stake my life that is what her father would do?" "you could not persuade her," said prudence, with a hopeless air. "no; she thinks it is all over now between her father and her. she is disgraced and put away from him. she hath done him such injury, she says, as even his enemies have never done. when he comes back again, she says, to stratford, she will be here, and she knows that he will never come near this house; and that will be better for her, she says, for she could never again meet him face to face." well, all that day judith lay there in that solitary room, desiring only to be left alone; taking no food; the racking pains in her head returning from time to time; and now and again she shivered slightly, as if from cold. tom quiney kept coming and going to hear news of her, or to consult with prudence as to how to rouse her from this hopelessness of grief; and as the day slowly passed, he grew more and more disturbed and anxious and restless. could nothing be done? could nothing be done? was his constant cry. he remained late that evening, and prudence stayed all night at the cottage. in the morning he was over again early, and more distressed than ever to hear that the girl was wearing herself out with this agony of remorse--crying stealthily when that she thought no one was near, and hiding herself away from the light, and refusing to be comforted. but during the long and silent watches he had been taking counsel with himself. "prudence," said he, regarding her with a curious look, "do you think now, if some assurance were come from her father himself--some actual message from him--a kindly message--some token that he was far indeed from casting her away from him--think you judith would be glad to have that?" "'twould be like giving her life back to her," said the girl, simply. "in truth i dread what may come of this; 'tis not in human nature to withstand such misery of mind. my poor judith, that was ever so careless and merry!" he hesitated for a second or two, and then he said, looking at her, and speaking in a cautious kind of way. "because, when next i have need to write to london, i might beg of some one--my brother dick, perchance, that is now in bucklersbury, and would have small trouble in doing such a service--i say i might beg of him to go and see judith's father, and tell him the true story, and show him that she was not so much to blame. nay, for my part i see not that she was to blame at all, but for over-kindness and confidence, and the wish to exalt her father. the mischief that hath been wrought is the doing of the scoundrel and villain on whose head i trust it may fall erelong; 'twas none of hers. and if her father were to have all that now put fairly and straight before him, think you he would not be right sorry to hear that she had taken his anger so much to heart, and was lying almost as one dead at the very thought of it? i tell you, now, if all this be put before him, and if he send her no comfortable message--ay, and that forthwith, and gladly--i have far misread him. and as for her, prudence--'twould be welcome, say you?" "'twould be of the value of all the world to her," prudence said, in her direct and earnest way. well, he almost immediately thereafter left (seeing that he could be of no further help to these women-folk), and walked quickly back to stratford, and to his house, which was also his place of business. he seemed to hurry through his affairs with speed; then he went up-stairs and looked out some clothing; he took down a pair of pistols and put some fresh powder in the pans, and made a few other preparations. next he went round to the stable, and the stout little galloway nag whinnied when she saw him at the door. "well, maggie, lass," said he, going into the stall, and patting her neck, and stroking down her knees, "what sayst thou? wouldst like a jaunt that would carry thee many a mile away from stratford town? nay, but if you knew the errand, i warrant me you would be as eager as i! what, then--a bargain, lass! by my life, you shall have many a long day's rest in clover when this sharp work is done!" chapter xxxi a lost arcadia. it was on this same morning that judith made a desperate effort to rouse herself from the prostration into which she had fallen. all through that long darkness and despair she had been wearily and vainly asking herself whether she could do nothing to retrieve the evil she had wrought. her good name might go--she cared little for that now--but was there no means of making up to her father the actual money he had lost? it was not forgiveness she thought of, but restitution. forgiveness was not to be dreamed of; she saw before her always that angered face she had beheld in the garden, and her wish was to hide away from that, and be seen of it no more. then there was another thing: if she were to be permitted to remain at the cottage, ought she not to show herself willing to take a share of the humblest domestic duties? might not the good dame begin to regard her as but a useless encumbrance? if it were so that no work her ten fingers could accomplish would ever restore to her father what he had lost through her folly, at least it might win her grandmother's forbearance and patience. and so it was on the first occasion of her head ceasing to ache quite so badly she struggled to her feet (though she was so languid and listless and weak that she could scarcely stand), and put round her the heavy cloak that had been lying on the bed, and smoothed her hair somewhat, and went to the door. there she stood for a minute or two, listening, for she would not go down if there were any strangers about. the house seemed perfectly still. there was not a sound anywhere. then, quite suddenly, she heard little cicely begin to sing to herself--but in snatches, as if she were occupied with other matters--some well-known rhymes to an equally familiar tune-- "by the moon we sport and play; with the night begins our day; as we drink the dew doth fall, trip it, dainty urchins all! lightly as the little bee, two by two, and three by three, and about go we, go we." --and she made no doubt that the little girl was alone in the kitchen. accordingly, she went down. cicely, who was seated near the window and busily engaged in plucking a fowl, uttered a slight cry when she entered, and started up. "dear mistress judith," she said, "can i do aught for you? will you sit down? dear, dear, how ill you do look!" "i am not at all ill, little cicely," said judith, as cheerfully as she could, and she sat down. "give me the fowl--i will do that for you, and you can go and help my grandmother in whatever she is at." "nay, not so," said the little maid, definitely refusing. "why should you?" "but i wish it," judith said. "do not vex me now--go and seek my grandmother, like a good little lass." the little maid was thus driven to go, but it was with another purpose. in about a couple of minutes she had returned, and preceding her was judith's grandmother. "what! art come down, wench?" the old dame said, patting her kindly on the shoulder. "that be so far well--ay, ay, i like that now--that be better for thee than lying all alone. but what would you with the little maid's work, that you would take it out of her hands?" "why, if i am idle, and do nothing, grandmother, you will be for turning me out of the house," the girl answered, looking up with a strange kind of smile. "turn thee out of the house," said her grandmother, who had just caught a better glimpse of the wan and tired face. "ay, that will i--and now. come thy ways, wench; 'tis time for thee to be in the fresh air. cicely, let be the fowl now. put some more wood on the fire, and hang on the pot--there's a clever lass. and thou, grandchild, come thy ways with me into the garden, and i warrant me when thou comest back a cupful of barley-broth will do thee no harm." judith obeyed, though she would fain have sat still. and then, when she reached the front door what a bewilderment of light and color met her eyes! she stood as one dazed for a second or two. the odors of the flowers and the shrubs were so strange, moreover--pungent and strange and full of memories. it seemed so long a time since she had seen this wonderful glowing world and breathed this keen air, that she paused on the stone flag to collect her senses as it were. and then a kind of faintness came over her, and perhaps she might have sank to the ground, but that she laid hold of her grandmother's arm. "ay, ay, come thy ways and sit thee down, dearie," the old dame said, imagining that the girl was but begging for a little assistance in her walking. "i be main glad to see thee out again. i liked not that lying there alone--nay, i wur feared of it, and i bade prudence send your mother and susan to see you----" "no, no, good grandmother, no, no!" judith pleaded, with all the effort that remained to her. "but yea, yea!" her grandmother said, sharply. "foolish wench, that would hide away from them that can best aid thee! ay, and knowest thou how the new disease, as they call it, shows itself at the beginning? why, with a pinching of the face and sharp pains in the head. wouldst thou have me let thee lie there, and perchance go from bad to worse, and not send for them--ay, and for susan's husband, if need were? nay, but let not that fright thee, good wench," she said, in a gentler way. "'tis none so bad as i thought, else you would not be venturing down the stairs--nay, nay, there be no harm done as yet, i warrant me--'tis a breath of fresh air to sharpen thee into a hungry fit that will be the best doctor for thee. here, sit thee down and rest now, and when the barley-broth be warm enough, cicely shall bring thee out a dish of it. nay, i see no harm done. keep up thy heart, lass; thou wert ever a brave one--ay, what was there ever that could daunt thee? and not the boldest of the youths but was afraid of thy laugh and thy merry tongue. heaven save us, that thou should take on so! and if you would sell yourself to work in slavery in the indies, think you they would buy a poor, weak, trembling creature? nay, nay, we will have to fetch back the roses to your cheeks ere you make for that bargain, i warrant me!" they were now seated in the little arbor. on entering judith had cast her eyes round it in a strange and half-frightened fashion; and now, as she sat there, she was scarcely listening to the good-natured garrulity of the old dame, which was wholly meant to cheer her spirits. "grandmother," said she, in a low voice, "think you 'twas really he that took away with him my father's play?" "i know not how else it could have been come by," said the grandmother, "but i pray you, child, heed not that for the present. what be done and gone cannot be helped--let it pass--there, there, now, what a lack of memory have i, that should have shown thee the pretty lace cuffs that thomas quiney left for thee--fit for a queen they be, to be sure--ay, and the fine lace of them, and the silver, too. he hath a free hand, he hath; 'tis a fair thing for any that will be in life-partnership with him; 'twill not away, marry 'twill not; 'twill bide in his nature--that will never out of the flesh that's bred in the bone, as they say; and i like to see a young man that be none of the miser kind, but ready forth with his money where 'tis to please them he hath a fancy for. a brave lad he is too, and one that will hold his own; and when i told him that you were pleased that his business went forward well, why, saith he, as quick as quick, 'said she that?' and if my old eyes fail me not, i know of one that setteth greater share by your good word than you imagine, wench." she but half heard; she was recalling all that had happened in this very summer-house. "and think you, grandmother," said she, slowly, and with absent eyes, "that when he was sitting here with us, and telling us all about the court doings, and about my father's friends in london, and when he was so grateful to us--or saying that he was so--for our receiving of him here, think you that all the time he was planning to steal my father's play, and to take it and sell it in london? grandmother can you think it possible? could any one be such a hypocrite? i know that he deceived me at the first, but 'twas only a jest, and he confessed it all, and professed his shame that he had so done. but, grandmother, think of him--think of how he used to speak--and ever so modest and gentle; is't possible that all the time he was playing the thief, and looking forward to the getting away to london to sell what he had stolen?" "for love's sake, sweetheart, heed that man no more! 'tis all done and gone--there can come no good of vexing thyself about it," her grandmother said. "be he villain or not, 'twill be well for all of us that we never hear his name more. in good sooth i am as much to blame as thou thyself, child, for the encouraging him to come about, and listening to his gossip--beshrew me, that i should have meddled in such matters, and not bade him go about his business! but 'tis all past and gone now, as i say--there be no profit in vexing thyself----" "past and gone, grandmother!" she exclaimed, and yet in a listless way. "yes--but what remains? good grandmother, perchance you did not hear all that the parson said. 'tis past and gone, truly--and more than you think." the tone in which she uttered these words somewhat startled the good dame, who looked at her anxiously. and then she said, "why, now, i warrant me the barley-broth will be hot enough by this time: i will go fetch thee a cupful, wench--'twill put warmth in thy veins, it will--ay, and cheer thy heart too." "trouble not, good grandmother," she said. "i would as lief go back to my room now. the light hurts my eyes strangely." "back to your room? that shall you not!" was the prompt answer, but not meant unkindly. "you shall wait here, wench, till i bring thee that will put some color in thy white face--ay, and some of thomas quiney's wine withal; and if the light hurt thee, sit farther back, then--of a truth 'tis no wonder, after thou hast hid thyself like a dormouse for so long." and so she went away to the house. but she was scarcely gone when judith--in this extreme silence that the rustling of a leaf would have disturbed--heard certain voices; and listening more intently she made sure that the new-comers must be susan and her mother, whom prudence had asked to walk over. instantly she got up, though she had to steady herself for a moment by resting her hand on the table; and then, as quickly as she could, and as noiselessly, she stole along the path to the cottage, and entered, and made her way up to her own room. she fancied she had not been heard. she would rather be alone. if they had come to accuse her, what had she to answer? why, nothing: they might say of her what they pleased now, it was all deserved; only, the one denunciation of her that she had listened to--the one she had heard from the parson--seemed like the ringing of her death-knell. surely there was no need to repeat that? they could not wish to repeat it, did they but know all it meant to her. then the door was quietly opened, and her sister appeared, bearing in one hand a small tray. "i have brought you some food, judith, and a little wine, and you must try and take them, sweetheart," said she. "'twas right good news to us that you had come down and gone into the garden for a space. in truth, making yourself ill will not mend matters; and prudence was in great alarm." she put the tray on a chair, for there was no table in the room--but judith, finding that her sister had not come to accuse her, but was in this gentle mood, said quickly and eagerly, "oh, susan, you can tell me all that i would so fain know! you must have heard, for my father speaks to you of all his affairs, and at your own wedding you must have heard when all these things were arranged. tell me, susan--i shall have a marriage-portion, shall i not?--and how much, think you? perchance not so large as yours, for you are the elder, and dr. hall was ever a favorite with my father. but i shall have a marriage-portion, susan, shall i not? nay, it may already be set aside for me." and then the elder sister did glance somewhat reproachfully at her. "i wonder you should be thinking of such things, judith," said she. "ah, but 'tis not as you imagine," the girl said, with the same pathetic eagerness. "tis in this wise now: would my father take it in a measure to repay him for the ill that i have done? would it make up the loss, susan, or a part of it? would he take it, think you? ah, but if he would do that!" "why, that were an easy way out of the trouble, assuredly!" her sister exclaimed. "to take the marriage-portion that is set aside for thee--and if i mistake not, 'tis all provided--ay, and the rowington copyhold, which will fall to thee, if 'tis not thine already; truly, 'twere a wise thing to take these to make good this loss, and then, when you marry, to have to give you your marriage-portion all the same!" "nay, nay, not so, susan!" her sister cried, quickly. "what said you? the rowington copyhold also? and perchance mine already? susan, would it make good the loss? would all taken together make good the loss? for, as heaven is my witness, i will never marry--nor think of marrying--but rejoice all the days of my life if my father would but take these to satisfy him of the injury i have done him. nay, but is't possible, susan? will he do that for me--as a kindness to me? i have no right to ask for such--but--but if only he knew--if only he knew!" the tears were running down her face; her hands were clasped in abject entreaty. "sweetheart, you know not what you ask," her sister said, but gently. "when you marry, your marriage-portion will have to be in accordance with our position in the town--my father would not have it otherwise; were you to surrender that now, would he let one of his daughters go forth from his house as a beggar, think you? or what would her husband say to be so treated? you might be willing to give up these, but my father could not, and your husband would not." "susan, susan, i wish for no marriage," she cried; "i will stay with my grandmother here; she is content that i should bide with her; and if my father will take these, 'twill be the joy of my life; i shall wish for no more; and new place shall come to no harm by me; 'tis here that i am to bide. think you he would take them, susan--think you he would take them?" she pleaded; and in her excitement she got up, and tried to walk about a little, but with her hands still clasped. "if one were to send to london now--a message--or i would walk every foot of the way did i but think he would do this for me--oh, no! no! no! i durst not--i durst never see him more--he has cast me off--and--and i deserve no less!" her sister went to her and took her by the hand. "judith, you have been in sore trouble, and scarce know what you say," she said, in that clear, calm way of hers. "but this is now what you must do. sit down and take some of this food. as i hear, you have scarce tasted anything these two days. you have always been so wild and wayward; now must you listen to reason and suffer guidance." she made her sit down. the girl took a little of the broth, some of the spiced bread, and a little of the wine, but it was clear that she was forcing herself to it; her thoughts were elsewhere. and scarcely had she finished this make-believe of a repast when she turned to her sister and said, with a pathetic pleading in her voice, "and is it not possible, susan? surely i can do something! it is so dreadful to think of my father imagining that i have done him this injury, and gone on the same way, careless of what has happened. that terrifies me at night! oh, if you but knew what it is in the darkness, in the long hours, and none to call to, and none to give you help; and to think that these are the thoughts he has of me; that it was all for a sweetheart i did it--that i gave away his writing to please a sweetheart--and that i care not for what has happened, but would do the like again to-morrow! it is so dreadful in the night." "i would comfort you if i could, judith," said her sister, "but i fear me you must trust to wiser counsel than mine. in truth i know not whether all this can be undone, or how my father regards it at the moment; for at the time of the writing they were all uncertain. but surely now you would do well to be ruled by some one better able to guide you than any of us women-folk; master blaise hath been most kind and serviceable in this as in all other matters, and hath written to your father in answer to his letter, so that we have had trust and assurance in his direction. and you also--why should you not seek his aid and counsel?" at the mere mention of the parson's name judith shivered instinctively, she scarce knew why. "judith," her sister continued, regarding her watchfully, "to-morrow, as i understand, master blaise is coming over here to see you." "may not i be spared that? he hath already brought his message," the girl said, in a low voice. "nay, he comes but in kindness--or more than kindness, if i guess aright. bethink you, judith," she said, "'tis not only the loss of the money--or great or small i know not--that hath distressed my father. there was more than that. nay, do not think that i am come to reproach you; but will it not be ever thus so long as you will be ruled by none, but must always go your own way? there was more than merely concerned money affairs in my father's letter, as doubtless master blaise hath told you; and then, think of it, judith, how 'twill be when the bruit of the story comes down to stratford----" "i care not," was the perfectly calm answer. "that is for me to bear. can master blaise tell me how i may restore to my father this that he hath lost? then his visit might be more welcome, susan." "why will you harden your heart so?" the elder sister said, with some touch of entreaty in her tone. "nay, think of it, judith! here is an answer to all. if you but listen to him, and favor him, you will have one always with you as a sure guide and counsellor; and who then may dare say a word against you?" "then he comes to save my good name?" the girl said, with a curious change of manner. "nay, i will give him no such tarnished prize!" and here it occurred to the elder sister, who was sufficiently shrewd and observant, that her intercession did not seem to be producing good results, and she considered it better that the parson should speak for himself. indeed, she hoped she had done no mischief, for this that she now vaguely suggested had for long been the dream and desire of both her mother and herself; and at this moment, if ever, there was a chance of judith's being obedient and compliant. not only did she forthwith change the subject, but also she managed to conquer the intense longing that possessed her to learn something further about the young man who (as she imagined) had for a time captured judith's fancies. she gave her sister what news there was in the town. she besought her to take care of herself, and to go out as much as possible, for that she was looking far from well. and, finally, when the girl confessed that she was fain to lie down for a space (having slept so little during these two nights), she put some things over her and quietly left, hoping that she might soon get to sleep. judith did not rest long, however. the question whether the sacrifice of her marriage-portion might not do something toward retrieving the disaster she had caused was still harassing her mind; and then again there was the prospect of the parson coming on the morrow. by-and-by, when she was certain that her mother and sister were gone, she went down-stairs, and began to help in doing this or the other little thing about the house. her grandmother was out-of-doors, and so did not know, to interfere, though the small maid-servant remonstrated as best she might. luckily, however, nature was a more imperative monitress, and again and again the girl had to sit down from sheer physical weakness. but there came over a visitor in the afternoon who restored to her something of her old spirit. it was little willie hart, who, having timidly tapped at the open door without, came along the passage and entered the dusky chamber where she was. "ah, sweetheart," said she (but with a kind of sudden sob in her throat), "have you come to see me?" "i heard that you were not well, cousin," said he, and he regarded her with troubled and anxious eyes as she stooped to kiss him. "nay, i am well enough," said she, with as much cheerfulness as she could muster. "fret not yourself about that. and what a studious scholar you are, cousin willie, to be sure, that must needs bring your book with you! were i not so ignorant myself, i should hear you your tasks; but you would but laugh at me----" "'tis no task-book, judith," said he, diffidently. "'twas prudence who lent it to me." and then he hesitated, through shyness. "why, you know, judith," he said, "you have spoken to me many a time about sir philip sidney; and i was asking this one and the other, at times, and prudence said she would show me a book he had written that belongs to her brother. and then to-day, when i went to her, she bade me bring the book to you, and to read to you, for that you were not well and might be pleased to hear it, she not being able to come over till the morrow." "in truth, now, that was well thought of, and friendly," said she, and she put her hand in a kindly fashion on his shoulder. "and you have come all the way over to read to me! see you how good a thing it is to be wise and instructed. well, then, we will go and sit by the door, that you may have more of light; and if my grandmother catch us at such idleness, you shall have to defend me--you shall have to defend me, sweetheart--for you are the man of us two, and i must be shielded." so they went to the door, and sat down on the step, the various-colored garden and the trees and the wide heavens all shining before them. "and what is the tale, cousin willie?" said she, quite pleasantly (for indeed she was glad to see the boy, and to chat with one who had no reproaches for her, who knew nothing against her, but was ever her true lover and slave). "nay, if it be by sir philip sidney, 'twill be of gallant and noble knights, assuredly." "i know not, cousin judith," said he; "i but looked at the beginning as i came through the fields. and this is how it goes." he opened the book and began to read-- "'it was in the time that the earth begins to put on her new apparel against the approach of her lover, and that the sun running a most even course becomes an indifferent arbiter between the night and the day, when the hopeless shepherd strephon was come to the sands which lie against the island of cythera, where, viewing the place with a heavy kind of delight, and sometimes casting his eyes to the isleward, he called his friendly rival the pastor claius unto him, and, setting first down in his darkened countenance a doleful copy of what he would speak, "o my claius," said he----'" thus he went on; and as he read, her face grew more and more wistful. it was a far-off land that she heard of; and beautiful it was; it seemed to her that she had been dwelling in some such land, careless and all unknowing. "'the third day after,'" she vaguely heard him say, "'in the time that the morning did strew roses and violets in the heavenly floor against the coming of the sun, the nightingales, striving one with the other which could in most dainty variety recount their wrong-caused sorrow, made them put off their sleep, and rising from under a tree, which that night had been their pavilion, they went on their journey, which by-and-by welcomed musidorus's eyes with delightful prospects. there were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so to by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security, while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dams' comfort; here a shepherd's boy piping, as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing; and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music.'" surely she had herself been living in some such land of pleasant delights, without a thought that ever it would end for her, but that each following day would be as full of mirth and laughter as its predecessor. she scarcely listened to the little lad now; she was looking back over the years, so rare and bright and full of light and color were they--and always a kind of music in them--and laughter at the sad eyes of lovers. she had never known how happy she had been. it was all distant now--the idle flower-gathering in the early spring-time; the afternoon walking in the meadows, she and prudence together (with the young lads regarding them askance); the open casements on the moonlit nights, to hear the madrigal singing of the youths going home; or the fair and joyous mornings that she was allowed to ride away in the direction of oxford, to meet her father and his companions coming in to stratford town. and now, when next he should come--to all of them, and all of them welcoming him--even neighbors and half-strangers--and he laughing to them all, and getting off his horse, and calling for a cup of wine as he strode into the house, where should she be? not with all of these--not laughing and listening to the merry stories of the journey--but away by herself, hiding herself, as it were, and thinking, alone. "dear judith, but why are you crying?" said the little lad, as he chanced to look up; and his face was of an instant and troubled anxiety. "why, 'tis a fair land--oh, indeed, a fair land," said she, with an effort at regarding the book, and pretending to be wholly interested in it. "nay, i would hear more of musidorus, sweetheart, and of that pretty country. i pray you continue the reading--continue the reading, sweetheart willie. nay, i never heard of a fairer country i assure thee, in all the wide world!" chapter xxxii. a resolve. then that night, as she lay awake in the dark, her incessant imaginings shaped themselves toward one end. this passion of grief she knew to be unavailing and fruitless. something she would try to do, if but to give evidence of her contrition: for how could she bear that her father should think of her as one having done him this harm and still going on light-hearted and unconcerned? the parson was coming over on the morrow. and if she were to put away her maidenly pride (and other vague dreams that she had sometimes dreamed), and take it that her consent would re-establish her in the eyes of those who were now regarding her askance, and make her peace with her own household? and if the surrender of her marriage-portion and her interest in the rowington copyhold (whatever it might be) were in a measure to mitigate her father's loss? it was the only thing she could think of. and if at times she looked forward with a kind of shudder (for in the night-time all prospects wear a darker hue) to her existence as the parson's wife, again there came to her the reflection that it was not for her to repine. some sacrifice was due from her. and could she not be as resolute as the daughter of the gileadite? oftentimes she had heard the words read out in the still afternoon: "now when iphtah came to mizpeh unto his house, behold his daughter came out to meet him with timbrels and dances: which was his only child; he had none other, son nor daughter. and when he saw her he rent his clothes, and said, alas! my daughter, thou hast brought me low, and art of them that trouble me." the jewish maiden had done no ill, and yet was brave to suffer. why should she repine at any sacrifice demanded of her to atone for her own wrong-doing? what else was there? she hoped that susan and her mother would be pleased now, and that her father and his friends in london would not have any serious loss to regret. there was but the one way, she said to herself again and again. she was almost anxious for the parson to come over, to see if he would approve. with the daylight her determination became still more clear, and also she saw more plainly the difficulties before her; for it could not be deemed a very seemly and maidenly thing that she, on being asked to become a bride (and she had no doubt that was his errand), should begin to speak of her marriage-portion. but would he understand? would he help her over her embarrassment? nay, she could not but reflect, here was an opportunity for his showing himself generous and large-minded. he had always professed, or at least intimated, that his wish to have her for wife was based mostly on his care for herself and his regard for the general good of the pious community to which he belonged. she was to be a helpmate for one laboring in the lord's vineyard; she was to be of service in the church; she was to secure for herself a constant and loving direction and guidance. and now, if he wished to prove all this--if he wished to show himself so noble and disinterested as to win for himself her life-long gratitude--what if he were to take over all her marriage-portion, as that might be arranged, and forthwith and chivalrously hand it back again, so that her grievous fault should so far be condoned? if the girl had been in her usual condition of health and spirits, it is probable that she would have regarded this question with a trifle of scepticism (for she was about as shrewd in such matters as susan herself); nay, it is just probable that she might have experienced a malicious joy in putting him to the proof. but she was in despair; her nerves were gone through continual wakefulness and mental torture; this was the only direction in which she saw light before her, and she regarded it, not with her ordinary faculty of judgment, but with a kind of pathetic hope. master blaise arrived in the course of the morning. his reception was not auspicious, for the old dame met him at the gate, and made more than a show of barring the way. "indeed, good sir," said she, firmly, "the wench be far from well now, and i would have her left alone." he answered that his errand was of some importance, and that he must crave a few minutes' interview. both her mother and sister, he said, were aware he was coming over to see her, and had made no objection. "no, no, perchance not," the grandmother said, though without budging an inch, "but she be under my care now, and i will have no harm befall her----" "harm! good mistress hathaway?" said he. "well, she be none so strong as she were--and--and perchance there hath been overmuch lecturing of the poor lass. nay, i doubt not 'twas meant in kindness; but there hath been overmuch of it, as i reckon, and what i say is, if the wench have done amiss, let those that have the right to complain come to her. nay, 'twas kindness, good sir; 'twas well meant, i doubt not; and 'tis your calling belike to give counsel and reproof; i say naught against that, but i am of a mind to have my grandchild left alone at present." "if you refuse me, good mistress hathaway," said he, quite courteously and calmly, "there is no more to be said. but i imagine that her mother and sister will be surprised. and as for the maiden herself--go you by her wishes?" "nay, not i," was the bold answer. "i know better than all of them together. for to speak plainly with you, good master parson, your preaching must have been oversharp when last you were within here--and was like to have brought the wench to death's door thereafter; marry, she be none so far recovered as to risk any further of such treatment. perchance you meant no harm; but she is proud and high-spirited, and by your leave, good sir, we will see her a little stronger and better set up ere she have any more of the discipline of the church bestowed on her." it was well that judith appeared at this juncture, for the tone of the old dame's voice was growing more and more tart. "grandmother," said she, "i would speak with master blaise." "get thee within-doors at once, i tell thee, wench!" was the peremptory rejoinder. "no, good grandmother, so please you," judith said, "i must speak with him. there is much of importance that i have to say to him. good sir, will you step into the garden?" the old dame withdrew, sulky and grumbling, and evidently inclined to remain within ear-shot, lest she should deem it necessary to interfere. judith preceded master blaise to the door of the cottage, and asked the little maid to bring out a couple of chairs. as she sat down he could not but observe how wan and worn her face was, and how listless she was in manner; but he made no comment on that; he only remarked that her grandmother seemed in no friendly mood this morning, and that only the fact that his mission was known to susan and her mother had caused him to persist. it was clear that this untoward reception had disconcerted him somewhat; and it was some little time before he could recover that air of mild authority with which he was accustomed to convey his counsels. at first he confined himself to telling judith what he had done on behalf of her mother and susan, in obedience to their wishes; but by and by he came to herself and her own situation; and he hoped that this experience through which she had passed, though it might have caused her bitter distress for the time, would eventually make for good. if the past could not be recalled, at least the future might be made safe. indeed one or two phrases he had used sounded as if they had done some previous service, perhaps he had consulted with mistress hall ere making this appeal--but in any case judith was not listening so particularly as to think of that--she seemed to know beforehand what he had to say. to tell the truth, he was himself a little surprised at her tacit acquiescence. he had always had to argue with judith, and many a time he had found that her subtle feminine wit was capable of extricating herself from what he considered a defenceless position. but now she sat almost silent. she seemed to agree to everything. there was not a trace left of the old audacious self-reliance, nor yet of those saucy rejoinders which were only veiled by her professed respect for his cloth--she was at his mercy. and so, growing bolder, he put in his own personal claim. he said little that he had not said or hinted on previous occasions; but now all the circumstances were changed; this heavy misfortune that had befallen her was but another and all too cogent reason why she should accept his offer of shelter and aid and counsel, seeing into what pitfalls her own unguided steps were like to lead her. "i speak the words of truth and soberness," said he, as he sat and calmly regarded her downcast face, "and make no appeal to the foolish fancies of a young and giddy-headed girl--for that you are no longer, judith. the years are going by. there must come a time in life when the enjoyment of the passing moment is not all in all--when one must look to the future, and make provision for sickness and old age. death strikes here and there; friends fall away. what a sad thing it were to find one's self alone, the dark clouds of life thickening over, and none by to help and cheer. then your mother and sister, judith----" "yes, i know," she said, almost in despair--"i know 'twould please them." and then she reflected that this was scarcely the manner in which she should receive his offer, that was put before her so plainly and with so much calm sincerity. "i pray you, good sir," said she, in a kind of languid way, "forgive me if i answer you not as frankly as might be. i have been ill; my head aches now; perchance i have not followed all you said. but i understand it--i understand it--and in all you say there is naught but good intention." "then it is yes, judith?" he exclaimed; and for the first time there was a little brightness of ardor--almost of triumph--in this clearly conceived and argued wooing. "it would please my mother and sister," she repeated, slowly. "they are afraid of some story coming from london about--about--what is passed. this would be an answer, would it not?" "why, yes!" he said, confidently, for he saw that she was yielding (and his own susceptibilities were not likely to be wounded in that direction). "think you we should heed any tavern scurrility? i trow not! there would be the answer plain and clear--if you were my wife, judith." "they would be pleased," again she said, and her eyes were absent. and then she added, "i pray you pardon me, good sir, if i speak of that which you may deem out of place, but--but if you knew--how i have been striving to think of some means of repairing the wrong i have done my father, you would not wonder that i should be anxious, and perchance indiscreet. you know of the loss i have caused him and his companions. how could i ever make that good with the work of my own hands? that is not possible; and yet when i think of how he hath toiled for all of us--late and early, as it were--why, good sir, i have myself been bold enough to chide him--or to wish that i were a man, to ride forth in the morning in his stead and look after the land; and then that his own daughter should be the means of taking from him what he hath earned so hardly--that i should never forget; 'twould be on my mind year after year, even if he were himself to try to forget it." she paused for a second; the mere effort of speaking seemed to fatigue her. "there is but the one means, as i can think, of showing him my humble sorrow for what hath been done--of making him some restitution. i know not what my marriage-portion may be--but 'twill be something--and susan saith there is a part of the manor of rowington, also, that would fall to me; now, see you, good master blaise, if i were to give these over to my father in part quittance of this injury--or if, belike--my--my--husband would do that--out of generosity and nobleness--would not my father be less aggrieved?" she had spoken rather quickly and breathlessly (to get over her embarrassment), and now she regarded him with a strange anxiety, for so much depended on his answer! would he understand her motives? would he pardon her bluntness? would he join her in this scheme of restitution? he hesitated only for a moment. "dear judith," he said, with perfect equanimity, "such matters are solely within the province of men, and not at the disposition of women, who know less of the affairs of the world. whatever arrangements your father may have made in respect of your marriage-portion--truly i have made no inquiry in that direction--he will have made with due regard to his own circumstances, and with regard to the family and to your future. would he be willing to upset these in order to please a girlish fancy? why, in all positions in life pecuniary losses must happen; and a man takes account of these; and is he likely to recover himself at the expense of his own daughter?" "nay, but if she be willing! if she would give all that she hath, good sir!" she cried, quickly. "'twould be but taking it from one pocket to put it in the other," said he, in his patient and forbearing way. "i say not, if a man were like to become bankrupt, that his family might not forego their expectations in order to save him; but your father is one in good position. think you that the loss is so great to him? in truth it cannot be." the eagerness fell away from her face. she saw too clearly that he could not understand her at all. she did not reckon her father's loss in proportion to his wealth--in truth, she could not form the faintest notion of what that loss might be; all her thought was of her winning back (in some remote day, if that were still possible to her) to her father's forgiveness, and the regarding of his face as no longer in dread wrath against her. "why," said he, seeing that she sat silent and distraught (for all the hope had gone out of her), "in every profession and station in life a man must have here or there a loss, as i say; but would he rob his family to make that good? surely not. of what avail might that be? 'tis for them that he is working, 'tis not for himself; why should he take from them to build up a property which must in due course revert and become theirs? i pray you put such fancies out of your head, judith. women are not accustomed to deal with such matters; 'tis better to have them settled in the ordinary fashion. were i you i would leave it in your father's hands." "and have him think of me as he is thinking now!" she said, in a kind of wild way. "ah, good sir, you know not!--you know not! every day that passes is but the deeper misery--for--for he will be hardened in the belief--'twill be fixed in his mind forever--that his own daughter did him this wrong, and went on lightly--not heeding--perchance to seek another sweetheart. this he is thinking now, and i--what can i do?--being so far away and none to help!" "in truth, dear judith," said he, "you make too much of your share in what happened. 'tis not to you your father should look for reparation of his loss, but to the scoundrel who carried the play to london. what punishment would it be for him--or what gain to your father--that your father should upset the arrangements he has made for the establishment and surety of his own family? nay, i pray you put aside such a strange fancy, dear heart, and let such things take their natural course." "in no wise, in no wise!" she exclaimed, almost in despair. "in truth i cannot. 'twould kill me were nothing to be done to appease my father's anger; and i thought that if he were to learn that you had sought me in marriage--and--and agreed that such restitution as i can make should be made forthwith--or afterward, as might be decided--but only that he should know now that i give up everything he had intended for me--then i should have great peace of mind." "indeed, judith," said he, somewhat coldly, "i could be no party to any such foolish freak--nay, not even in intention, whatever your father might say to it. the very neighbors would think i was bereft of my senses. and 'twould be an ill beginning of our life together--in which there must ever be authority and guidance, as well as dutiful obedience--if i were to yield to what every one must perceive to be an idle and fantastic wish. i pray you consult your own sober judgment; at present you are ailing, and perturbed; rest you awhile until these matters have calmed somewhat, and you will see them in their true light." "no, no," she said, hurriedly and absently--"no, no, good sir, you know not what you ask. rest? nay, one way or the other this must be done, and forthwith. i know not what he may have intended for me; but be it large or small, 'tis all that i have to give him--i can do no more than that--and then--then there may be some thoughts of rest." she spoke as if she were scarcely aware of the good parson's presence; and in truth, though he was not one to allow any wounded self-love to mar his interests, he could not conceal from himself that she was considering the proposal he had put before her mainly, if not wholly, with a view to the possible settlement of these troubles and the appeasing of her friends. whether, in other circumstances, he might not have calmly overlooked this slight, needs not now be regarded; in the present circumstances--that is to say, after her announced determination to forego every penny of her marriage-portion--he did take notice of it, and with some sharpness of tone, as if he were truly offended. "indeed you pay me no compliment, judith," said he. "i come to offer you the shelter of an honest man's home, an honorable station as his wife, a life-long guidance and protection; and what is your answer?--that perchance you may make use of such an offer to please your friends and to pay back to your father what you foolishly think you owe him. if these be the only purposes you have in view--and you seem to think of none other--'twould be a sorry forecast for the future, as i take it. at the very beginning an act of madness! nay, i could be no party to any such thing. if you refuse to be guided by me in great matters, how could i expect you to be guided in small?" these words, uttered in his clear and precise and definite manner, she but vaguely understood (for her head troubled her sorely, and she was tired, and anxious to be at rest) to be a withdrawal of his proposal. but that was enough; and perhaps she even experienced some slight sense of relief. as for his rebuking of her, she heeded not that. "as you will, sir, as you will," she said, listlessly, and she rose from her chair. and he rose too. perhaps he was truly offended; perhaps he only appeared to be; but at all events he bade her farewell in a cold and formal manner, and as if it were he who had brought this interview to an end, and that for good. "what said he, wench, what said he?" her grandmother asked (who had been pretending all the time to be gathering peas, and now came forward). "nay, i caught but little--a word here or there--and yet methinks 'tis a brave way of wooing they have nowadays that would question a maid about her marriage-portion! heaven's mercy, did ever any hear the like? 'twas not so when i was young--nay, a maid would have bade him go hang that brought her such a tale. oh, the good parson! his thoughts be not all bent on heaven, i warrant me! ay, and what said he? and what saidst thou, wench? truly you be in no fit state to answer him; were you well enough, and in your usual spirits, the good man would have his answer--ay, as sharp as need be. but i will say no more; master quiney hath a vengeful spirit, and perchance he hath set me too much against the good man; but as for thyself, lass, there be little cause for talking further of thy offences, if 'tis thy marriage-portion the parson be after now!" "good grandmother, give me your arm," judith said, in a strange way. "my head is so strange and giddy. i know not what i have said to him--i scarce can recollect it--if i have offended, bid him forgive me--but--but i would have him remain away." "as i am a living woman," said the old dame (forgetting her resolve to speak smooth words), "he shall not come within the door, nor yet within that gate while you bide with me and would have him kept without! what then? more talk of chastenings? marry now thomas quiney shall hear of this--that shall he--by my life he shall!" "no, no, no, good grandmother, pray you blame no one," the girl said, and she was trembling somewhat. "'tis i that have done all the harm--to every one. but i know not what i said--i--i would fain lie down, grandmother, if you will give me your arm so far--'tis so strangely cold--i understand it not--and i forget what wast he said to me--but i trust i offended him not----" "nay, but what is it, then, my deary?" the old woman said, taking both the girl's hands in hers. "what is it that you should fret about? nay, fret not, fret not, good wench; the parson be well away, and there let him bide. and would you lie down?--well, come, then; but sure you shake as if 'twere winter. come, lass! nay, fret not, we will keep the parson away, i warrant, if 'tis that vexes thee!" "no, grandmother, 'tis not so," the girl said, in a low voice. "'twas down by the river, as i think--'twas chilly there--i have felt it ever since, from time to time--but 'twill pass away when i am laid down and become warm again." "heaven grant it be no worse," the old dame said to herself, as she shrewdly regarded the girl; but of course her outward talk, as she took her within-doors, was ostensibly cheerful. "come thy ways, then, sweeting, and we shall soon make thee warm enough. ay, ay, and prudence be coming over this afternoon, as i hear; and no doubt thomas quiney too; and thou must get thyself dressed prettily, and have supper with us all, though 'tis no treat to offer to a man of his own wine. nay, i warrant me he will think naught of that so thou be there with a pleasant face for him; he will want nor wine nor aught else if he have but that, and a friendly word from thee, as i reckon; ay, and thou shalt put on the lace cuffs now, to do him fair service for his gift to thee--that shalt thou, and why not? i swear to thee, my brave lass, they be fit for a queen!" and she would comfort her and help her (just as if this granddaughter of hers, that always was so bright and gay and radiant, so self-willed and self-reliant, with nothing but laughter for the sad eyes of the stricken youths, was now but a weak and frightened child, that had to be guarded and coaxed and caressed), and would talk as if all her thinking was of that visit in the afternoon; but the only answer was---- "will you send for prudence, grandmother? oh, grandmother, my head aches so! i scarce know what i said." swiftly and secretly the old dame sent across to the town; and not to prudence only, but also (for she was grown anxious) to mistress hall, to say that if her husband were like to return soon to stratford he might come over and see judith, who was far from well. as for prudence, a word was sufficient to bring her; she was there straightway. she found judith very much as she had left her, but somewhat more restless and feverish perhaps, and then again hopelessly weak and languid, and always with those racking pains in the head. she said it was nothing--it would soon pass away; it was but a chill she had caught in sitting on the river-bank; would not prudence now go back to her duties and her affairs in the house? "judith," said her friend, leaning over her and speaking low, "i have that to tell thee will comfort thee, methinks." "nay, i cannot listen to it now," was the answer--and it was a moan almost. "dear mouse, do not trouble about me--but my head is so bad that i--that i care not now. and the parson is gone away, thinking that i have wronged him also--'tis ever the same now--oh, sweetheart, my head, my head!" "but listen, judith," the other pleaded. "nay, but you must know what your friends are ready to do for you--this surely will make thee well, sweetheart. think of it now; do you know that quiney is gone to see your father?" "to my father!" she repeated, and she tried to raise her head somewhat, so that her eyes might read her friend's face. "i am almost sure of it, dear heart," prudence said, taking her hot hand in hers. "nay, he would have naught said of it. none of his family know whither he is gone, and i but guess. but this is the manner of it, dear judith--that he and i were talking, and sorely vexed he was that your father should be told a wrong story concerning you--ay, and sorry to see you so shaken, judith, and distressed; and said he, 'what if i were to get a message to her from her father--that he was in no such mood of anger--and had not heard the story aright--and that he was well disposed to her, and grieved to hear she had taken it so much to heart--would not that comfort her?' he said. and i answered that assuredly it would, and even more perchance than he thought of; and i gathered from him that he would write to some one in london to go and see your father, and pray him to send you assurance of that kind. but now--nay, i am certain of it, dear judith--i am certain that he himself is gone all the way to london to bring thee back that comfort; and will not that cheer thee now, sweetheart?" "he is doing all that for me?" the girl said, in a low voice, and absently. "ah, but you must be well and cheerful, good mouse, to give him greeting when he comes back," said prudence, striving to raise her spirits somewhat. "have i not read to thee many a time how great kings were wont to reward the messengers that brought them good news?--a gold chain round their neck, or lands perchance. and will you have no word of welcome for him? will you not meet him with a glad face? why, think of it now--a journey to london--and the perils and troubles by the way--and all done to please thee. nay, he would say naught of it to any one--lest they might wonder at his doing so much for thee, belike--but when he comes back 'twere a sorry thing that you should not give him a good and gracious welcome." judith lay silent and thinking for a while, and then she said--but as if the mere effort to speak were too much for her-- "whatever happens, dear prudence--nay, in truth i think i am very ill--tell him this--that he did me wrong--he thought i had gone to meet the parson that sunday morning in the church-yard--'twas not so--tell him it was not so--'twas but a chance, dear heart--i could not help it----" "judith, judith," her friend said, "these be things for thine own telling. nay, you shall say all that to himself, and you must speak him fair; ay, and give him good welcome and thanks that hath done so much for thee." judith put her head down on the pillow again, languidly; but presently prudence heard her laugh to herself, in a strange way. "last night," she said--"'twas so wonderful, dear prue--i thought i was going about in a strange country, looking for my little brother hamnet, and i knew not whether he would have any remembrance of me. should i have to tell him my name? i kept asking myself. and 'judith, judith,' i said to him, when i found him; but he scarce knew; i thought he had forgotten me, 'tis so long ago now; 'judith, judith,' i said; and he looked up, and he was so strangely like little willie hart that i wondered whether it was hamnet or no----" but prudence was alarmed by these wanderings, and did her best to hush them. and then, when at length the girl lay silent and still, prudence stole down-stairs again and bade the grandmother go to judith's room, for that she must at once hurry over to stratford to speak with susan hall. chapter xxxiii. arrivals. some few mornings after that two travellers were standing in the spacious archway of the inn at shipston, chatting to each other, and occasionally glancing toward the stable-yard, as if they were expecting their horses to be brought round. "the wench will thank thee for this service done her," the elder of the two said; and he regarded the younger man in a shrewd and not unkindly way. "nay, i am none well pleased with the issue of it at all," the young man said, moodily. "what, then?" his companion said. "can nothing be done and finished but with the breaking of heads? must that ever crown the work? mercy on us!--how many would you have slaughtered? now 'tis the parson that must be thrown into the avon; again it is gentleman jack you would have us seek out for you; and then it is his friend, whose very name we know not, that you would pursue through the dens and stews of london town. a hopeful task, truly, for a stratford youth! what know you of london, man? and to pursue one whose very name you have not--and all for the further breaking of heads, that never did any good anywhere in the world." "your are right, sir," the younger man said, with some bitterness. "i can brag and bluster as well as any. but i see not that much comes of it. 'tis easy to break the heads of scoundrels--in talk. their bones are none the worse." "and better so," the other said, gravely. "i will have no blood shed. what, man, are you still fretting that i would not leave you behind in london?" "nay, sir, altogether i like not the issue of it," he said, but respectfully enough. "i shall be told, i doubt not, that i might have minded my own business. they will blame me for bringing you all this way and hindering your affairs." "heaven bless us," said the other, laughing, "may not a man come to see his own daughter without asking leave of the neighbors?" "'tis as like as not that she herself will be the first to chide me," the younger man answered. "a message to her was all i asked of you, sir. i dreamt not of hindering your affairs so." "nay, nay," said judith's father, good-naturedly. "i can make the occasion serve me well. trouble not about that, friend quiney. if we can cheer up the wench, and put her mind at rest--that will be a sufficient end of the journey; and we will have no broken heads withal, so please you. and if she herself should have put aside these idle fears, and become her usual self again, why, then, there is no harm done either. i mind me that some of them wondered that i should ride down to see my little hamnet when he lay sick, for 'twas no serious illness that time, as it turned out; but what does that make for now? now, i tell you, i am right glad i went to see the little lad; it cheered him to be made so much of, and such small services or kindnesses are pleasant things for ourselves to think of, when those who are dearest to us are no longer with us. so cease your fretting, friend quiney, for the hindering of my affairs i take it that i am answerable to myself, and not to the good gossips of stratford town. and if 'tis merely to say a kind word to the lass--if that is all that needs be done--well, there are many things that are of different value to different people; and the wench and i understand each other shrewdly well." the horses were now brought round; but ere they mounted, judith's father said, again regarding the youth in that observant way, "nay, i see how it is with you, good lad--you are anxious as to how judith may take this service you have done her. is't not so?" "perchance she may be angry that i called you away, sir," he said. "have no fear. 'twas none of thy doing; 'twas but a whim of mine own. nay, there be other and many reasons for my coming--that need not be explained to her. what, must i make apology to my own daughter? she is not the guardian of stratford town. i am no rogue; she is no constable. may not i enter? nay, nay, have no fear, friend quiney; when that she comes to understand the heavy errand you undertook for her, she will give you her thanks, or i know nothing of her. her thanks?--marry, yes!" he looked at the young man again. "but let there be no broken heads, good friend, i charge you," said he, as he put his foot in the stirrup. "if the parson have been over-zealous we will set all matters straight, without hurt or harm to any son of adam." and now as they rode on together, the younger man's face seemed more confident and satisfied, and he was silent for the most part. of course he would himself be the bearer of the news; it was but natural that he should claim as much. and as judith's father intended to go first to new place, quiney intimated to him that he would rather not ride through the town; in fact, he wanted to get straightway (and unobserved, if possible) to shottery, to see how matters were there. when he arrived at the little hamlet, willie hart was in the garden, and instantly came down to the gate to meet him. he asked no questions of the boy, but begged of him to hold the bridle of his horse for a few minutes; then he went into the house. just within the threshold he met judith's sister. "ah," said he, quickly, and even joyously, "i have brought good news. where is judith? may i see her? i want to tell her that her father is come, and will be here to see her presently----" and then something in the scared face that was regarding him struck him with a sudden terror. "what is it?" he said, with his own face become about as pale as hers. "judith is very ill," was the answer. "yes, yes," he said eagerly, "and that she was when i left. but now that her father is come, 'twill be all different--'twill be all set right now. and you will tell her, then, if i may not? nay, but may not i see her for a moment--but for a moment--to say how her father is come all the way to see her--ay, and hath a store of trinkets for her--and is come to comfort her into the assurance that all will go well? why, will not such a message cheer her?" "good master quiney," susan said, with tears welling into her eyes, "if you were to see her she would not know you--she knows no one--she knows not that she is ill--but speaks of herself as some other----" "but her father!" he exclaimed, in dismay, "will she not know him? will she not understand? nay, surely 'tis not yet too late!" but here doctor hall appeared; and when he was told that judith's father was come to the town, and would shortly be at the cottage, he merely said that perhaps his presence might soothe her somewhat, or even lead her delirious wanderings into a gentler channel, but that she would almost certainly be unable to recognize him. nor was the fever yet at its height, he said, and they could do but little for her. they could but wait and hope. as for quiney, he did not ask to be admitted to the room. he seemed stunned. he sat down in the kitchen, heeding no one, and vaguely wondering whether any lengthening of the stages of the journey would have brought them better in time. nay, had he not wasted precious hours in london in vainly seeking to find himself face to face with jack orridge! prudence chanced to come down-stairs. as he entered the kitchen he forgot to give her any greeting; he only said, quickly, "think you she will not understand that her father is come to see her? surely she must understand so much, prudence! you will tell her, will you not? and ask her if she sees him standing before her?" "i know not--i am afraid," said prudence, anxiously. "perchance it may frighten her the more; forever she says that she sees him, and always with an angry face toward her; and she is for hiding herself away from him--and even talking of the river! good lack, 'tis pitiful that she should be so struck down--and almost at death's door--and all we can do of so little avail." "prudence," said he, starting to his feet, "there is her father just come; i hear him; now take him to her--and you will see--you will see. i may not go--a strange face might frighten her--but i know she will recognize him--and understand--and he will tell her to have no longer any fear of him----" prudence hurried away to meet judith's father, who was in the doorway, getting such information as was possible, from the doctor. and then they all of them (all but quiney) stole gently up-stairs; and they stood at the door in absolute silence, while judith's father went forward to the bed--so quietly that the girl did not seem to notice his approach. the grandmother was there, sitting by the bedside and speaking to her in a low voice. "hush thee now, sweeting, hush thee now," she was saying, and she patted her hand. "nay, i know 'twas ill done; 'tis quite right what thou sayest; they treated her not well; and the poor wench anxious to please them all. but have no fear for her--nay, trouble not thy head with thoughts of her--she be safe at home again, i trust. hush thee, now, sweeting; 'twill go well with her, i doubt not; i swear to thee her father be no longer angry with the wench; 'twill all go well with her, and well. have no fear." the girl looked at her steadily, and yet with a strange light in her eyes, as if she saw distant things before her, or was seeking to recall them. "there was susan, too," she said, in a low voice, "that sang so sweet--oh, in the church it was so sweet to hear her; but when it was '_the rose is from my garden gone_,' she would not sing that, though that was ever in her sister's mind after she went away down to the river-side. i cannot think why they would not sing it to her; perchance the parson thought 'twas wicked--i know not now. and when she herself would try it with the lute, nothing would come right--all went wrong with her--all went wrong; and her father came angry and terrible to seek her--and 'twas the parson that would drag her forth--the bushes were not thick enough--good grandam, why should the bushes in the garden be so thin that the terrible eyes peered through them, and she tried to hide and could not?" "nay, i tell thee, sweetheart," said the grandmother, whispering to her, "that the poor wench you speak of went home; and all were well content with her, and her father was right pleased; indeed, indeed, 'twas so." "poor judith, poor judith!" the girl murmured to herself; and then she laughed slightly. "she was ever the stupid one; naught would go right with her; ay, and evil-tempered she was, too, for quiney would ride all the way to london for her, and she thanked him with never a word or a look--never a word or a look, and he going all the way to please her. poor wench, all went wrong with her somehow; but they might have let her go; she was so anxious to hide; and then to drag her forth--from under the bushes--grandam, it was cruelly done of them, was it not?" "ay, ay, but hush thee now, dearie," her grandmother said, as she put a cool cloth on the burning forehead. "'tis quite well now with the poor wench you speak of." her father drew nearer, and took her hand quietly. "judith," said he, "poor lass, i am come to see you." for an instant there was a startled look of fear in her eyes; but that passed, and she regarded him at first with a kind of smiling wonder, and thereafter with a contented satisfaction, as though his presence was familiar. nay, she turned her attention altogether toward him now, and addressed him--not in any heart-broken way, but cheerfully, and as if he had been listening to her all along. it was clear that she did not in the least know who he was. "there now, lass," said he, "knowest thou that quiney and i have ridden all the way from london to see thee? and thou must lie still and rest, and get well again, ere we can carry thee out into the garden." she was looking at him with those strangely brilliant eyes. "but not into the garden," she said, in a vacant kind of way. "that is all gone away now--gone away. 'twas long ago--when poor judith used to go into the garden--and right fair and beautiful it was--ay, and her father would praise her hair and the color of it--until he grew angry, and drove her away far from him then--and then--she wandered down to the river--and always susan's song was in her mind--or the other one, that was near as sad as that, about the western wind, was it not? how went it now?-- "'western wind, when will you blow?' nay, i cannot recall it--'tis gone out of my head, grandam, and there is only fire there--and fire--and fire-- "'western wind, when will you blow?' it went--and then about the rain next, what was it?-- "'so weary falls the rain!' ay, ay, that was it now--i remember susan singing it-- "'western wind, when will you blow? so weary falls the rain! oh, if my love were in my arms, or i in my bed again!'" and here she turned away from them and fell a-crying, and hid from them, as it were, covering her face with both her hands. "grandmother, grandmother," they could hear her say through her sobbing, "there was but the one rose in my garden, and that is gone now--they have robbed me of that--and what cared i for aught else? and quiney is gone too, without a word or a look--without a word or a look--and ere he be come back--well, i shall be away by then--he will have no need to quarrel with me and think ill of me that i chanced to meet the parson. 'tis all over now, grandmother, and done with, and you will let me bide with you for just a little while longer--a little while, grandmother; 'tis no great matter for so little a while, though i cannot help you as i would--but cicely is a good lass--and 'twill be for a little while--for last night again i found hamnet--ay, ay, he hath all things in readiness now--all in readiness----" and then she uttered a slight cry, or moan rather. "grandmother, grandmother, why do you not keep the parson away from me? you said that you would!" "hush, hush, child," the grandmother said, bending over her and speaking softly and closely. "you are over-concerned about the poor lass that was treated so ill. take heart now; i tell thee all is going well with her; her father hath taken her home again, and she is as happy as the day is long. nay, i swear to thee, good wench, if thou lie still and restful, i will take thee to see her some of these days. hush thee now, dearie; 'tis going right well with the lass now." the doctor touched the arm of judith's father, and they both withdrew. "she knew you not," said he; "and the fewer people around her the better--they set her fancies wandering." they went down-stairs to where quiney was awaiting them, and the sombre look on their faces told its tale. "she is in danger!" he said, quickly. the doctor was busy with his own thoughts, but he glanced at the young man and saw the burning anxiety of his eyes. "the fever must run its course," said he, "and judith hath had a brave constitution these many years that i fear not will make a good fight. 'twas a sore pity that she was so distressed and stricken down in spirits, as i hear, ere the fever seized her." quiney turned to the window. "too late--too late!" said he. "and yet i spared not the nag." "you have done all that man could do," her father said, going to him. "nay, had i myself guessed that she was in such peril--but 'tis past recall now." and then he took the young man by the hand, and grasped it firmly. "good lad," said he, "this that you did for us was a right noble act of kindness, and i trust in heaven's mercy that judith herself may live to thank you. as for me, my thanks to you are all too poor and worthless; and i must be content to remain your debtor--and your friend." chapter xxxiv. an awakening. it was going ill with her. late one night, quiney, who had kept hovering about the house, never able to sit patiently and watch the anxious coming and going within-doors, and never able to tear himself away but for a few hundred yards, wandered out into the clear starlit darkness. his heart was full. they had told him the crisis was near at hand. and almost it seemed to him that it was already over. judith was going away from them. and those stars overhead--he knew but little of their names; he understood but little of the vast immensities and deeps that lay between them; they were to him but as grains of light in a darkened floor: and far above that floor rose the wonderful shining city that he had heard of in the book of revelation. and already, so wild and unstrung were his fancies, he could see the four square walls of jasper, and the gates of pearl, and the wide white steps leading up to these; and who was that who went all alone--giving no backward thought to any she was leaving behind--up those shining steps, with a strange light on her forehead and on her trembling hands? he saw her slowly kneel at the gate, her head meekly bowed, her hands clasped. and when they opened it, and when she rose, and made to enter, he could have cried aloud to her for one backward look, one backward thought, toward stratford town and the friends of her childhood and her youth. alas! there was no such thing. there was wonder on her face, as she turned to this side and to that, and she went hesitatingly; and when they took her hands to lead her forward, she regarded them--this side and that--pleased and wondering and silent; but there was never a thought of stratford town. could that be judith that was going away from them so--she that all of them had known so dearly? and to leave her own friends without one word of farewell! those others there--she went with them smiling and wondering, and looking in silence from one to the other--but she knew them not. her friends were here--here--with breaking hearts because she had gone away and forgotten them, and vanished within those far-shining gates. and then some sudden and sullen thought of the future would overtake him. the injunctions laid on him by judith's father could not be expected to last forever. and if this were to be so--if the love and desire of his youth were to be stolen away from him--if her bright young life, that was so beautiful a thing to all who knew her, was to be extinguished, and leave instead but a blankness and an aching memory through the long years--then there might arrive a time for a settlement. the parson was still coming about the house, for the women-folk were comforted by his presence; but judith's father regarded him darkly, and had scarce ever a word for him. as for quiney, he moved away, or left the house, when the good man came near--it was safer so. but in the future? when one was freer to act? for those injunctions could not be expected to last forever; and what greater joy could then be secured than the one fierce stroke of justice and revenge? he did not reason out the matter much: it was a kind of flame in his heart whenever he thought of it. and in truth that catastrophe was nearly occurring now. he had been wandering vaguely along the highways, appealing to the calmness of the night, as it were, and the serenity of the starlit heavens, for some quieting of his terrible fears; and then in his restlessness he walked back toward the cottage, anxious for further news and yet scarcely daring to enter and ask. he saw the dull red light in the window, but could hear no sound. and would not his very footfall on the path disturb her? they all of them went about the house like ghosts. and were it not better that he should remain here, so that the stillness dwelling around the place should not be broken even by his breathing? so quiet the night was, and so soundless, he could have imagined that the wings of the angel of mercy were brooding over the little cottage, hushing it, as it were, and bringing rest and sleep to the sore-bewildered brain. he would not go near. these were the precious hours. and if peace had at last stolen into the sick-chamber, and closed the troubled eyelids, were it not better to remain away, lest even a whisper should break the charm? suddenly he saw the door of the cottage open, and in the dull light a dark figure appeared. he heard footsteps on the garden-path. at first his heart felt like a stone, and he could not move, for he thought it was some one coming to seek him with evil views; but presently, in the clear starlight, he knew who this was that was now approaching him. he lost his senses. all the black night went red. "so, good parson," said he (but he clinched his fists together so that he should not give way), "art thou satisfied with thy handiwork?" there was more of menace in the tone than in the taunt; at all events, with some such phrase as "out of the way, tavern-brawler!" the parson raised his stick, as if to defend himself, and then the next instant, he was gripped firm, as in a vise; the stick was twisted from his grasp and whirled away far into the dark; and forthwith, for it all happened in a moment, five fingers had him by the back of the neck. there was one second of indecision--what it meant to this young athlete, who had his eyes afire and his mind afire with thoughts of the ill that had been done to the one he loved the dearest, can well be imagined. but he flung his enemy from him, forward, into the night. "take thy dog's life and welcome--coward and woman-striker!" he waited; there was no answer. and then, all shaking from the terrible pressure he had put on himself, and still hungering and athirst to go back and settle the matter then and there, he turned and walked along the road, avoiding the cottage, and still with his heart aflame, and wondering whether he had done well to let the hour of vengeance go. but that did not last long. what cared he for this man that any thought of him should occupy him at such a moment? all his anxieties were elsewhere--in that hushed, small chamber, where the lamp of life was flickering low, and all awaiting, with fear and trembling, what the dawn might bring. and if she were to slip away so--escaping from them, as it were--without a word of recognition? it seemed so hard that the solitary figure going up those far, wide steps should have no thought for them she had left behind. as he saw her there, content was on her face, and a mild radiance and wonder; and her new companions were pleasant to her. she would go away with them--she was content to be with them--she would disappear among them, and leave no sign. and sunday morning after sunday morning he would look in vain for her coming through the church-yard, under the trees; and there would be a vacant place in the pew; no matter who might be there, one face would be wanting; and in the afternoon the wide meadows would be empty. look where he might--from the foot-bridge over the river, from bardon hill, from the wier brake--there would be no more chance of his descrying judith walking with prudence--the two figures that he could make out at any distance almost. and what a radiance there used to be on her face--not that mild wonder that he saw as she passed away with her companions within the shining gates, but a happy, audacious radiance, so that he could see she was laughing long ere he came near her. that was judith--that was the judith he had known--laughing, radiant--in summer meadows, as it seemed to him--careless of the young men, though her eyes would regard them--and always with her chief secrets and mystifications for her friend prudence. that was judith--not this poor, worn sufferer, wandering through darkened ways, the frail lamp of her life going down and down, so that they dared not speak in the room. and that message that she had left for him with prudence--was it a kind of farewell? they were about the last words she had spoken ere her speech lost all coherence and meaning--a farewell before she entered into that dark and unknown realm. and there was a touch of reproach in them too--"tell him he did me wrong to think i had gone to meet the parson in the church-yard: 'twas but a chance." the judith of those former days was far too proud to make any such explanation; but this poor stricken creature seemed anxious to appease every one and make friends. and was he to have no chance of begging her forgiveness for doing her that wrong, and of telling how little she need regard it, and how that she might dismiss the parson from her mind altogether, as he had done? the ride to london--she knew nothing of that; she knew nothing of her father having come all the way to see her. why, as they came riding along by uxbridge and wycombe, and woodstock and enstone, many a time he looked forward to telling judith of what he had done; and he hoped that she would go round to the stable and have a word for the galloway nag and pet the good beast's neck. but all that was over now, and only this terrible darkness and the silence of the roads and the trees; and always the dull, steady, ominous light in the small window. and still more terrible, that vision overhead--the far and mystic city, and judith entering with those new and strange companions, regarding this one and that, and ever with a smile on her face and a mild wonder in her eyes; they leading her away by the hand, and she timid, and looking from one to the other, but pleased to go with them into the strange country. and as for her old friends, no backward look or backward thought for them; for them only the sad and empty town, the voiceless meadows, the vacant space in the pew, to which many an eye would be turned as week by week came round. and there would be a grave somewhere that prudence would not leave untended. but with the first gray light of the dawn there came a sudden trembling joy, that was so easily and eagerly translated into a wild, audacious hope. judith had fallen into a sound sleep--a sleep hushed and profound, and no longer tortured with moanings and dull low cries as if for pity; a slumber profound and beneficent, with calmer breathing and a calmer pulse. if only on the awakening she might show that the crisis was over, and she started on the road--however long and tedious that might be--toward the winning back of life and health! it was prudence who brought him the news. she looked like a ghost in the wan light, as she opened the door and came forth. she knew he would not be far away; indeed, his eyes were more accustomed to this strange light than hers, and ere she had time to look about and search for him he was there. and when she told him this news, he could not speak for a little while, for his mind rushed forward blindly and wildly to a happy consummation; he would have no misgivings; this welcome sleep was a sure sign judith was won back to them; not yet was she to go away all alone up those wide, sad steps. "and you, prudence," said he, or rather he whispered it eagerly, that no sound should disturb the profound quiet of the house, "now you must go and lie down; you are worn out; why, you are all trembling----" "the morning air is a little cold," said she; but it was not that that caused her trembling. "you must go and lie down, and get some sleep too," said he (but glancing up at the window, as if his thoughts were there). "what a patient watcher you have been! and now when there is this chance--do, dear prudence, go within and lie down for a while----" "oh, how could i?" she said; and unknown to herself she was wringing her hands--not from grief, but from mere excitement and nervousness. "but for this sleep, now, the doctor was fearing the worst. i know it, though he would not say it. and she is so weak! even if this sleep calm her brain, or if she come out of it in her right mind--one never knows, she is so worn away--she might waken only to slip away from us." but he would not hear of that. no, no; this happy slumber was but the beginning of her recovery. now that she was on the turn, judith's brave constitution would fight through the rest. he knew it; he was sure of it; had there ever been a healthier, a happier wench--or one with such gallant spirits and cheerfulness? "you have not seen her these last two days," prudence said, sadly. "nay, i fear not now--i know she will fight through," said he, confidently (even with an excess of confidence, so as to cheer this patient and gentle nurse). "and what a spite it is that i can do nothing? did you ask the doctor, prudence? is there nothing that i can fetch him from harwich? ay, or from london, for that matter? 'tis well for you that can do so much for your friend: what can i do but hang about the lanes? i would take a message anywhere, for any of you, if you would but tell me; 'tis all that i can do. but when she is getting better, that will be different--that will be all different then; i shall be able to get her many things, to please her and amuse her; and--and--think of this, prudence," said he, his fancies running away with him in his eagerness, "do you not think, now, that when she is well enough to be carried into the garden--do you not think that pleydell and i could devise some kind of couch, to be put on wheels, see you, and slung on leather bands, so that it would go easily? why, i swear it could be made--and might be in readiness for her. what think you, prudence? no one could object if we prepared it. ay, and we should get it to go as smooth as velvet, so that she could be taken along the lanes or through the meadows." "i would there were need of it," prudence said, wistfully. "you go too fast. nay, but if she come well out of this deep sleep, who knows? pray heaven there be need for all that you can do for her." the chirping of a small bird close by startled them--it was the first sound of the coming day. and then she said, regarding him, "would you like to see judith--for a moment? 'twould not disturb her." he stepped back, with a sudden look of dismay on his face. "what mean you, prudence?" he said, quickly. "you do not think that--that--there is fear--that i should look at her now?" "nay, not so; i trust not," she said simply. "but if you wished, you might slip up the stair; 'twould do no harm." he stooped and took off his shoes and threw them aside; then she led the way into the house, and they went stealthily up the short wooden stair. the door was open an inch or two; prudence opened it still farther, but did not go into the room. nor did he; he remained at the threshold, for judith's mother, who was sitting by the bedside, and who had noticed the slight opening of the door, had raised her hand quietly, as if in warning. and was this judith, then, that the cold morning light, entering by the small casement, showed him--worn and wasted, the natural radiance of her face all fled, and in place of that a dull, hectic tone that in nowise concealed the ravages the fever had made? but she slept sound. the bent arm, that she had raised to her head ere she fell asleep, lay absolutely still. no, it was not the judith he had known--so gay and radiant and laughing in the summer meadows; but the wasted form still held a precious life, and he had no mistrust--he would not doubt; there was there still what would win back for him the judith that he had known--ay, if they had to wait all through the winter for the first silver-white days of spring. they stole down-stairs again and went to the front door. all the world was awaking now; the light was clear around them; the small birds were twittering in the bushes. "and will you not go and get some sleep now, prudence?" said he. "surely you have earned it; and now there is the chance." "i could not," she said simply. "there will be time for sleep by-and-by. but now, if you would do us a service, will you go over to the town, and tell susan that judith is sleeping peacefully, and that she need not hurry back, for there be plenty of us to watch and wait? and julius would like to hear the good news, that i know. then you yourself--do you not need rest? why----" "heed not for me, dear prudence," said he quickly, as if it were not worth while wasting time on that topic. "but is there naught else i can do for you? naught that i can bring for you--against her getting well again?" "nay, 'tis all too soon for that," was prudence's answer. "i would the occasion were here, and sure." well, he went away over to the town, and told his tale to those that were astir, leaving a message for those who were not; and then he passed on to his own house, and threw himself on his bed. but he could not rest. it was too far away, while all his thoughts were concentrated on the small cottage over there. so he wandered back thither, and again had assurance that judith was doing well; and then he went quietly up to the summer-house and sat down there; and scarcely had he folded his arms on the little table, and bent forward his head, than he was in a deep sleep, nature claiming her due at last. the hours passed; he knew nothing of them. he was awakened by judith's father, and he looked around him strangely, for he saw by the light that it was now afternoon. "good lad," said he, "i make no scruple of rousing you. there is better news. she is awake, and quite calm and peaceable, and in her right mind--though sadly weak and listless, poor wench." "have you seen her--have you spoken with her?" he said, eagerly. "nay, not yet," judith's father said. "i am doubtful. she is so faint and weak. i would not disturb her----" "i pray you, sir, go and speak with her!" quiney entreated. "nay, i know that will give her more peace of mind than anything. and if she begin to recall what happened ere she fell ill--i pray you, sir, of your kindness, go and speak with her." judith's father went away to the house slowly, and with his head bent in meditation. he spoke to the doctor for a few minutes. but when, after some deliberation, he went up-stairs and into the room, it was his own advice, his own plan, he was acting on. he went forward to the bedside and took the chair that the old grandmother had instantly vacated, and sat down just as if nothing had occurred. "well, lass, how goes it with thee?" he said, with an air of easy unconcern. "bravely well, i hear. thou must haste thee now, for soon we shall be busy with the brewing." she regarded him in a strange way, perhaps wondering whether this was another vision. and then she said, faintly, "why are you come back to stratford, father?" "oh, i have many affairs on hand," said he; "and yet i like not the garden to be so empty. i cannot spare thee over here much longer. 'tis better when thou art in the garden, and little bess with thee--nay, i swear to thee thou disturbest me not--and so must thou get quickly well and home again." he took her hand--the thin, worn, white hand--and patted it. "why," said he, "i hear they told thee some foolish story about me. believe them not, lass. thou and i are old friends, despite thy saucy ways, and thy laughing at the young lads about, and thy lecturing of little bess hall--oh, thou hast thy faults--a many of them too--but heed no idle stories, good lass, that come between me and thee. nay, i will have a sharp word for thee an thou do not as the doctor bids; and thou must rest thee still and quiet, and trouble not thy head, for we want thee back to us at new place. why, i tell thee i cannot have the garden left so empty; wouldst have me with none to talk with but goodman matthew? so now farewell for the moment, good wench; get what sleep thou canst, and take what the doctor bids thee; why, knowest thou not of the ribbons and gloves i have brought thee all the way from london? i warrant me they will please thee!" he patted her hand again, and rose and left, as if it were all a matter of course. for a minute or two after the girl looked dazed and bewildered, as if she were trying to recall many things; but always she kept looking at the hand that he had held, and there was a pleased light in her sad and tired eyes. she lay still and silent--for so she had been enjoined. but by-and-by she said, in a way that was like the ghost of judith's voice of old, "grandmother--i can scarce hold up my hand--will you help me? what is this that is on my head?" "why, 'tis a pretty lace cap that susan brought thee," the grandmother said, "and we would have thee smart and neat ere thy father came in." but she had got her hand to her head now, and then the truth became known to her. she began to cry bitterly. "oh, grandmother, grandmother," she said, or sobbed, "they have cut off my hair, and my father will never look with favor on me again. 'twas all he ever praised!" "dearie, dearie, thy hair will grow again as fair as ever--ay, and who ever had prettier?" the old grandmother said. "why, surely; and the roses will come to thy cheeks, too, that were ever the brightest of any in the town. thy father--heardst thou not what he said a moment ago--that he could not bear to be without thee? nay, nay, fret not, good lass, there be plenty that will right gladly wait for the growing of thy hair again--ay, ay, there be plenty and to spare that will hold thee in high favor and think well of thee--and thy father most of all of them--have no fear!" and so the grandmother got her soothed and hushed, and at last she lay still and silent. but she had been thinking. "grandmother," said she, regarding her thin, wasted hand, "is my face like that?" "hush thee, child; thou must not speak more now, or the doctor will be scolding me." "but tell me, grandmother," she pleaded. "why, then," she answered, evasively, "it be none so plump as it were--but all that will mend--ay, ay, good lass, 'twill mend, surely." again she lay silent for a while, but her mind was busy with its own fears. "grandmother," she said, "will you promise me this--to keep quiney away? you will not let him come into the room, good grandmother, should he ever come over to the cottage?" "ay, and be this thy thanks, then, to him that rode all the way to london town to bring thy father to thee?" said the old dame, with some affectation of reproach. "were i at thy age i would have a fairer message for him." "a message, grandmother?" the girl said, turning her languid eyes to her with some faint eagerness. "ay, that i would send him willingly. he went to london for me, that i know; prudence said so. but perchance he would not care to have it, would he, think you?" the old dame listened, to make sure that the doctor was not within hearing, for this talking was forbidden; but she was anxious to have the girl's mind pleased and at rest, and so she took judith's hand and whispered to her. "a message? ay, i warrant me the lad would think more of it than of aught else in the world. why, sweetheart, he hath been never away from the house all this time--watching to be of service to any one--night and day it hath been so--and that he be not done to death passes my understanding. ay, and the riding to london, and the bringing of thy father, and all--is't not worth a word of thanks? nay, the youth hath won to my favor, i declare to thee; if none else will speak for him i will; a right good honest youth, i warrant. but there now, sweeting, hush thee; i may not speak more to thee, else the doctor will be for driving me forth." there was silence for some time; then judith said, wistfully, "what flowers are in the garden now, grandmother?" the old dame went to the window slowly; it was an excuse for not having too much talking going on. "the garden be far past its best now," said she, "but there be marigolds and michaelmas daisies----" "could you get me a bit of rosemary, grandmother?" the girl asked. "rosemary!" she cried in affright, for the mention of the plant seemed to strike a funeral note. "foolish wench, thou knowest i can never get the rosemary bushes through the spring frosts. rosemary, truly! what wantest thou with rosemary?" "or a pansy, then?" "a pansy, doubtless--ay, ay, that be better now--we may find thee a pansy somewhere--and a plenty of other things, so thou lie still and get well." "nay, i want but the one, grandmother," she said slowly. "you know i cannot write a message to him, and yet i would send him some token of thanks for all that he hath done. and would not that do, grandmother? could you but find me a pansy--if there be one left anywhere--and a small leaf or two; and if 'twere put in a folded paper, and you could give it him from me, and no one knowing? i would rest the happier, grandmother, for i would not have him think me ungrateful--no, no, he must not think me that. and then, good grandmother, you will tell him that i wish him not to see me; only--only, the little flower will show him that i am not ungrateful; for i would not have him think me that." "rest you still now, then, sweeting," the old dame said. "i warrant me we will have the message conveyed to him; but rest you still--rest you still--and ere long you will not be ashamed to show him the roses coming again into your cheeks." chapter xxxv. toward the light. this fresh and clear morning, with a south wind blowing and a blue sky overhead, made even the back yard of quiney's premises look cheerful, though the surroundings were mostly empty barrels and boxes. and he was singing, too, as he went on with his task; sometimes-- "play on, minstrèl, play on, minstrèl, my lady is mine only girl;" and sometimes-- "i bought thee petticoats of the best, the cloth so fine as fine might be; i gave thee jewels for thy chest, and all this cost i spent on thee;" or, again, he would practise his part in the new catch-- "merrily sang the ely monks, when rowed thereby canute the king." and yet this that he was so busy about seemed to have nothing to do with his own proper trade. he had chalked up on the wall a space about the size of an ordinary cottage-window; at each of the upper corners he had hammered in a nail, and now he was endeavoring to suspend from these supports, so that it should stand parallel with the bottom line, an oblong basket roughly made of wire, and pretty obviously of his own construction. his dinner of bread and cheese and ale stood untouched and unheeded on a bench hard by. sometimes he whistled, sometimes he sang, for the morning air was fresh and pleasant, and the sunlight all about was enlivening. presently judith's father made his appearance, and the twisting and shaping of the wire hooks instantly ceased. "she is still going on well?" the lad said, with a rapid and anxious glance. "but slowly--slowly," her father answered. "nay, we must not demand too much. if she but hold her own now, time is on our side, and the doctor is more than ever hopeful that the fever hath left no serious harm behind it. when that she is a little stronger, they talk of having her carried down-stairs--the room is larger--and the window hath a pleasant outlook." "i heard of that," said quiney, glancing at the oblong basket of wire. "i have brought you other news this morning," judith's father said, taking out a letter and handing it to quiney. "but i pray you say nothing of it to the wench; her mind is at rest now; we will let the past go." "nay, i can do no harm in that way," said the younger man, in something of a hurt tone, "for they will not let me see her." "no, truly? why, that is strange, now," her father said, affecting to be surprised, but having a shrewd guess that this was some fancy of the girl's own. "but they would have her kept quiet, i know." quiney was now reading the letter. it was from one of judith's father's companions in london, and the beginning of it was devoted to the imparting of certain information that had apparently been asked from him touching negotiations for the purchase of a house in blackfriars. quiney rightly judged that this part had naught to do with him, and scanned it briefly; and as he went on he came to that which had a closer interest for him. the writer's style was ornate and cumbrous and confused, but his story, in plainer terms, was this: the matter of the purloined play was now all satisfactorily ascertained and settled, except as regarded jack orridge himself, whom a dire mischance had befallen. it appeared that, having married a lady possessed of considerable wealth, his first step was to ransom--at what cost the writer knew not--the play that had been sold to the booksellers, not by himself but by one francis lloyd. it was said that this lloyd had received but a trifle for it, and had, in truth, parted with it in the course of a drunken frolic; but that "gentleman jack," as they called him, had to disburse a goodly sum ere he could get the manuscript back into his own hands. that forthwith he had come to the theatre and delivered up the play, with such expressions of penitence and shame that they could not forbear to give him full quittance for his fault. but this was not all; for, having heard that francis lloyd had in many quarters been making a jest of the matter, and telling of orridge's adventures in warwickshire, and naming names, the young man had determined to visit him with personal chastisement, but had been defeated in this by lloyd being thrust into prison for debt. that thereafter lloyd, being liberated from jail, was sitting in a tavern with certain companions; and there "gentleman jack" found him, and dealt him a blow on the face with the back of his hand, with a mind to force the duello upon him. but that here again orridge had ill-fortune; for lloyd, being in his cups, would fight then and there, and flung himself on him, without sword or anything, as they thought; but that presently, in the struggle, orridge uttered a cry, "i am stabbed," and fell headlong, and they found him with a dagger-wound in his side, bleeding so that they thought he would have died ere help came. and that in truth he had been nigh within death's door, and was not yet out of the leech's hands; while as for lloyd, he had succeeded in making good his escape, and was now in flanders, as some reported. this was the gist of the story, as far as quiney was interested; thereafter came chiefly details about the theatre, and the writer concluded with wishing his correspondent all health and happiness, and bidding him ever remember "his true loving friend, henry condell." quiney handed back the letter. "i wish the dagger had struck the worser villain of the two," said he. "'tis no concern of ours," judith's father said. "and i would have the wench hear never a word more of the matter. nay, i have already answered her that 'twas all well and settled in london, and no harm done; and the sooner 'tis quite forgotten the better. the young man hath made what amends he could; i trust he may soon be well of his wound again. and married, is he? perchance his hurt may teach him to be more of a stay-at-home." judith's father put the letter in his pocket, and was for leaving, when quiney suggested that if he were going to the cottage he would accompany him, as some business called him to bidford. and so they set out together--the younger man having first of all made a bundle of the wire basket and the nails and hooks and what not, so that he could the more easily carry them. it was a clear and mild october day; the wide country very silent; the woods turning to yellow and russet now and here and there golden leaves fluttering down from the elms. so quiet and peaceful it all was in the gracious sunlight; the steady ploughing going on; groups of people gleaning in the bean-field, but not a sound of any kind reaching them, save the cawing of some distant rooks. and when they drew near to shottery, quiney had an eye for the cottage-gardens, to see what flowers or shrubs were still available; for of course the long wire basket, when it was hung outside judith's window, must be filled--ay, and filled freshly at frequent intervals. if the gardens or the fields or the hedge-rows would furnish sufficient store, there would be no lack of willing hands for the gathering. they went first to the front door (the room that judith was to be moved into looked to the back), and here, ere they had crossed the threshold, they beheld a strange thing. the old grandmother was standing at the foot of the wooden stair, with a small looking-glass in her hand; she had not heard them approach, so it was with some amazement they saw her deliberately let fall the glass on to the stone passage, where naturally it was smashed into a hundred fragments. and forthwith she began to scold and rate the little cicely, and that in so loud a voice that her anger must have been plainly heard in the sick-room above. "ah, thou mischief, thou imp, thou idle brat, thou must needs go break the only looking-glass in the house! a handy wench, truly; thou can hold nothing with thy silly fingers, but must break cup and platter and pane, and now the looking-glass--'twere well done to box thine ears, thou mischief!" and with that she patted the little girl on the shoulder, and shrewdly winked and smiled and nodded her head; and then she went up the stair, again and loudly bewailing her misfortune. "what a spite be this now!" they could hear her say, at the door of judith's room. "the only looking-glass in the house and just as thou wouldst have it sent for! that mischievous, idle little wench--heard you the crash, sweetheart? well, well, no matter; i must still have the tiring of thee--against any one coming to see thee; ay, and i would have thee brave and smart, when thou art able to sit up a bit--ay, and thy hair will soon be grown again, sweeting--and then the trinkets that thy father brought--and the lace cuffs that quiney gave thee--these and all thou must wear. was ever such a spite, now?--our only looking-glass to be broken so; but thou shalt not want it, sweetheart--nay, nay, thou must rest in my hands--i will have thee smart enough; when any would come to see thee----" that was all they heard, for now she shut the door; but both of them guessed readily enough why the good dame had thrown down and smashed the solitary mirror of the house. then they went within, and heard from prudence that judith was going on well but very slowly, and that her mind was in perfect calm and content, only that at times she seemed anxious that her father should return to london, lest his affairs should be hindered. "and truly i must go ere long," said he, "but not yet. not until she is more fairly on the highway." they were now in the room that was to be given up to judith, because of its larger size. "prudence," said quiney, "if the bed were placed so--by the window--she might be propped up, so that when she chose she could look abroad. were not that a simple thing--and cheerful for her? and i have arranged a small matter so that every morning she may find some fresh blossoms awaiting her--and yet not disturbing her with any one wishing to enter the room. methinks one might better fix it now, ere she be brought down, so that the knocking may not harm her." "i would she were in a fit state to be brought down," prudence said, rather sadly; "for never saw i any one so weak and helpless." all the same he went away to see whether the oblong basket of wire and the fastenings would fit; and although (being a tall youth) he could easily reach the foot of the window with his hands, he had to take a chair with him in order to gain the proper height for the nails. prudence from within saw what he was after, and when it was all fixed up she opened one of the casements to speak to him, and her face was well pleased. "truly, now, that was kindly thought of," said she. "and shall i tell her of this that you have contrived for her?" "why, 'tis in this way, prudence," said he, rather shamefacedly, "she need not know whether 'tis this one or that that puts a few blossoms in the basket--'twill do for any one--any one that is passing along the road or through the meadows, and picks up a pretty thing here or there. 'twill soon be hard to get such things--save some red berries or the like--but when any can stop in passing and add their mite, 'twill be all the easier, for who that knows her but hath good-will toward her?" "and her thanks to whom?" said prudence, smiling. "why, to all of them," said he, evasively. "nay, i would not have her even know that i nailed up the little basket--perchance she might think i was too officious." "and can you undo it?" she asked. "can you take it down?" "surely," he answered, and he lifted the basket off the hooks to show her. "for," said she, "if you would bring it round, might we not put a few flowers in it, and have them carried up to judith, to show her what you have designed for her? in truth it would please her." he was not proof against this temptation. he carried the basket round, and they fell to gathering such blossoms as the garden afforded--marigolds, monthly roses, michaelmas daisies, and the like, with some scarlet hips from the neighboring hedges, and some broad green leaves to serve as a cushion for all of these. but he did not stay to hear how his present was received. he was on his way to bidford, and on foot, for he had kept his promise with the galloway nag. so he bade prudence farewell, and said he would call in again on his way back in the evening. the wan, sad face lit up with something like pleasure when judith saw this little present brought before her; it was not the first by many of similar small attentions that he had paid her--tokens of a continual thoughtfulness and affection--though he was not even permitted to see her, much less to speak with her. how his business managed to thrive during this period they could hardly guess, only that he seemed to find time for everything. apparently, he was content with the most hap-hazard meals, and seemed able to get along with scarcely any sleep at all; and always he was the most hopeful one in the house, and would not admit that judith's recovery seemed strangely slow, but regarded everything as happening for the best, and tending toward a certain and happy issue. one result of his being continually in or about the cottage was this--that master walter blaise had not looked near them since the night on which the fever reached its crisis. the women-folk surmised that, now there was a fair hope of judith's recovery, he perchance imagined his ministrations to be no longer necessary, and was considerately keeping out of the way, seeing that he could be of no use. at all events, they did not discuss the subject much, for more than one of them had perceived that, whenever the parson's name was mentioned, judith's father became reticent and reserved--which was about his only way of showing displeasure--so that they got into the habit of omitting all mention of master blaise, for the better preserving and maintaining the serenity of the domestic atmosphere. and yet master blaise came to be talked of--and to judith herself--this very morning. when prudence went into the room, carrying quiney's flowers, the old grandmother said she would go down and see how dinner was getting forward (she having more mouths to feed than usual), and prudence was left in her place, with strict injunctions to see that judith took the small portions of food that had been ordered her at the proper time. prudence sat down by the bedside. these two had not had much confidential chatting of late, for judith had been forbidden to talk much, and was, indeed, far too weak and languid for that, while generally there was some third person about in attendance. but now they were alone; and prudence had a long tale to tell of quiney's constant watchfulness and care, and of all the little things he had thought of and arranged for her, up to the construction of the wire flower-basket. "but what he hath done, judith, to anger parson blaise, i cannot make out," she continued--"ay, and to anger him sorely; for yesternight, when i went over to see how my brother did, i met master blaise, and he stayed me and talked with me for a space. nay, he spoke too harshly of quiney, so that i had to defend him, and say what i had seen of him--truly, i was coming near to speaking with warmth--and then he went away from that. and think you what he came to next, judith?" the pale, quiet face of the speaker was overspread with a blush, and she looked timidly at her friend. "what then, sweetheart?" "perchance i should not tell you," she said, with some hesitation; and then she said, more frankly, "nay, why should there be any concealment between us, judith? and he laid no charge of secrecy on me--in truth, i said that i would think of it, and might even ask for counsel and guidance. he would have made me his wife, judith." judith betrayed no atom of surprise, nay, she almost instantly smiled her approval--it was a kind of friendly congratulation, as it were--and she would have reached out her hand only that she was so weak. "i am glad of that, dear mouse," said she, as pleasantly as she could. "there would you be in your proper place; is't not so? and what said you? what said you, sweetheart? ah, they all would welcome you, be sure; and a parson's wife--a parson's wife, prudence--would not that be your proper place? would you not be happy so?" "i know not," the girl said, and she spoke wistfully, and as if she were regarding distant things. "he had nearly persuaded me, good heart, for indeed there is such power and clearness in all he says; and it was almost put before me as a duty, and something incumbent on me, for the pleasing of all of them, and the being useful and serviceable to so many; and then--and then----" there was another timid glance, and she took judith's hand; and her eyes were downcast as she made the confession: "nay, i will tell thee the truth, sweetheart. had he spoken to me earlier--i--i might not have said him nay--so good a man and earnest withal, and not fearing to give offence if he can do true service to the master of us all. judith, if it be unmaidenly, blame me not, but at one time i had thoughts of him; and sometimes, ashamed, i would not go to your house when he was there in the afternoon, though julius wondered, seeing that there was worship and profitable expounding. but now--now--now 'tis different." "why, dear mouse, why?" judith said, with some astonishment; "you must not flout the good man. 'tis an honorable offer." prudence was looking back on that past time. "if he had spoken then," she said, absently, "my heart would have rejoiced; and well i knew 'twould have been no harm to you, dear judith, for who could doubt how you were inclined--ay, through all your quarrels and misunderstandings? and if 'twas you the good parson wished for in those days----" "prudence," her friend said, reproachfully, "you do ill to go back over a by-gone story. if you had thoughts of him then, when as yet he had not spoken, why not now, when he would have you be his wife? 'tis an honorable offer, as i say; and you--were you not meant for a parson's wife, sweetheart?" then prudence regarded her with her honest eyes. "i should be afraid, judith. perchance i have listened overmuch to your grandmother's talking and to quiney's; they are both of them angered against him. they say he wrought you ill, and was cruel when he should have been gentle with you, and was overproud of his office. nay, i marked that your father had scarce ever a word for him when he was coming over to the cottage, but would get away somehow and leave him. and--and methinks i should be afraid, judith; 'tis no longer as it used to be in former days; and then, without perfect confidence, how should one dare to venture on such a step? no, no, judith, i should be afraid." "in truth i cannot advise thee, then, dear heart," her friend said, looking at her curiously. "for more than any i know should you marry one that would be gentle with you and kind. and think you that the parson would overlord it?" "i know not--i know not," she said, in the same absent way. "but with doubt, with hesitation, without perfect confidence--how could one take such a step?" and then she bethought her. "why, now, all this talking over my poor affairs?" she said, more cheerfully. "a goodly nurse i am proving myself! 'tis thy affairs are of greater moment, and thou must push forward, sweetheart, and get well more rapidly, else they will say we are careless and foolish, that cannot bring thee into firmer health." "but i am well content," said judith, with a perfectly placid smile. "content! but you must not be content," prudence exclaimed. "would you remain within-doors until your hair be grown? vanity is it, then? ah, for shame--you that always professed to be so proud, and careless of what they thought! content, truly! look at so thin a hand--are you content to remain so?" "i am none so ill," judith said, pleasantly. "the days pass well enough, and every one is kind." "but i say you must not be content!" prudence again remonstrated. "did ever any one see such a poor, weak, white hand as that? look at the thin, thin veins." "ah, but you know not, sweetheart," judith said, and she herself looked at those thin blue veins in the white hand; "they seem to me to be running full of music and happiness ever since i came out of the fever and found my father talking to me in the old way." chapter xxxvi. "western wind, when will you blow?" there was much laughing among the good folk of stratford town--or rather among those of them allowed to visit quiney's back yard--over the nondescript vehicle that he and his friend pleydell were constructing there. but that was chiefly at the first, when the neighbors would call it a coffin on wheels or a grown-up cradle; afterward, when it grew into shape and began to exhibit traces of decoration (the little canopy at the head, for example, was covered, over with blue taffeta that made a shelter from the sun), they moderated their ridicule, and at last declared it a most ingenious and useful contrivance, and one that went as easily on its leather bands as any king's coach that ever was built. and they said they hoped it would do good service, for they knew it was meant for judith; and she had won the favor and good-will of many in that town, in so far as an unmarried young woman was deemed worthy of consideration. but that was an anxious morning when quiney set forth with this strange vehicle for the cottage. little willie hart was there, and quiney had flung him inside, saying he would give him a ride as far as shottery, but thereafter he did not speak a word to the boy. for this was the morning on which he was to see judith for the first time since the fever had left her, and not only that, but he had been appointed to carry her down-stairs to the larger room below. this was by the direct instructions of the doctor. judith's father was now in london again, the doctor was not a very powerful man, the staircase was over-narrow to let two of the women try it between them; who, therefore, was there but this young athlete to gather up that precious charge and bear her gently forth? but when he thought of that first meeting with judith he trembled, and dismay and apprehension filled his heart lest he should show himself in the smallest way shocked by her appearance. careless as she might have been of other things, she had always put a value on that; she knew she had good looks, and she liked to look pretty and dainty, and to wear becoming and pretty things. and again and again he schooled himself and argued with himself. he must be prepared to find her changed--nay, had he not already had one glimpse of her, as she lay asleep, in the cold light of the dawn?--he must be prepared to find the happy and radiant face no longer that, but all faded and white and worn, the clear shining eyes no longer laughing, but sunken and sad, and the beautiful sun-brown hair--that was her chiefest pride of all--no longer clustering round her neck. not that he himself cared--judith was for him always and ever judith, whatever she might be like, but his terror was lest he should betray, in the smallest fashion, some pained surprise. he knew how sensitive she was, and as an invalid she would be even more so, and what a fine thing it would be if her eyes were suddenly to fill with tears on witnessing his disappointment! and so he argued and argued, and strove to think of judith as a ghost--as anything rather than her former self; and when he reached the cottage, he asked whether judith was ready to be brought down, in so matter-of-fact a way that he seemed perfectly unconcerned. well, she was not ready, for her grandmother had the tiring of her, and the old dame was determined that (if she had her way) her grandchild should look none too like an invalid. if the sun-brown curls were gone, at least the cap that she wore should have pretty blue ribbons where it met under the chin. and she would have her wear the lace cuffs, too, that quiney had brought her from warwick--did not she owe it to him to do service for the gift? and when all that was done, she made judith take a little wine-and-water, to strengthen her for the being carried down-stairs, and then she sent word that quiney might come up. he made his appearance forthwith, a little pale, perhaps, and hesitating and apprehensive as he crossed the threshold. and then he came quickly forward, and there was a sudden wonder of joy and gladness in his eyes. "judith," he exclaimed, quite involuntarily, and forgetting everything, "why, how well you are looking!--indeed, indeed you are!--sweetheart, you are not changed at all!" for this was judith; not any of the spectral phantoms he had been conjuring up, but judith herself, regarding him with friendly (if yet timid) eyes, and her face, as he looked at her in this glad way, was no longer pale, but had grown rose-red as the face of a bride. her anxiety and nervousness had been far greater than she dared to tell any of them; but now his surprise and delight were surely real, and then--for she was very weak, and she had been anxious and full of fear, and this joy of seeing him--of seeing a strange face, that belonged to the former happy time--was too much for her. her lips were tremulous, tears rose to her eyes, and she would have turned away to hide her crying--but that all at once he recalled his scattered senses, and inwardly cursed himself for a fool, and forthwith addressed her in the most cheerful and simple way. "why, now, what stories they have been telling me, judith! i should scarce know you had been ill. you are thinner--oh, yes, you are a little thinner; and if you went to the woods to gather nuts i reckon you would not bring home a heavy bag; but that will all mend in time. in honest truth, dear judith, i am glad to see you looking none so ill; now i marvel not at your father going away to see after his affairs--so sure he must have been." "i am glad that he went, i was fretting so," she said (and it was so strange to hear judith's voice, that always stirred his heart as if with the vibration of susan's singing), and then she added, timidly regarding him--"and you--i have caused you much trouble also." he laughed; in truth he was so bewildered with the delight of seeing this real living judith before him that he scarce knew what he said. "trouble! yes, trouble, indeed, that i could do nothing for you, and all the others waiting with you and cheering you. but now, dear judith, i have something for you--oh, you shall see it presently; and you may laugh, but i warrant me you will find it easy and comfortable when that you are allowed to go forth into the garden. 'tis a kind of couch, as it were, but on wheels--nay, you may call it your chariot, judith, if you would be in state; and if you may not go farther than the garden at first, why, then you may lie in it, and have some one read to you; and there is a small curtain if you would shut them all out and go to sleep; ay, and when the time comes for you to go along the lanes, then you may sit up somewhat, for there are pillows for your head and for your back. as for the drawing of it, why, little willie hart can pull me when i am in it, and surely he can do the same for you, that are scarce so heavy as i, as i take it. oh, i warrant you, you will soon get used to it; and 'twill be so much pleasanter for you than being always within-doors--and the fresher air--the fresher air will soon bring back your color, judith." for now that the first flush of embarrassment was gone he could not but see (though still he talked in that cheerful strain) how pale and worn was her face; and her hands, that lay listlessly on the coverlet, with the pretty lace cuffs going back from the wrists, were spectral hands, so thin and white were they. "master quiney," said the old dame, coming to the door, "it be all ready now below, if you can carry the wench down. and take time--take time--there be no hurry." "you must come and help me, good grandmother," said he, "to get her well into my arms." in truth he was trembling with very nervousness as he set about this task. should some mischance occur--some stumble! and then he found himself all too strong and uncouth and clumsy, with her so frail and delicate and weak. but her grandmother lifted the girl's hand to his shoulder, or rather to his neck, and bade her hold on so, as well as she might; and then he got his arms better round her, and with slow and careful steps made his way down to the room below. there the bed was near the window, and when he had gently placed her on it, and propped up her head and shoulders, so that she was almost sitting, the first thing that she saw before her was the slung box of flowers and leaves outside the little casement. she turned to him and smiled, and looked her thanks with grateful eyes: he sought for no more than that. of course they were all greatly pleased at this new state of affairs--it seemed a step on the forward way, a hopeful thing. moreover, there was a brighter animation in the girl's look--whether that was owing to the excitement of the change or the pleasure at seeing the face of an old friend. and as the others seemed busy among themselves, suggesting small arrangements, and the like, quiney judged it was time for him to go; his services were no longer needed. he went forward to her. "judith," said he, "i will bid you good-day now. if you but knew how glad i am to have seen you--ay, and to find you going on so well! i will take away a lighter heart with me." she looked up at him hesitating and timid, and then she gathered courage. "but why must you go?" said she, with some touch of color in the pale face. he glanced at the others. "perchance they may not wish me to stay; they may fear your being tired with talking." "but if i wish you to stay--for a little while?" she said, gently. "if your business call you not----" "my business!" he said. "my business must shift for itself on such a day as this; think you 'tis nothing for me to speak with you again, judith, after so long a time?" "and my chariot," she said, brightly--"may not i see my chariot?" "why, truly!" he cried. "willie hart is in charge of it without. we will bring it along the passage, and you will see it at the door; and you must not laugh, dear judith--'tis a rude-made thing, i know--but serviceable--you shall have comfort from it, i warrant you." they wheeled it along the passage, but could not get it within the apartment; however, through the open door she could see very easily the meaning and construction of it. and when she observed with what care and pretty taste it had been adorned for her, even to the putting ribbons at the front corners of the little canopy (but this was not the work of men's fingers; it was prudence who had contributed these), she was not in the least inclined to laugh at the efforts of these good friends to be of use to her and to gratify her. she beckoned him to come to her. "'tis but a patchwork thing to look at," said he, rather shamefacedly, "but i hope you will find it right comfortable when you use it. i hope soon to hear of you trying it, judith." "give me your hand," said she. she took his hand and kissed it. "i cannot speak my thanks to you," she said, in a low voice, "for not only this but all that you have done for me." there were tears in her eyes, and he was so bewildered, and his heart so wildly aflame, that he could only touch her shoulder and say, "be still now, judith. be still and quiet, and perchance they may let me remain with you a little space further." * * * * * well, it was a long and a weary waiting. she seemed, too, content with her feeble state; there were so many who were kind to her; and her father sending her messages from london; and quiney coming every morning to put some little things--branches of evergreens, or the like, when flowers were no longer to be had--in the little basket outside the window. he could reach to that easily; and when she happened to hear his footsteps coming near, even when she could not see him, she would tap with her white fingers on the window-panes--that was her thanks to him, and morning greeting. it was a bitter winter, and ever they were looking forward to the milder weather, to see when they might risk taking her out-of-doors, swathed up in her chariot, as she called it; but the weeks and weeks went by, hard and obdurate, and at last they found themselves in the new year. but she could get about the house a little now, in a quiet way; and so it was that, one morning, she and quiney were together standing at the front window, looking abroad over the wide white landscape. snow lay everywhere, thick and silent; the bushes were heavy with it; and far beyond those ghostly meadows, though they could not see it they knew that the avon was fixed and hard in its winter sleep, under the hanging banks of the wier brake. "'_western wind, when will you blow?_'" she said, and yet not sadly, for there was a placid look in her eyes: she was rather complaining, with a touch of the petulance of the judith of old. the arm of her lover was resting lightly on her shoulder--she was strong enough to bear that now, and she did not resent the burden; and she had got her soft sunny-brown curls again, though still they were rather short; and her face had got back something of its beautiful curves; and her eyes, if they were not so cruelly audacious as of old, were yet clear-shining and gentle, and with abundance of kind messages for all the world, but with tenderer looks for only one. "'_western wind_,'" she repeated, with that not over-sad complaint of injury, "'_when will you blow--when will you blow?_'" "all in good time, sweetheart, all in good time," said he; and his hand lay kindly on her shoulder, as if she were one to whom some measure of gentle tending and cheering words were somewhat due. "and guess you now what they mean to do for you when the milder weather comes? i mean the lads at the school. why, then, 'tis a secret league and compact--i doubt not that your cousin willie may have been at the suggesting of it--but 'twas some of the bigger lads who came to me. and 'tis all arranged now, and all for the sake of you, dear heart. for when the milder weather comes, and the year begins to wake again, why, they are all of them to keep a sharp and eager eye here and there--in the lanes or in the woods--for the early peeping up of the primroses; and then 'tis to be a grand whole holiday that i am to get for them, as it appears; and all the school is to go forth to search the hedge-rows and the woods and the banks--all the country-side is to be searched and searched--and for what, think you? why, to bring you a spacious basketful of the very first primroses of the spring! see you, now, what it is to be the general favorite. nay, i swear to you, dear judith, you are the sweetheart of all of them; and what a shame it is that i must take you away from them all!" the end. list of corrections: p. : "and a semicicle on the crumbling earth" was changed to "and a semicircle on the crumbling earth." p. : "she did not not seem" was changed to "she did not seem." p. : "from you own people" was changed to "from your own people." p. : "chance of the the same" was changed to "chance of the same." p. : "we sat in the litttle bower" was changed to "we sat in the little bower." p. : "she had heard vaguely of from time time" was changed to "she had heard vaguely of from time to time." p. : "this acquaintence the moment she chose." was changed to "this acquaintance the moment she chose." p. : "the deliberare purpose" was changed to "the deliberate purpose." p. : "letters of red and biack;" was changed to "letters of red and black;" p. : "as he slowy sharpened" was changed to "as he slowly sharpened." p. : "for how long?--a fornight!" was changed to "for how long?--a fortnight!" p. : "her contritition" was changed to "her contrition." p. : "lead her delirous wanderings" was changed to "lead her delirious wanderings." p. : "so sure be must have been" was changed to "so sure he must have been." errata: p. : "nay, but this time you have hit the mark," complacently. should be "nay, but this time you have hit the mark," said judith, complacently. p. : "'twas a bold demand to made of england!" should be "'twas a bold demand to make of england!" transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. [illustration: may iverson] may iverson's career by elizabeth jordan author of "may iverson--her book" "many kingdoms" etc. harper & brothers publishers new york and london to f. h. b. with memories of the wistful adriatic contents chap. page i. my first assignment ii. the cry of the pack iii. the girl in gray iv. in gay bohemia v. the case of helen brandow vi. the last of the morans vii. to the rescue of miss morris viii. maria annunciata ix. the revolt of tildy mears x. a message from mother elise xi. "t. b." conducts a rehearsal xii. the rise of the curtain list of illustrations may iverson _frontispiece_ "don't stand there staring. i know i'm not a beauty," and she cackled like an angry hen. it was young "shep," the last of the morans "d'ye know the woman?" he said may iverson's career i my first assignment the commencement exercises at st. catharine's were over, and everybody in the big assembly-hall was looking relieved and grateful. mabel muriel murphy had welcomed our parents and friends to the convent shades in an extemporaneous speech we had overheard her practising for weeks; and the proud face of mabel muriel's father, beaming on her as she talked, illumined the front row like an electric globe. maudie joyce had read a beautiful essay, full of uplifting thoughts and rare flowers of rhetoric; mabel blossom had tried to deliver her address without the manuscript, and had forgotten it at a vital point; adeline thurston had recited an original poem; kittie james had sung a solo; and janet trelawney had played the sixth hungarian rhapsody on the piano. need i say who read the valedictory? it was i--may iverson--winner of the cross of honor, winner of the crown, leader of the convent orchestra, and president of the senior class. if there are those who think i should not mention these honors i will merely ask who would do it if i did not--and pause for a reply. besides, young as i am, i know full well that worldly ambitions and triumphs are as ashes on the lips; and already i was planning to cast mine aside. but at this particular minute the girls were crying on one another over our impending parting, and our parents were coming up to us and saying the same things again and again, while sister edna was telling mabel muriel murphy, without being asked, that she was not ashamed of one of us. i could see my father coming toward me through the crowd, stopping to shake hands with my classmates and tell them how wonderful they were; and i knew that when he reached me i must take him out into the convent garden and break his big, devoted heart. at the thought of it a great lump came into my throat, and while i was trying to swallow it i felt his arm flung over my shoulder. he bent down and kissed me. "well, my girl," he said, "i'm proud of you." that was all. i knew it was all he would ever say; but it meant more than any one else could put into hours of talk. i did not try to answer, but i kissed him hard, and, taking his arm, led him down-stairs, through the long halls and out into the convent garden, lovely with the scent of roses and honeysuckle and mignonette. he had never seen the garden before. he wanted to stroll through it and glance into the conservatories, to look at the fountain and visit the grotto of lourdes and stand gazing up at the huge cross that rises from a bed of passion-flowers. but at last i took him into a little arbor and made him sit down. i was almost glad my delicate mother had not been able to come to see me graduate. he would tell her what i had to say better than i could. when i have anything before me that is very hard i always want to do it immediately and get it over. so now i stood with my back braced against the side of the arbor, and, looking my dear father straight in the eyes, i told him i had made up my mind to be a nun. at first he looked as if he thought i must be joking. then, all in a minute, he seemed to change from a gallant middle-aged officer into a crushed, disappointed old man. he bowed his head, his shoulders sagged down, and, turning his eyes as if to keep me from seeing what was in them, he stared out over the convent garden. "why, may!" he said; and then again, very quietly, "why, may!" i told him all that was in my mind, and he listened without a word. at the end he said he had thought i wanted to be a newspaper woman. i admitted that i had felt that desire a year ago--when i was only seventeen and my mind was immature. he sat up in his seat then and looked more comfortable--and younger. "i'll put my answer in a nutshell," he said. "you're too young still to know your mind about anything. give your family and the world a chance. i don't want you to be a nun. i don't want you to be a newspaper woman, either. but i'll compromise. be a newspaper woman for three years." i began to speak, but he stopped me. "it's an interesting life," he went on. "you'll like it. but if you come to us the day you are twenty-one and tell us you still want to be a nun i promise that your mother and i will consent. give us a chance, may." and he added, gently, "_play fair_." those two words hurt; but they conquered me. i agreed to do as he asked, and then we sat together, hand in hand, talking over plans, till the corners of the garden began to look mysterious in the twilight. before we went back to the assembly-room it was understood that i was to go to new york in a week and begin my new career. papa had friends there who would look after me. i was sure they would never have a chance; but i did not mention that to my dear father then, while he was still feeling the shock of decision. when i was saying good-by to sister irmingarde six days later i asked her to give me some advice about my newspaper work. "write of things as they are," she said, without hesitation, "and write of them as simply as you can." i was a little disappointed. i had expected something inspiring--something in the nature of a trumpet-call. i suppose she saw my face fall, for she smiled her beautiful smile. "and when you write the sad stories you're so fond of, dear may," she said, "remember to let your readers shed their own tears." i thought a great deal about those enigmatic words on my journey to new york, but after i reached it i forgot them. it was just as well, for no one associated with my work there had time to shed tears. my editor was mr. nestor hurd, of the _searchlight_. he had promised to give me a trial because kittie james's brother-in-law, george morgan, who was his most intimate friend, said he must; but i don't think he really wanted to. when i reported to him he looked as if he had not eaten or slept for weeks, and as if seeing me was the one extra trouble he simply could not endure. there was a bottle of tablets on his desk, and every time he noticed it he stopped to swallow a tablet. he must have taken six while he was talking to me. he was a big man, with a round, smooth face, and dimples in his cheeks and chin. he talked out of one side of his mouth in a kind of low snarl, without looking at any one while he spoke. "oh," was his greeting to me, "you're the convent girl? ready for work? all right. i'll try you on this." he turned to the other person in the office--a thin young man at a desk near him. neither of them had risen when i entered. "here, morris," he said. "put miss iverson down for the ferncliff story." the young man called morris dropped a big pencil and looked very much surprised. "but--" he said. "why, say, she'll have to stay out in that house alone--all night." mr. hurd said shortly that i couldn't be in a safer place. "are you afraid of ghosts?" he asked, without looking at me. i said i was not, and waited for him to explain the joke; but he didn't. "here's the story," he said. "listen, and get it straight. ferncliff is a big country house out on long island, about three miles from sound view. it's said to be haunted. its nearest neighbor is a quarter of a mile away. it was empty for three years until this spring. last month mrs. wallace vanderveer, a new york society woman, took a year's lease of it and moved in with a lot of servants. last week she moved out. servants wouldn't stay. said they heard noises and saw ghosts. she heard noises, too. now the owner of ferncliff, a miss watts, is suing mrs. vanderveer for a year's rent. nice little story in it. see it?" i didn't, exactly. that is, i didn't see what he wanted me to do about it, and i said so. "i want you to take the next train for sound view," he snarled, impatiently, and pulled the left side of his mouth down to his chin. "when you get there, drive out and look at ferncliff to see what it's like in the daytime. then go to the sound view hotel and have your dinner. about ten o'clock go back to ferncliff, and stay there all night. sit up. if you see any ghosts, write about 'em. if you don't, write about how it felt to stay there and wait for 'em. come back to town to-morrow morning and turn in your story. if it's good we'll run it. if it isn't," he added, grimly, "we'll throw it out. see now?" i saw now. "here's the key of the house," he said. "we got it from the agent." he turned and began to talk to mr. morris about something else--and i knew that our interview was over. i went to sound view on the first train, and drove straight from the station to ferncliff. it was almost five o'clock, and a big storm was coming up. the rain was like a wet, gray veil, and the wind snarled in the tops of the pine-trees in a way that made me think of mr. hurd. i didn't like the look of the house. it was a huge, gloomy, vine-covered place, perched on a bluff overlooking the sound, and set far back from the road. an avenue of pines led up to it, and a high box-hedge along the front cut off the grounds from the road and the near-by fields. when we drove away my cabman kept glancing back over his shoulder as if he expected to see the ghosts. i was glad to get into the hotel and have a few hours for thought. i was already perfectly sure that i was not going to like being a newspaper woman, and i made up my mind to write to papa the next morning and tell him so. i thought of the convent and of sister irmingarde, who was probably at vespers now in the chapel, and the idea of that assignment became more unpleasant every minute. not that i was afraid--i, an iverson, and the daughter of a general in the army! but the thing seemed silly and unworthy of a convent girl, and lonesome work besides. as i thought of the convent it suddenly seemed so near that i could almost hear its vesper bell, and that comforted me. i went back to ferncliff at ten o'clock. by that time the storm was really wild. it might have been a night in november instead of in july. the house looked very bleak and lonely, and the way my driver lashed his horse and hurried away from the neighborhood did not make it easier for me to unlock the front door and go in. but i forced myself to do it. i had filled a basket with candles and matches and some books and a good luncheon, which the landlady at the hotel had put up for me. i hurriedly lighted two candles and locked the front door. then i took the candles into the living-room at the left of the hall, and set them on a table. they made two little blurs of light in which the linen-covered furniture assumed queer, ghostly shapes that seemed to move as the flames flickered. i did not like the effect, so i lighted some more candles. i was sure the first duty of a reporter was to search the house. so i took a candle in each hand and went into every room, up stairs and down, spending a great deal of time in each, for it was strangely comforting to be busy. i heard all sorts of sounds--mice in the walls, old boards cracking under my feet, and a death-tick that began to get on my nerves, though i knew what it was. but there was nothing more than might be heard in any other old house. when i returned to the living-room i looked at my luncheon-basket--not that i was hungry, but i wanted something more to do, and eating would have filled the time so pleasantly. but if i ate, there would be nothing to look forward to but the ghost, so i decided to wait. outside, the screeching wind seemed to be sweeping the rain before it in a rising fury. it was half past eleven. twelve is the hour when ghosts are said to come, i remembered. i took up a book and began to read. i had almost forgotten my surroundings when a noise sounded on the veranda, a noise that made me stop reading to listen. something was out there--something that tried the knob of the door and pushed against the panels; something that scampered over to the window-blinds and pulled at them; something that opened the shutters and tried to peer in. i laid down my book. the feet scampered back to the door. i stopped breathing. there followed a knocking at the door, the knocking of weak hands, which soon began to beat against the panels with closed fists; and next i heard a high, shrill voice. it seemed to be calling, uttering words, but above the shriek of the storm i could not make out what they were. creeping along the floor to the window, i pulled back one of the heavy curtains and raised the green shade under it half an inch. for a moment i could see nothing but the twisting pines. but at last i was able to distinguish something moving near the door--something no larger than a child, but with white hair floating round its head. it was not a ghost. it was not an animal. it could not be a human being. i had no idea what it was. while i looked it turned and came toward the window where i was crouching, as if it felt my eyes upon it. and this time i heard its words. "let me in!" it shrieked. "let me in! let me in!" and in a kind of fury it scampered back and dashed itself against the door. then i was afraid--not merely nervous--afraid--with a degrading fear that made my teeth chatter. if only i had known what it was; if only i could think of something normal that was a cross between a little child and an old woman! i went to the door and noiselessly turned the key. i meant to open it an inch and ask what was there. but almost before the door had moved on its hinges the thing outside saw it. it gave a quick spring and a little screech and threw itself against the panels. the next instant i went back and down, and the thing that had been outside was inside. i got up slowly and looked at it. it seemed to be a witch--a little old, humpbacked witch--not more than four feet high, with white hair that hung in wet locks around a shriveled brown face, and black eyes gleaming at me in the dark hall like an angry cat's. "you little fool!" she hissed. "why didn't you let me in? i'm soaked through. and why didn't that bell ring? what's been done to the wire?" i could not speak, and after looking at me a moment more the little old creature locked the hall door and walked into the living-room, motioning to me to follow. she was panting with anger or exhaustion, or both. when we had entered the room she turned and grinned at me like a malicious monkey. "scared you, didn't i?" she chuckled, in her high, cracked voice. "serves you right. keeping me out on that veranda fifteen minutes!" she began to gather up the loose locks of her white hair and fasten them at the back of her head. "wind blew me to pieces," she muttered. she took off her long black coat, threw it over a chair, and straightened the hat that hung over one ear. she _was_ a human being, after all; a terribly deformed human being, whose great, hunched back now showed distinctly through her plain black dress. there was a bit of lace at her throat, and when she took off her gloves handsome rings glittered on her claw-like fingers. "well, well," she said, irritably, "don't stand there staring. i know i'm not a beauty," and she cackled like an angry hen. but it was reassuring, at least, to know she was human, and i felt myself getting warm again. then, as she seemed to expect me to say something, i explained that i had not intended to let anybody in, because i thought nobody had any right in the house. "humph," she said. "i've got a better right here than you have, young lady. i am the owner of this house and everything in it--i am miss watts. and i'll tell you one thing"--she suddenly began to trot around the room--"i've stood this newspaper nonsense about ghosts just as long as i'm going to. it's ruining the value of my property. i live in brooklyn, but when my agent telephoned me to-night that a reporter was out here working up another lying yarn i took the first train and came here to protect my interests." she grumbled something about having sent her cab away at the gate and having mislaid her keys. i asked her if she meant to stay till morning, and she glared at me and snapped that she certainly did. then, taking a candle, she wandered off by herself for a while, and i heard her scampering around on the upper floors. when she came back she seemed very much surprised to hear that i was not going to bed. "you're a fool," she said, rudely, "but i suppose you've got to do what the other fools tell you to." [illustration: "don't stand there staring. i know i'm not a beauty," and she cackled like an angry hen] after that i didn't feel much like sharing my supper with her, but i did, and she seemed to enjoy it. then she curled herself up on a big divan in the corner and grinned at me again. i liked her face better when she was angry. "i'm going to take a nap," she said. "call me if any ghosts come." i opened my book again and read for half an hour. then suddenly, from somewhere under the house, i heard a queer, muffled sound. "_tap, tap, tap_," it went. and again, "_tap, tap, tap_." at first it didn't interest me much. but after a minute i realized that it was different from anything i had heard that night. and soon another noise mingled with it--a kind of buzz, like the whir of an electric fan, only louder. i looked at miss watts. she was asleep. i picked up a candle and followed the noise--through the hall, down the cellar steps, and along a bricked passage. there the sound stopped. i stood still and waited. while i was staring at the bricks in front of me i noticed one that seemed to have a light behind it. i lowered my candle and examined it. some plaster had been knocked out, and through a hole the size of a penny i saw another passage cutting through the earth like a little catacomb, with a light at the far end of it. while i was staring, amazed, the tapping began again, much nearer now; and i heard men's voices. there were men under that house, in a secret cellar! in half a minute i was standing beside miss watts, shaking her arm and trying to wake her. almost before i was able to make her understand what i had seen she was through the front door and half-way down the avenue, dragging me with her. "where are we going?" i gasped. "to the next house, idiot, to telephone to the police," she said. "do you think we could stay there and do it?" we left the avenue and came into the road, and as we ran on, stumbling into mud-holes and whipped by wind and rain, she panted out that the men were probably escaped convicts from some prison or patients from some asylum. i ran faster after that, though i hadn't thought i could. i wondered if i were having a bad dream. several times i pinched myself, but i didn't wake up. instead, i kept on running and stumbling and gasping, until i felt sure i had been running and stumbling and gasping for years and must keep on doing it for eons more. but at last we came to a house set far back in big grounds, and we raced side by side up the driveway that led to the front door. late as it was, there were lights everywhere, and through the long windows opening on the veranda we could see people moving about. miss watts gave the bell a terrific pull; some one opened the door, and we stumbled in. after that everything was a mixture of questions and answers and excitement and telephoning, followed by a long wait for the police. a man led miss watts and me into a room where a fire was burning, and left us to get warm and dry. when we were alone i asked miss watts if she thought they would keep us overnight. she stared at me. "you won't have much time for sleep," she answered, almost kindly. "it will take you an hour or two to write your story." it was my turn to stare, and i did it. "my story?" i asked her. "to-night? what do you mean?" she swung round in her chair and stared at me harder than ever. then she cackled in her nastiest way. "and this is a new york reporter!" she said. "why, you little dunce, you know you've _got_ a story, don't you?" "yes," i answered, doubtfully. "but i'm to write it to-morrow, after i talk to mr. hurd." miss watts uttered a squawk and then a squeal. "i don't know what fool sent you here," she snapped, "or what infant-class you've escaped from. but one thing i do know: you came here to write a sunday 'thriller,' i suppose, which would have destroyed what little value my property has left. by bull-headed luck you've stumbled on the truth; and it's a good news story. it will please your editor, and it will save my property. now, here's my point." she pushed her horrible little face close to mine and kept it there while she finished. "that story is coming out in the _searchlight_ to-morrow morning. i'd do it if i could, but i'm not a writer. so you're going to write it and telephone it in to the _searchlight_ office within the next hour. have i made myself clear?" she had. i felt my face getting red and hot when i realized that i had a big story and had not known it. i wondered if i could ever live that down. i felt so humble that i was almost willing to let miss watts see it. but before i could answer her there was the noise of many feet in the hall, with the voices of men. then our door was flung open, and a young man came in, wearing a rain-coat, thick boots covered with mud, and a wide grin. he was saving time by shaking the rain off his soft hat as he crossed the room to us. his eyes touched me, then passed on to miss watts as if i hadn't been there. "miss watts," he said, "the police are here, and i'm going back to the house with them to see the capture. i'm gibson, of the _searchlight_." miss watts actually smiled at him. then she held out her skinny little claw of a hand. "a real reporter!" she said. "thank heaven! you know what it means to me to have this thing put straight. but how do you happen to be here?" "hurd sent me to look after miss iverson," he explained, glancing at me again. "he couldn't put her in a haunted house without a watch-dog, but, to do her justice, she didn't know she had one. i was in a summer-house on the grounds. i saw you leave and followed you here. then i went up the road to meet the police." he grinned at me, and i smiled a very little smile in return. i wasn't going to give him a whole smile until i found out how he was going to act about my story. miss watts started for the door. "come on," she said, with her hand on the knob. the real reporter's eyes grew big. "are _you_ going along?" he gasped. "certainly i'm going along," snapped miss watts. "i'm going to see this thing through. and i'll tell you one thing right now, young man," she ended, "if you don't put the _facts_ into your story i'm going to sue your newspaper for twenty-five thousand dollars." he did not answer. his attention seemed to be diverted to me. i was standing beside miss watts, buttoning my rain-coat and pulling my hat over my eyes again, preparatory to going out. "say, kid," said the real reporter, "you go back and sit down. you're not in this, you know. we'll come and get you and take you to the hotel after it's all over." i gave him a cold and dignified glance. then i buttoned the last button of my coat and went out into the hall. it was full of men. the real reporter hurried after me. he seemed to expect me to say something. so finally i did. "mr. hurd told me to write this story," i explained, in level tones, "and i'm going to try to write it. and i can't write it unless i see everything that happens." i looked at him and miss watts out of the corner of my eye as i spoke, and i distinctly saw them give each other a significant glance. miss watts shrugged her shoulders as if she didn't care what i did; but the real reporter looked worried. "oh, well, all right," he said, at last. "i suppose it isn't fair not to let you in on your own assignment. there's one good thing--you can't get any wetter and muddier than you are." that thought seemed to comfort him. we had a hard time going back, but it was easier because there were more of us to suffer. besides, the real reporter helped miss watts and me a little when we stumbled or when the wind blew us against a tree or a fence. when we got near the house everybody moved very quietly, keeping close to the high hedge. we all went around to the back entrance. there the chief constable began to give his men orders, and the real reporter led miss watts and me into a grape-arbor, about fifty feet from the house. "this is where we've got to stay," he whispered, pulling us inside and closing the door. "we can see them come out, and get the other details from conroy, who's in charge." the police were creeping closer to the house. three of them took places outside while the rest went forward. first there was a long silence; then a sudden rush and crash--shouts and words that we didn't catch. gleams of light flashed up for a minute--then disappeared. the men stationed outside the house ran toward the cellar. there was the flashing of more light, and at last the police came out with their prisoners--and the whole thing was over. there had not been a pistol-shot. i was as warm as toast in my wet clothes, but my teeth were chattering with excitement, and i knew miss watts was excited, too, by the grip of her hand on my shoulder. the men came toward us through the rain on their way to the gate, and mr. conroy's voice sounded as if he had been running a race. but he hadn't. he had been right there. "well, miss watts, we've got 'em," he crowed. "a nice little gang of amachur counterfeiters. they've been visitin' you for 'most a year, snug and cozy; but i guess this is the end of your troubles." miss watts walked out into the rain and, taking a policeman's electric bull's-eye, looked at the prisoners one by one. i followed her and looked, too, while the real reporter talked to mr. conroy. there were three counterfeiters, and they were all handcuffed and looked young. it could not have been very hard for six policemen to take them. one of them had blood on his face, and another was covered with mud, as if he had been rolled in it. miss watts asked the bloody one, who was also the biggest one, if his gang had really worked in a secret cellar at ferncliff for a year. he said it had been there about ten months. "then you were there all winter?" miss watts asked him. "and you were so safe and comfortable that when the tenants moved in and you found they were all women, except a stupid butler, you decided to scare them away and stay right along?" the man muttered something that seemed to mean that she was right. the real reporter interrupted, looking busy and worried again. "miss watts," he said, quickly, "can't we go right into your house and send this story to the _searchlight_ over your telephone? it's a quarter to one, and there isn't a minute to lose. the _searchlight_ goes to press in an hour. i've got all the facts," he added, in a peaceful tone. miss watts said we could, and led the way into the house, while the counterfeiters and the police tramped off through the mud and rain. when we got inside, miss watts took us to the library and lit the electric lights, while the real reporter bustled about, looking busier than any one i ever saw before. i watched him for a minute. then i told miss watts i wanted to go into a quiet room and write my story. she and the real reporter looked at each other again. i was getting tired of their looks. the real reporter spoke to me very kindly, like a sunday-school superintendent addressing his class. "now, see here, miss iverson," he said; "you've had a big, new experience and lots of excitement. you discovered the counterfeiters. you'll get full credit for it. let it go at that, and i'll write the story. it's got to be a real story, not a kindergarten special." if he hadn't said that about the kindergarten special i might have let him write the story, for i was cold and tired and scared. but at those fatal words i felt myself stiffen all over. "it's my story," i said, with icy determination. "and i'm going to write it." the real reporter looked annoyed. "but _can_ you?" he protested. "we haven't time for experiments." "of course i can," i said. and i'm afraid i spoke crossly, for i was getting annoyed. "i'll write it exactly the way sister irmingarde told me to." i sat down at the table as i spoke. i heard a bump and something that sounded like a groan. the real reporter had fallen into a chair. "good lord!" he said; and then for a long time he didn't say anything. finally he began to fuss with his paper, as if he meant to write the story anyway. i wrote three pages and forgot about him. at last he muttered, "here, let me see those," and his voice sounded like a dove's when it mourns under the eaves. i pushed the sheets toward him with my left hand and went on writing. suddenly i heard a gasp and a chuckle. in another second the real reporter was standing beside me, grinning his widest grin. "why, say, you little may iverson kid," he almost shouted, "this story is going to be good!" i could hear miss watts straighten up in the chair from which she was watching us. she snatched at my pages, and he let her have them. i wanted to draw myself up to my full height and look at him coldly, but i didn't--there wasn't time. besides, far down inside of me i was delighted by his praise. "of course it's going to be good," was all i said. "sister irmingarde told me to write about things as they are, and very simply." he had my pages back in his hands now and was running over them quickly, putting in a few words here and there with a pencil. i could see he was not changing much. then he started on a jump for the next room, where the telephone was, but stopped at the door. there was a queer look in his eyes. "sister irmingarde's a daisy!" he muttered. then i heard him calling new york. "gimme the _searchlight_," he called. "gimme the city desk. hurry up! say, jack, this is gibson, at sound view. we've got a crackerjack of a story out here. no--the iverson kid is doing it. it's all right, too. get hammond busy there and let him take it on the typewriter as fast as i read it. ready? here goes." he began to read my first page. miss watts got up and shut the door, and i bowed my thanks to her. the storm was worse than ever, but i hardly heard it. for a second his words had made me think of sister irmingarde. i felt sorry for her. she would never have a chance like this--to write a real news story for a great newspaper. the convent seemed like a place i had heard of, long ago. then i settled down to work, and for the next hour there was no sound in the room but the whisper of my busy pen and the respectful footsteps of miss watts as she reverently carried my story, page by page, to the chastened "real reporter." ii the cry of the pack mr. nestor hurd, our "feature" editor, was in a bad humor. we all knew he was, and everybody knew why, except mr. nestor hurd himself. he thought it was because he had not a competent writer on his whole dash-blinged staff, and he was explaining this to space in words that stung like active gnats. really it was because his wife had just called at his office and drawn his month's salary in advance to go to atlantic city. over the little partition that separated his private office from the square pen where his reporters had their desks mr. hurd's words flew and lit upon us. occasionally we heard the murmur of mr. morris's voice, patting the air like a soothing hand; and at last our chief got tired and stopped, and an office boy came into the outer room and said he wanted to see me. i went in with steady knees. i was no longer afraid of mr. hurd. i had been on the _searchlight_ a whole week, and i had written one big "story" and three small ones, and they had all been printed. i knew my style was improving every day--growing more mature. i had dropped a great many amateur expressions, and i had learned to stop when i reached the end of my story instead of going right on. besides, i was no longer the newest of the "cub reporters." the latest one had been taken on that morning--a scared-looking girl who told me in a trembling voice that she had to write a special column every day for women. it was plain that she had not studied life as we girls had in the convent. she made me feel a thousand years old instead of only eighteen. i had received so much advice during the week that some of it was spilling over, and i freely and gladly gave the surplus to her. i had a desk, too, by this time, in a corner near a window where i could look out on city hall park and see the newsboys stealing baths in the fountain. and i was going to be a nun in three years, so who cared, anyway? i went to mr. hurd with my head high and the light of confidence in my eyes. "'s that?" remarked mr. hurd, when he heard my soft footfalls approaching his desk. he was too busy to look up and see. he was bending over a great heap of newspaper clippings, and the veins bulged out on his brow from the violence of his mental efforts. mr. morris, the thin young editor who had a desk near his, told him it was miss iverson. mr. morris had a muscular bulge on each jaw-bone, which mr. gibson had told me was caused by the strain of keeping back the things he wanted to say to mr. hurd. mr. hurd twisted the right corner of his mouth at me, which was his way of showing that he knew that the person he was talking to stood at his right side. "'s iverson," he began (he hadn't time to say miss iverson), "got 'ny money?" i thought he wanted to borrow some. i had seen a great deal of borrowing going on during the week; everybody's money seemed to belong to everybody else. i was glad to let him have it, of course, but a little surprised. i told him that i had some money, for when i left home papa had given me-- he interrupted me rudely. "don't want to know how much papa gave you," he snapped. "want to know where 'tis." i told him coldly that it was in a savings-bank, for papa thought-- he interrupted again. i had never been interrupted when i was in the convent. there the girls hung on my words with suspended breath. "'s all right, then," mr. hurd said. "here's your story. go and see half a dozen of our biggest millionaires in wall street--drake, carter, hayden--you know the list. tell 'em you're a stranger in town, come to study music or painting. got a little money to see you through--'nough for a year. ask 'em what to do with it--how to invest it--and write what happens. good story, eh?" he turned to morris for approval, and all his dimples showed, making him look like a six-months-old baby. he immediately regretted this moment of weakness and frowned at me. "'s all," he said; and i went away. i will now pause for a moment to describe an interesting phenomenon that ran through my whole journalistic career. i always went into an editor's room to take an assignment with perfect confidence, and i usually came out of it in black despair. the confidence was caused by the memory that i had got my past stories; the despair was caused by the conviction that i could not possibly get the present one. each assignment mr. hurd had given me during the week seemed not only harder than the last, but less worthy the dignity of a general's daughter. besides, a new and terrible thing was happening to me. i was becoming afraid--not of work, but of men. i never had been afraid of anything before. from the time we were laid in our cradles my father taught my brother jack and me not to be afraid. the worst of my fear now was that i didn't know exactly why i felt it, and there was no one i could go to and ask about it. all the men i met seemed to be divided into two classes. in the first class were those who were not kind at all--men like mr. hurd, who treated me as if i were a machine, and ignored me altogether or looked over my head or past the side of my face when they spoke to me. they seemed rude at first, and i did not like them; but i liked them better and better as time went on. in the second class were the men who were too kind--who sprawled over my desk and wasted my time and grinned at me and said things i didn't understand and wanted to take me to coney island. most of them were merely silly, but two or three of them were horrible. when they came near me they made me feel queer and sick. after they had left i wanted to throw open all the doors and windows and air the room. there was one i used to dream of when i was overworked, which was usually. he was always a snake in the dream--a fat, disgusting, lazy snake, slowly squirming over the ground near me, with his bulging green eyes on my face. there were times when i was afraid to go to sleep for fear of dreaming of that snake; and when during the day he came into the room and over to my desk i would hardly have been surprised to see him crawl instead of walk. indeed, his walk was a kind of crawl. mr. gibson, hurd's star reporter, whose desk was next to mine, spoke to me about him one day, and his grin was not as wide as usual. "is yawkins annoying you?" he asked. "i've seen you actually shudder when he came to your desk. if the cad had any sense he'd see it, too. has he said anything? done anything?" i said he hadn't, exactly, but that i felt a strange feeling of horror every time he came near me; and gibson raised his eyebrows and said he guessed he knew why, and that he would attend to it. he must have attended to it, for yawkins stopped coming to my desk, and after a few months he was discharged for letting himself be "thrown down" on a big story, and i never saw him again. but at the time mr. hurd gave me his wall street assignment i was beginning to be horribly afraid to approach strangers, which is no way for a reporter to feel; and when i had to meet strange men i always found myself wondering whether they would be the hurd type or the yawkins type. i hardly dared to hope they would be like mr. gibson, who was like the men at home--kind and casual and friendly; but of course some of them were. once mrs. hoppen, a woman reporter on the _searchlight_, came and spoke to me about them. she was forty and slender and black-eyed, and her work was as clever as any man's, but it seemed to have made her very hard. she seemed to believe in no one. she made me feel as if she had dived so deep in life that she had come out into a place where there wasn't anything. she came to me one day when yawkins was coiled over my desk. he crawled away as soon as he saw her, for he hated her. after he went she stood looking down at me and hesitating. it was not like her to hesitate about anything. "look here," she said at last; "i earn a good income by attending to my own business, and i usually let other people's business alone. besides, i'm not cut out for a star of bethlehem. but i just want to tell you not to worry about that kind of thing." she looked after yawkins, who had crawled through the door. i tried to say that i wasn't worrying, but i couldn't, for it wasn't true. and someway, though i didn't know why, i couldn't talk to her about it. she didn't wait for me, however, but went right on. "you're very young," she said, "and a long way from home. you haven't been in new york long enough to make influential friends or create a background for yourself; so you seem fair game, and the wolves are on the trail. but you can be sure of one thing--they'll never get you; so don't worry." i thanked her, and she patted my shoulder and went away. i wasn't sure just what she meant, but i knew she had tried to be kind. the day i started down to wall street to see the multimillionaires i was very thoughtful. i didn't know then, as i did later, how guarded they were in their offices, and how hard it was for a stranger to get near them. what i simply hated was having them look at me and grin at me, and seeing them under false pretenses and having to tell them lies. i knew sister irmingarde would not have approved of it--but there were so many things in newspaper work that sister irmingarde wouldn't approve of. i was beginning to wonder if there was anything at all she would approve; and later, of course, i found there was. but i discovered many, many other things long before that. i went to mr. drake's office first. he was the one mr. hurd had mentioned first, and while i was at school i had heard about him and read that he was very old and very kind and very pious. i thought perhaps he would be kind enough to see a strange girl for a few minutes and give her some advice, even if his time was worth a thousand dollars a minute, as they said it was. so i went straight to his office and asked for him, and gave my card to a buttoned boy who seemed strangely loath to take it. he was perfectly sure mr. drake hadn't time to see me, and he wanted the whole story of my life before he gave the card to any one; but i was not yet afraid of office boys, and he finally took the card and went away with dragging steps. then my card began to circulate like a love story among the girls at st. catharine's. men in little cages and at mahogany desks read it, and stared at me and passed it on to other men. finally it disappeared in an inner room, and a young man came out holding it in his hand and spoke to me in a very cold and direct manner. the card had my real name on it, but no address or newspaper, and it didn't mean anything at all to the direct young man. he wanted to know who i was and what i wanted of mr. drake, and i told him what mr. hurd had told me to say. the young man hesitated. then he smiled, and at last he said he would see what he could do and walked away. in five or six minutes he came back again, still smiling, but in a pleasanter and more friendly manner, and said mr. drake would see me if i could wait half an hour. i thanked him and settled back in my seat to wait. it was a very comfortable seat--a deep, leather-covered chair with big wide arms, and there was enough going on around me to keep me interested. all sorts of men came and went while i sat there; young men and old men, and happy men and wretched men, and prosperous men and poor men; but there was one thing in which they were all alike. every man was in a hurry, and every man had in his eyes the set, eager look my brother jack's eyes hold when he is running a college race and sees the goal ahead of him. a few of them glanced at me, but none seemed interested or surprised to see me there. probably they thought, if they thought of it at all, that i was a stenographer trying to get a situation. the half-hour passed, and then another half-hour, and at last the direct young man came out again. he did not apologize for keeping me waiting twice as long as he had said it would be. "mr. drake will see you now," he said. i followed him through several offices full of clerks and typewriters, and then into an office where a little old man sat alone. it was a very large office, with old rugs on the floor, and heavy curtains and beautiful furniture, and the little old man seemed almost lost in it. he was a very thin old man, and he sat at a great mahogany desk facing the door. the light in his office came from windows behind and beside him, but it fell on my face, as i sat opposite him, and left his in shadow. i could see, though, that his hair was very white, and that his face was like an oval billiard-ball, the thin skin of it drawn tightly over bones that showed. he might have been fifty years old or a hundred--i didn't know which--but he was dressed very carefully in gray clothes almost as light in color as his face and hair, and he wore a gray tie with a star-sapphire pin in it. that pale-blue stone, and the pale blue of his eyes, which had the same sort of odd, moving light in them the sapphire had, were the only colors about him. he sat back, very much at his ease, his small figure deep in his great swivel-chair, the finger-tips of both hands close together, and stared at me with his pale-blue eyes that showed their queer sparks under his white eyebrows. "well, young woman," he said, "what can i do for you?" and then i knew how old he was, for in the cracked tones of his voice the clock of time seemed to be striking eighty. it made me feel comfortable and almost happy to know that he was so old. i wasn't afraid of him any more. i poured out my little story, which i had rehearsed with his clerk, and he listened without a word, never taking his narrow blue eyes from my face. when i stopped he asked me what instrument i was studying, and i told him the piano, which was true enough, for i was still keeping up the music i had worked on so hard with sister cecilia ever since i was eight years old. he asked me what music i liked best, and when i told him my favorite composers were beethoven and debussy he smiled and murmured that it was a strange combination. it was, too, and well i knew it. sister cecilia said once that it made her understand why i wanted to be both a nun and a newspaper woman. in a few minutes i was talking to mr. drake as easily as i could talk to george morgan or to my father. he asked who my teachers had been, and i told him all about the convent and my years of study there, and how much better janet trelawney played than i did, and how severe sister cecilia was with us both, and how much i liked church music. i was so glad to be telling him the truth that i told him a great deal more than i needed to. i told him almost everything there was to tell, except that i was a newspaper reporter. i remembered not to tell him that. he seemed to like to hear about school and the girls. several times he laughed, but very kindly, and _with_ me, you know, not _at_ me. once he said it had been a long time since any young girl had told him about her school pranks, but he did not sigh over it or look sentimental, as a man would in a book. he merely mentioned it. we talked and talked. twice the direct young secretary opened the door and put his head in; but each time he took it out again because nobody seemed to want it to stay there. at last i remembered that mr. drake was a busy man, and that his time was worth a thousand dollars a minute, and that i had taken about forty thousand dollars' worth of it already, so i gasped and apologized and got up. i said i had forgotten all about time; and he said he had, too, and that i must sit down again because we hadn't even touched upon our business talk. so i sat down again, and he looked at me more closely than ever, as if he had noticed how hot and red my face had suddenly got and couldn't understand why it looked that way. of course he couldn't, either; for i had just remembered that, though i had been a reporter for a whole week, i had forgotten my assignment! it seemed as if i would never learn to be a real newspaper woman. my heart went way down, and i suppose the corners of my mouth did, too; they usually went down at the same time. he asked very kindly what was the matter, and the tone of his voice was beautiful--old and friendly and understanding. i said it was because i was so silly and stupid and young and unbusiness-like. he started to say something and stopped, then sat up and began to talk in a very business-like way. he asked where my money was, and i told him the name of the bank. he looked at his watch and frowned. i didn't know why; but i thought perhaps it was because he wanted me to take it out of there right away and it was too late. it was almost four o'clock. then he put the tips of his fingers together again, and talked to me the way the cashier at the bank had talked when i put my money in. he said that the savings-bank was a good place for a girl's money--under ordinary conditions it was the best place. the interest would be small, but sure. certain investments would, of course, bring higher interest, but no woman should try to invest her money unless she had business training or a very wise, experienced adviser back of her. then he stopped for a minute, and it seemed hard for him to go on. i did not speak, for i saw that he was thinking something over, and of course i knew better than to interrupt him. at last he said that ordinarily, of course, he never paid any attention to small accounts, but that he liked me very much and wanted to help me and that, if i wished, he would invest my money for me in a way that would bring in a great deal more interest than the savings-bank would pay. and he asked if i understood what he meant. i said i did--that he was offering to take entirely too much trouble for a stranger, and that he was just as kind as he could be, but that i couldn't think of letting him do it, and i was sure papa wouldn't want me to. he seemed annoyed all of a sudden, and his manner changed. he asked why i had come if i felt that way, and i began to see how silly it looked to him, for of course he didn't know i was a reporter getting a story on investments for women. i didn't know what to say or what to do about the money, either, for mr. hurd hadn't told me how to meet any offer of that kind. while i was thinking and hesitating mr. drake sat still and looked at me queerly; the blue sparks in his eyes actually seemed to shoot out at me. they frightened me a little; and, without stopping to think any more, i said i was very grateful to him and that i would bring the money to his office the next day. then i stood up and he stood up, too; and i gave him my hand and told him he was the kindest man i had met in new york--and the next minute i was gasping and struggling and pushing him away with all my strength, and he stumbled and went backward into his big chair, knocking over an inkstand full of ink, which crawled to the edge of his desk in little black streams and fell on his gray clothes. for a minute he sat staring straight ahead of him and let them fall. then he brushed his hand across his head and picked up the inkstand and soaked up the ink with a blotter, and finally turned and looked at me. i stared back at him as if i were in a nightmare. i was opposite him and against the wall, with my back to it, and for a moment i couldn't move. but now i began to creep toward the door, with my eyes on him. i felt some way that i dared not take them off. as i moved he got up; he was much nearer the door than i was, and, though i sprang for it, he reached it first and stood there quietly, holding the knob in his hand. neither of us had uttered a sound; but now he spoke, and his voice was very low and steady. "wait a minute," he said. "i want to tell you something you need to know. then you may go." and he added, grimly, "straighten your hat!" i put up my hands and straightened it. still i did not take my eyes off his. his eyes seemed like those of yawkins and the great snake in my dreams, but as i looked into them they fell. "for god's sake, child," he said, irritably, "don't look at me as if i were an anaconda! don't you know it was all a trick?" he came up closer to me and gave me his next words eye to eye and very slowly, as if to force me to listen and believe. "i did that, miss iverson," he said, "to show you what happens to beautiful girls in new york when they go into men's offices asking for advice about money. some one had to do it. i thought the lesson might come better from me than from a younger man." his words came to me from some place far away. a bit of my bit of greek came, too--something about homeric laughter. then next instant i went to pieces and crumpled up in the big chair, and when he tried to help me i wouldn't let him come near me. but little by little, when i could speak, i told him what i thought of him and men like him, and of what i had gone through since i came to new york, and of how he had made me feel degraded and unclean for ever. at first he listened without a word; then he began to ask a few questions. "so you don't believe me," he said once. "that's too bad. i ought to have thought of that." he even wrung from me at last the thing that was worst of all--the thing i had not dared to tell mrs. hoppen--the thing i had sworn to myself no one should ever know--the deep-down, paralyzing fear that there must be something wrong in me that brought these things upon me, that perhaps i, too, was to blame. that seemed to stir him in a queer fashion. he put out his hand as if to push the idea away. "no," he said, emphatically. "no, _no_! never think that." he went on more quietly. "that's not it. it's only that you're a lamb among the wolves." he seemed to forget me, then to remember me again. "but remember this, child," he went on. "some men are bad clear through; some are only half bad. some aren't wolves at all; they'll help to keep you from the others. don't you get to thinking that every mother's son runs in the pack; and don't forget that it's mighty hard for any of us to believe that you're as unsophisticated as you seem. you'll learn how to handle wolves. that's a woman's primer lesson in life. and in the mean time here's something to comfort you: though you don't know it, you have a talisman. you've got something in your eyes that will never let them come too close. now good-by." it was six o'clock when i got back to the _searchlight_ office. i had gone down to the battery to let the clean sea-air sweep over me. i had dropped into a little chapel, too, and when i came out the world had righted itself again and i could look my fellow human beings in the eyes. even mr. drake had said my experience was not my fault and that i had a talisman. i knew now what the talisman was. mr. hurd, still bunched over his desk, was drinking a bottle of ginger-ale and eating a sandwich when i entered. morris, at his desk, was editing copy. the outer pen, where the rest of us sat, was deserted by every one except gibson, who was so busy that he did not look up. "got your story?" asked hurd, looking straight at me for the third time since i had taken my place on his staff. he spoke with his mouth full. "hello," he added. "what's the matter with your eyes?" i sat down by his desk and told him. the sandwich dropped from his fingers. his young-old, dimpled face turned white with anger. he waited without a word until i had finished. "by god, i'll make him sweat for that!" he hissed. "i'll show him up! the old hypocrite! the whited sepulcher! i'll make this town ring with that story. i'll make it too hot to hold him!" morris got up, crossed to us, and stood beside him, looking down at him. the bunches on his jaw-bones were very large. "what's the use of talking like that, hurd?" he asked, quietly. "you know perfectly well you won't print that story. you don't dare. and you know that you're as much to blame as drake is for what's happened. when you sent miss iverson out on that assignment you knew just what was coming to her." hurd's face went purple. "i didn't," he protested, furiously. "i swear i didn't. i thought she'd be able to get to them because she's so pretty. but that's as far as my mind worked on it." he turned to me. "you believe me, don't you?" he asked, gently. "please say you do." i nodded. "then it's all right," he said. "and i promise you one thing now: i'll never put you up against a proposition like that again." he picked up his sandwich and dropped the matter from his mind. morris stood still a minute longer, started to speak, stopped, and at last brought out what he had to say. "and you won't think every man you meet is a beast, will you, miss iverson?" he asked. i shook my head. i didn't seem to be able to say much. but it seemed queer that both he and mr. drake had said almost the same thing. "because," said morris, "in his heart, you know, every man wants to be decent." i filed that idea for future reference, as librarians say. then i asked them the question i had been asking myself for hours. "do you think mr. drake really _was_ teaching me a--a terrible lesson?" i stammered. the two men exchanged a look. each seemed to wait for the other to speak. it was gibson who answered me. he had opened the door, and was watching us with no sign of his usual wide and cheerful grin. "the way you tell it," he said, "it's a toss-up. but i'll tell you how it strikes me. just to be on the safe side, and whether he lied to you or not, i'd like to give henry f. drake the all-firedest licking he ever got in his life." "you bet," muttered hurd, through the last mouthful of his sandwich. mr. morris didn't say anything, but the bunches on his jaw-bones seemed larger than ever as he turned to his desk. i looked at them, and in that moment i learned the lesson that follows the primer lesson. at least one thing mr. drake had told me was true--all men were not wolves. iii the girl in gray nine typewriters were stuttering over nine news stories; four electric fans were singing their siren songs of coolness; two telephone bells were ringing; one office boy, new to his job, was hurtling through the air on his way to the night city editor's desk, and the night city editor was discharging him because he was not coming faster; the managing editor was "calling down" a copy-reader; the editor-in-chief was telling the foreign editor he wished he could find an intelligent man to take the foreign desk; mr. nestor hurd was swearing at mr. godfrey morris. in other words, it was nearly midnight in the offices of the _searchlight_. i was sitting at my desk, feeling very low in my mind. that day, for the first time in my three weeks' experience as a reporter, mr. hurd had not given me an assignment. this was neither his fault nor mine. i had written a dozen good stories for him, besides many more that were at least up to the average. my assignments had taken me to all sorts of places strangely unlike the convent from which i had graduated only a month before--morgues, hospitals, police stations, the tombs, the chinese quarter--and i had always brought back something, even, as mr. gibson had once muttered, if it were merely a few typhoid germs. mr. gibson did not approve of sending me to all those places. only that morning i had heard my chief tell mr. morris the iverson kid was holding down her job so hard that the job was yelling for help. this was a compliment, for mr. hurd never joked about any one who worked less than eighteen hours a day. i knew he hated to see me idle now, even for a few hours, and i did not like it myself. but we both had to bear it, for this had been one of the july days when nothing happened in new york. individuals were born, and married, and died, and were run over by automobiles, as usual; but, as mr. hurd said, "the element of human interest was lacking." at such times the newspapers fill their space with symposiums on "can a couple live on eight dollars a week?" or "is suicide a sin?" or they have a moral spasm over some play and send the police to suppress it. the night before mr. hurd had sent gibson, his star reporter, with a police inspector, to see a play he hoped the _searchlight_ could have a moral spasm over. mr. gibson reported that the police inspector had left the theater wiping his eyes and saying he meant to look after his daughters better hereafter; so the _searchlight_ could not have a spasm that time, and mr. hurd swore for five minutes without repeating once. he was wonderful that way, but not so gifted as col. john cartwell, the editor-in-chief, who used to check himself between the syllables of his words to drop little oaths in. such conversation was new and terrible to me. i had never heard any one swear before, and at first it deeply offended me. i thought a convent girl should not hear such things, especially a girl who intended to be a nun when she was twenty-one. but after a week or two i discovered that the editors never meant anything by their rude words; they were merely part of their breath. to kill time that evening i wrote a letter to my mother--the first long one i had sent her since i left my western home. i wrote it on one side of my copy paper, underlining my "u's" and overlining my "n's," and putting little circles around all my periods, to show the family i was a real newspaper woman at last. when i finished the letter i put it in an office envelope with a picture of the _searchlight_ building on the outside, and began to think of going home. but i did not feel happy. i realized by this time that in newspaper work what one did yesterday does not matter at all; it is what one does to-day that counts. in the convent we could bask for a fortnight in the afterglow of a good recitation, and the memory of a brilliant essay would abide, as it were, for months. but full well i knew that if i gave mr. hurd the biggest "story" of the week on thursday, and did nothing on friday, he would go to bed friday night with hurt, grieved feelings in his heart. this was friday. however, there was no sense in waiting round the office any longer, so i put on my hat and left the _searchlight_ building, walking across city hall park to broadway, where i took an open car up-town. i was getting used to being out alone late at night; but i had not ceased to feel an exultant thrill whenever i realized that i, may iverson, just out of the convent and only eighteen, was actually part of the night life of great, wonderful, mysterious new york. almost every man and woman i saw interested me because of the story i knew was hidden in each human heart; so to-night, as usual, i studied closely those around me. but my three fellow-passengers did not look as if they had any stories in them. they were merely tired, sleepy, perspiring men going home after a day of hard work. i envied them. i had not done a day's work, and i felt that i hardly deserved to rest. this thought was still in my mind when i left the car at twenty-fifth street and walked across madison square toward the house where i had rooms. it was after midnight and very hot. the benches in the park still held many men--most of them the kind that stay there because they have no place else to go. there were a dozen tramps, some stretched at full length and sound asleep, others talking together. there were men out of work, trying to read the newspaper advertisements by the electric light from the globes far above them. over the park hung a yellow mist that looked like fog but was merely heat, and from every side came the deep mutter of a great city on a summer night. the men around me were the types i had seen every time i crossed the square, and, though i was always sorry for them, they no longer made me feel sick with sympathy, as they did at first. but on a bench a little apart from the rest sat a girl who interested me at once. i noticed her first because she was young and alone, and then because she seemed to be in trouble. she was drooping forward in her seat, with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, staring hard at a spot on the ground in front of her. i could not see what it was. it looked like an ordinary brown stain. i usually walked very fast when i was alone at night, but now i slackened my pace and strolled toward the girl as slowly as i dared, studying her as i went. i could not see much of her face, which was in the hollow of her joined hands, but the way she was sitting--all bunched up--showed me that she was sick or discouraged, or both. she wore a gray dress with a very narrow skirt, and a wide, plain lace collar on the jacket. the suit had a discouraged air, as if it had started out to be smart and knew it had failed. her hat was a cheap straw with a quill on it that had once been stiff but was now limp as an unstarched collar, and the coil of hair under it was neat and brown and wavy. her plain lingerie blouse was cut low at the neck and fastened with a big black bow, and when i was closer to her i saw that both her shoes were broken at the sides. altogether, she looked very sick and very poor, and when she changed her position a little to glance at a man who was passing, something about her profile made me think of one of my classmates at st. catharine's. i had tried to pass her, but now my feet would not take me. it was simply impossible to ignore a girl who looked like janet trelawney and who seemed to be in trouble. i saw when i got nearer that she was not janet, but she might have been--and, anyway, she was a young girl like myself. we were taught at the convent that to intrude on another person's grief, uninvited, is worse than to intrude at any other time. mere sympathy does not excuse it. but this looked like a special case, for there was no one else around to do anything for the girl in gray if she needed help. however, i did not speak to her at once. i merely sat down on the bench beside her and waited to see if she would speak to me. she raised her head the minute she felt me there, and sat up and stared at me with eyes that were big and dark and had a queer, desperate expression in them. it seemed to startle her to know that some one was so near her, but after she had looked at me her surprise changed to annoyance, and she moved as if she meant to get up and go away. that full glance at her had shown me what she was like. she was not pretty. her face was dreadfully pale, her nose was ordinary in shape, and her firmly set, thin lips made her mouth look like a straight line. i did not see how i could have thought of janet trelawney in connection with her. however, i felt that i could not drive her away from her seat, so i stopped her and begged her pardon and asked if she was ill or had hurt herself in any way, and if i could help her. at first she did not answer me. she merely sat still and looked me over slowly, as if she were trying to make up her mind about me. the longer she looked the more puzzled she seemed to be. it had been raining when i left home in the morning, so i had on a mackintosh and a little soft rainy-day hat. i knew i did not look impressive, and it was plain that the girl in gray did not think much of me. at last she asked what i wanted, and her voice sounded hard and indifferent--even rude. i was disappointed in that, too, as well as in her face. it would have been more interesting, of course, to help a refined, educated girl. there was no doubt, however, that she needed help of some kind, so i merely repeated in different words what i had said to her at first. she laughed then--a laugh i did not like at all--and stared at me again in her queer way, as if she could not make me out. she seemed to be more puzzled over me than i was over her. she kept on staring at me a long time with her singular eyes, that had dark circles under them. at last she asked me if i was a "society agent" or anything of that sort, and when i said i was not she asked how i happened to be out so late, and what i was doing. her voice was as queer as her eyes--low and husky. i did not like her manner. it almost seemed as if she thought i had no right to be there, so i told her rather coldly that i was a reporter on the _searchlight_ and that i was on my way home from the office. as soon as i said that her whole manner changed. i have noticed this quick change in others when they hear that i am a newspaper woman. some are pleased and some are not, but few remain cold and detached. the girl in gray actually looked relieved about something. she laughed again, a husky, throaty laugh that sounded, however, much nicer and more human than before, and gave me a good-natured little push. "oh," she said, "all right. better beat it now. so-long." and she waved me away as if she owned the park bench. i hesitated. i was sorry now that i had stopped, and i wanted to go; but it seemed impossible to leave her there. i sat still for a moment, thinking it over, and suddenly she leaned toward me and advised me very earnestly not to linger till the roundsman came to take my pedigree. she said he was letting her alone because he knew she was only out of the hospital two days and up against it, but the healthy thing for me was to move on while the walking was good. i was sorry she used so much slang, but of course the fact that she was unrefined and uneducated made her situation harder, and demanded even more sympathy from those better off. what she had said about the hospital and being "up against it" proved that i had done right to stop. i told her i was going home in a few minutes, but that i wanted to talk to her first if she did not mind, and that there was no reason why i could not sit in the park if she could. she looked at me and laughed again as if i had made a joke, and the laugh brought on an attack of coughing which kept her busy for a full minute. when she had stopped i pointed out my home to her. it was on the opposite side of the square, but we could see it quite plainly from where we sat. we could even see the windows of my rooms, which faced the park. the girl in gray looked up at them a long time. "gee!" she said, "you're lucky. think of havin' a joint to fall into, and not knowin' enough to go to it when you got a chance." she added, "it wouldn't take me long to hop there if i owned the latch-key." i asked her where she lived, and she laughed again and swung one knee over the other as we were taught in the convent not to do, and muttered that her present address was madison square park, but she hoped it would not be permanent. then she got up and said, "so-long," and started to go. i got up, too, and caught her arm. her last words had simply thrilled me. i had read about girls being sick and out of work and being dismissed from the hospital with no money and no place to go to. but to read of them in books is one thing, and to see one with your own eyes, to have one actually beside you, is another thing--and very different. my heart swelled till it hurt; so did my throat. the girl shook off my hand. "say," she said, and her voice was rude and cross again--"say, kid, what's the matter with you? you ain't got nothin' on me. beat it, will you, or let me beat it. i can't set here and chin." i held her arm. i knew what was the matter. she was too proud to ask for help. i knew another thing, too. there was a story in her, the story of what happens to the penniless girl in new york; and i could get it from her and write it and put the matter on a business basis that would mean as much to her as to me. then i would have my story, the story i had not got to-day, and she would have a room and shelter, for of course i would give her some money in advance. my mind worked like lightning. i saw exactly how the thing could be done. "wait a minute," i said. "forgive me--but you're hungry, aren't you?" she stared at me again with that queer look of hers. then she answered with simple truth. "you bet i am," she muttered. "very well," i said, and i put all the will-power i had in my voice. "come with me and get something to eat. then tell me what has happened to you. perhaps i can make a newspaper story of it. if i can, we'll divide the space rates." the girl in gray hung back. i could see that she wanted to go with me, but that for some reason she was afraid. "say," she said at last, "you're kidding ain't you? you don't look like a reporter nor act like one. honest, you got me guessin'." i did not like that very much, but i could not blame her. i knew it required more than three weeks to make one look like a real newspaper woman. i opened my hand-bag and took out one of the new cards i had had engraved, with _the new york searchlight_ down in the left-hand corner. it looked beautiful. i could see that at last the girl in gray was impressed. she stood with the card in her hand, staring down at it and thinking. finally she shrugged her shoulders and clapped me on the back with a force that hurt me. "al-l-l _right_!" she said, drawling out the first word and shooting the second at me like a bullet from a pistol. "i got the goods. i'm just out of bellevue. i'll give you a spiel about the way those guys treated me. i'll tell you about the house of detention, too, and the judges and the police. oh, i got a story, all right, all right. i'll give it to you straight." she was pulling me along the street as she talked. she seemed to be in a great hurry all of a sudden, and in good spirits, but i realized how weak she was when i saw that even to walk half a block made her breath come in little gasps. "it's the eats first, ain't it?" she asked; and i told her it certainly was. then i asked her where we were going, for it was clear that she was headed for some definite place. "owl-wagon," she told me, and saved her breath for the walk. i said we would take a car, but she pointed to the "owl-wagon" standing against the curb only a square away. the sight of it seemed to give her fresh strength. she made for it like a carrier-pigeon going home. when we reached it she sat down on the curbstone and nodded affably to the man inside the wagon. he nodded back at her and then came through the door and down the wagon steps to stare at me. "hello," he said to the girl in gray. "heard you was sick. glad to see you round again. what'll you eat?" she did not waste breath on him, but made a gesture toward me. for a moment i think she could not speak. "give her a large glass of milk first," i told the man--"not too cold." when i handed it to her i advised her to drink it slowly, but she did not. it vanished in one long gulp. while the man was filling another glass for her i asked her what she wanted for supper. eating at the "owl" was a new experience to me. i began to enjoy it, and to examine the different kinds of food that stood on the little shelves around the sides of the wagon. the girl in gray looked at me over the rim of her glass. "what'll you stand for?" she asked. i laughed and told her to choose for herself; she could have everything in the wagon if she wanted it. before the words were past my lips she was on the top step, selecting sandwiches and pie and ordering the man around as if she owned the outfit. she took three sandwiches, one of every kind he had, and two pieces of pie, and some doughnuts. when she had all she wanted she got down from the wagon and backed carefully to the curb, balancing the food in her hands. then she sat down again and smiled at me for the first time. something about that smile made me want to cry; but she seemed almost happy. "ain't this a bit of all right?" she asked, with her mouth full. she told the proprietor that his pies had less sawdust in them than last year and that he must have put some real lemon in one of them by mistake. while they talked i continued to inspect the inside of the wagon, but i heard the owl-man ask her a question in a whisper that must have reached across the street. "say, mollie, who's your friend?" he wanted to know. the girl in gray told him it was none of his business. her speech sounded strangely like that of mr. hurd. there were several of his favorite words in it. i sighed. she was a dreadfully disappointing girl, but she had been starving, and i had only to look at her face and her poor torn shoes to feel sympathy surge up in me again. when she was finishing her last piece of pie she beckoned to me to come and sit beside her on the curb. "now for the spiel," she said, and her husky voice sounded actually gay. "you got the key. wind me up. i'll run 's long's i can." i looked around. the street was deserted except for two men who stood beside the owl-wagon munching sandwiches. they stared hard at us, but did not come near us. there was a light in the wagon, too, by which i might have made some notes. but i did not want to get my story at one o'clock in the morning out on a public avenue. i wanted a room and a reading-lamp and chairs and a table. six months later i could write any story on the side of a steam-engine while the engine was in motion, but this was not then. besides, while the girl was eating i had had an inspiration. i asked her if she had really meant what she said about having no place to go but the park; and when she answered that she had, i asked her where she would have gone that night if i had not come along. she looked at me, hesitated a moment, and then turned sulky. "aw, what's the use?" she said. "get busy. do i give you the story, or don't i?" i told her she did. then i produced my inspiration. "aren't there homes for the friendless," i asked her, "where girls are taken in for a night when they have no money?" the girl in gray said there were, and sat eyeing me with her lower jaw lax and a weary, discouraged air. "all right," i said, briskly; "let's go to one." it took her a long time to understand what i meant. i had to explain over and over that i wanted to go with her and see exactly how girls were received and treated in such places and what sort of rooms and food they got, and that i must play the part of a penniless and friendless girl myself to get the facts; for of course if the people in the "refuge" knew i was a reporter everything would be colored for me. at last my companion seemed to grasp my meaning. she got up, wabbling a little on her weak knees, and started toward twenty-third street. "come on, then," she muttered, and added something about a "funeral" and some one being "crazy." she said the place we were going to was on first avenue, not very far away, but i stopped a car and made her get into it. as we rode across town she told me the little she knew about the refuge. she said girls who went there paid a few cents for their rooms if they had money, but if not they were sometimes taken in without charge. she said breakfast was five cents and dinner ten or more, according to what one ate. the house closed at midnight, and she was afraid we could not get in; but she had been there twice before, and the matron knew she was sick, so perhaps she would admit us. i was to be kittie smith, a friend of hers from denver. i did not like the appearance of the place very much when we finally reached it. it was like a prison, i thought, and its black windows seemed to glower at us menacingly as we looked at them. we climbed the worn steps that led to the front door; there were only a few of them, but i had to help the girl in gray. when we reached the last one, she rang the bell labeled "night bell." beside it a brass sign that needed polishing told us the institution was a "home for friendless girls." we could hear the bell jangling feebly far inside the house, as if it hung at the end of a loose wire, but for a long time no one answered it. the girl in gray sat down on the top step while i rang the bell again. then at last steps came along the hall, the door opened an inch, and an old woman peered out at us. we could see nothing of her but her eyes and a bit of white hair. the eyes looked very cross, and the old woman's voice matched them when she spoke to us. she asked what we wanted and explained in the same breath that the house was closed and that it was too late to get in. the girl in gray leaned back against the door so the old woman could not close it, and said in a faint voice that she was sick. "you remember me, mrs. catlin," she added, coaxingly. "sure you do. i'm mollie clark. i been here before." mrs. catlin opened the door another inch, grudgingly, and surveyed mollie clark. "humph!" she said. "it's you again, is it?" she hesitated a moment and again looked mollie clark over. then she flung the door wide without a word and let us into a long hall with a bare floor, whitewashed walls, and a flight of stairs at the end of it. a gas-light, turned very low, burned at the rear, and the whole house smelled of carbolic acid. it seemed to me that no girl's situation anywhere could be as forlorn as that place looked. the old woman picked up a candle which stood on a table near the door and lit it at the solitary gas-jet. then she motioned to us to follow her and started rheumatically up-stairs, grumbling under her breath all the way. she said it was against the rules to let us in at that hour, and she didn't know what the superintendent would say in the morning, and that there was only one room empty, anyhow, and we would have to be content with it. she led us up three flights of stairs and into a little hall-room at the front of the house. it had one window, which was open. its furniture was a small bed, a wash-stand with a white bowl and pitcher, one towel, a table, and two chairs. my eyes must have lit up when they saw the table. that was what i wanted, and i did not care much about anything else. mrs. catlin set the candle down on the table, whispered something about taking our "records" in the morning, warned us not to talk and disturb others, and went away without saying good night. the minute the door closed behind her i sat down at the table and got out my pencil and a fat note-book. i did not even stop to take off my hat, but mollie clark removed hers and threw it in a corner. her hair, as i had suspected, was very pretty--soft and brown and wavy. she came and sat down opposite me at the table and waited for me to begin. at first when we got into the room i had felt rather queer--almost nervous. but the minute i had my pencil in my hand and saw my note-book open before me i forgot the place we were in and was comfortable and happy. i smiled at mollie clark and told her to tell me all about herself--the whole story of her life, so that i could use as much or as little of it as i wanted to. of course, she did not know how to begin. people never do. she rested her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands, which seemed to be her favorite attitude, and sat quite still, thinking. to help her i asked a few questions. that started her, and at last she grew interested and more at ease and began to talk. i will admit right here that before fifteen minutes had passed i was in an abyss of black despair. someway i simply could not get hold of that story, and when i did begin to get hold of it i was frightened. it was not because she used so much slang. i understood that, or most of it. but some of the things she said i did not understand at all, and when i showed i did not, or asked her what they meant, she was not able to explain them. she put them in a different way, but i did not get them that way, either; and she looked so surprised at first, and so discouraged herself toward the end, that at last i stopped asking her questions and simply wrote down what she told me, whether i knew what it meant or not. after a time i began to feel as if some one in a strange world was talking to me in an unknown tongue--which little by little i began to comprehend. it seemed a horrible sort of world, and the words suggested unspeakable things. once or twice i felt sick and giddy--as if something awful was coming toward me in a dark room and would soon take hold of me. occasionally the girl leaned across the table to look at my notes and see what i was putting down, and i kept pushing my chair farther and farther away from her. i hoped it would not hurt her feelings, but i could not endure her near me. for five minutes the story went beautifully. she had run away from home when she was only sixteen--three years before; and the home had been a farm, just as it is in books. she had gone to denver--the farm was thirty miles from denver, but not large enough to be a ranch--and she had worked for a while in a big shop and afterward in an office. she had never learned typewriting or shorthand or expert filing, nor anything of that kind, so she folded circulars and addressed envelopes, and got five dollars a week for doing it. she said it was impossible to live on five dollars a week, and that this was the beginning of all her trouble. after that she talked about her life in chicago and detroit and buffalo and boston and new york, and about men who had helped her and women who had robbed her, and police graft, and a great many things i had never even heard of. for a long time i wrote as fast as my hand could write. my head seemed to be spinning round on my shoulders. i felt queerer and queerer, and more and more certain i was in a nightmare; the worst part of the nightmare was the steady husky whisper of the girl's voice--for of course she had to whisper. at moments it seemed like the hissing of a snake, and the girl looked like a snake, too, with her set straight mouth and her strange, brilliant eyes. at last, after a long time, i stopped writing and leaned back in my chair and looked at her. at the same time she stopped talking and looked back at me, and for a minute neither of us spoke. then she bunched forward in her chair and sat staring at the floor, exactly the way she had done in the park. "it's no go," she said, in a queer, flat voice. "you ain't gettin' it, are you?" for a moment i did not answer her. it seemed someway that i could not. i saw by her face how she felt--sick with disappointment. she muttered some words to herself. they sounded like unpleasant words; i was glad i did not hear them clearly. she had counted on her share of the space rates for my story. she sat still for quite a long time. once or twice she looked at me as if she did not understand why i was allowed to encumber the earth when i was so stupid. then she shrugged her shoulders, and finally she smiled at me in a sick kind of way. i suppose she remembered that, after all, i had given her a supper. at last she rose and picked up her hat and put it on. "i'll blow out of here," she said. "sorry you're out a meal for nothin'." she turned to go, and i felt more emotions in that moment than i had ever felt before. there were dozens of them, but confusion and horror and pity seemed to be the principal ones. i asked her to wait a minute, and i went to my hand-bag and took out my purse. there was not very much in it. i had been paid on saturday, and this was friday, so of course i had spent most of my money. but there were six dollars left, and i gave her five of them. "what for?" she asked, and stared at me as she had done in the park. "for the story," i said. "on account. i'll give you the rest when it's printed." she took the bill and stood still, looking down at it as it lay in her hand. then suddenly she threw it on the floor. "aw, say," she muttered, "what's the use? it's like takin' candy from a kid. you'll need that money," she added, touching the bill with the toe of her ragged shoe as she spoke. "you'll sure need it to get back where you come from. you didn't get that story. you didn't get a word of it." the look of the ragged shoe as she put it out and pushed the money away, and the look on her face as she spoke, made my heart turn over with pity for her. i picked up my note-book and held it toward her. "didn't i get it?" i asked. "look at this." she took the note-book and turned the pages, at first slowly and without hope, then with interest. finally, without raising her eyes, she sat down by the flickering candle and read them all. while she read i watched her, and as i looked i realized that there was another watcher in the little room with us--one who stood close beside her, waiting, and who would wait only a few weeks. i knew now what her cough meant, and her husky voice, and the stain in the park, and the red spots that came and went on her thin cheeks. when she had finished reading the notes she laid down the book and smiled at me. "kiddin' me again, wasn't you?" she said, quietly. "you got it all here, ain't you?" "yes," i said. "i've got the story." "sure you have," she corroborated. "that bellevue stuff's great. and take it from me, your editor will eat up the story about holohan, with the names _an'_ the dates _an'_ the places. here's six girls will swear to what i told you. and miss bates, the probation officer, she'll stand for it, too. i'd have give it to a paper long ago if i'd known who to go to." an attack of coughing stopped her words. after it she leaned against the table for a moment, exhausted. then she bent and picked up the bill from the floor. last of all she took my pencil out of my hand, wrote a name and address in my note-book, and laid the book back on the table. "me for the outer darkness," she said. "that's where i'll be. i'll stay in till four to-morrow afternoon, if your editor wants anything else." she hesitated a moment, as if struggling with words that wouldn't come. "thanks for the banquet," she got out, at last. "so-long." i looked straight into her strange eyes. there were many things i wanted to say to her, but i didn't know how. i felt younger than i had ever felt before, and ignorant and tongue-tied. "you stay here," i said. "i'll go home." the girl's eyes looked big and round as she stared at me. she held up the five-dollar bill in her hand. "stay here," she gasped, "when i got money to go somewhere else? d'ye think i'm crazy? _you_ got to stay an' get the rest of yer story. _i_ ain't! see?" i saw. "you'll go right to that address," i asked, "and rest?" "sure i will," she told me, cheerfully. "i'll bring your half of the money to you as soon as i get it," i ended. "probably in two or three days. and i'm going to send a doctor to see you to-morrow." she was on her way to the door as i spoke, but she stopped and looked back at me. "say, kid," she said, "take my advice. don't bring the money. _send_ it. get me?" i nodded. the door closed very softly behind her. i heard the old stairs creak once or twice as she crept down them. then i went to the open window and leaned out. she was leaving the house, and i watched her until she turned into a side street. she walked very slowly, looking to the right and to the left and behind her, as if she felt afraid. two mornings later when i entered the city room of the _searchlight_ mr. gibson rose and bowed low before me. then he backed away, still bowing, and beckoning to me at the same time. his actions were mysterious, but i followed him across the room, and several reporters rose from their desks and followed us both. near the city editor's desk mr. gibson stopped, made another salaam, and pointed impressively to the wall. tacked on it very conspicuously was a "model story" of the day--the sort of thing the city editor occasionally clipped from the _searchlight_ or some other newspaper and hung there as "an inspiration to the staff." we were always interested in his "model stories," for they were always good; i had read some of them till i knew them by heart. but this particular morning it was _my_ story which was tacked there--my story of the girl in gray! for a full minute i could not speak. i merely stood and stared while the reporters congratulated me and joked around me. while i was still trying to take in the stupendous fact that the "model story of the day" was really mine the city editor, mr. farrell, came and stood beside me. he was a fat man, with a face like a sad full moon, but he was smiling now. "nice story," he said, kindly. "but don't get a swelled head over it. you'll probably write a rotten one to-morrow." i nodded. full well i knew i probably would. "besides," continued mr. farrell, "the best thing in your story was the tip it gave us for gibson's big beat. that was a cub reporter's luck. thanks to it, we've got holohan with the goods on. if you listen you'll hear him squeal. and oh, by the way," he added, as he was turning back to his desk, "we have a dozen messages already from people who want to give care and nursing and country homes to your 'girl in gray.'" i was glad of that. also i was interested in something else, and i mentioned it to mr. farrell. i told him i had felt sure my story was spoiled because i had left so much out of it. the city editor looked at me, and then jerked his head toward the story on the wall. "it's what you left out of it," he said, "that makes that a model story." iv in gay bohemia the office door opened with a rush and shut with a bang. in the little whirlwind caused by the draught it made, the papers on our desks rose, swirled in the air, and played tag upon the floor. everybody but me stopped work and glanced up to nod or frown at the woman who had come in. i did not stop. i knew too well who it was. there was only one person on the _searchlight_ whose entrance caused that sort of commotion. besides, i had heard the whisper of silk petticoats, and smelled the strong odor of _peau d'espagne_ which always preceded miss mollie merk to her desk. mollie merk was mr. hurd's most sensational woman reporter--the one who went up in air-ships and described her sensations, or purposely fell in front of trolley-cars to prove that the fenders would not work. she was what she herself called a "breezy writer," but her breeziness did not exhaust itself in her literature. she was a breezy person generally--small and thin and dark, and so full of vitality that she always arrived anywhere as if she had been projected by some violent mechanical force. she spoke very rapidly, in short explosive sentences. she openly despised the young and made epigrams about them to show her scorn. before i had been on the _searchlight_ a week she announced that i would be endurable if i had a redeeming vice; and our fellow-reporters went around quoting that remark and grinning over it. after i had written a few "big stories" her manner changed to one of open wonder, and she began to call me "the convent kid" and give me advice, addressing me as if i were an infant class. when she was in the same room with me i felt that she was mentally patting my head. i appreciated her kind heart and her value to the _searchlight_; but i did not really like mollie merk. usually when she catapulted into the office she exchanged a few shouts of greeting with "the boys" and then went directly to her desk, where she dropped into her chair like a bag of ballast from a balloon, and began to write with a pen that scratched louder than any other. but to-night she followed the _peau d'espagne_ across the room to me and clapped her hand on my shoulder. "'lo, iverson," she said, in her loud and breathless way. "still on the job? 'can' it. i'm your vesper-bell." i felt myself instinctively drop away from her hand. in her greeting she had done two things i particularly disliked. she had called me "iverson"--it was a vulgar habit of hers to address other women by their last names--and she had spoken of something connected with my convent life, which was too sacred to be joked about. still, i knew she meant well. i looked up at her and tried to smile, but all i could do was to drag one side of my mouth down to my chin in humble imitation of mr. hurd when he is talking to a member of the staff. mollie merk seemed to appreciate it. she roared, and her hand clapped my shoulder again. "cheer up, iverson," she said. "worst's yet to come." and she added, all in one breath, "i'm-going-to-give-a-party-for-you!" i dropped my pen and turned in my chair to stare at her. "been meaning to do it right along," she jerked out. "couldn't pull it off. to-night's my chance. nothing to do. fell down on my story. hurrah! give you a bohemian dinner. show you life outside the cloister. purple pasts. crimson presents. all the rest of it. make your hair curl and your eyes stick out. come on!" her words gave me a thrill, on which i immediately put down the stern brake of conscience. as a student of life i wanted to see and learn all i could--especially as i intended to be a nun in three years and would have no further chances. but was i justified in deliberately turning aside to seek such knowledge, when in the broad path of my daily duty i was already acquiring more than one person could understand? also, would it be right to accept mollie merk's hospitality when i did not approve of her? i decided that it would not; and i tried to think of some polite and gracious way of declining her invitation, but the right words did not come. i had no social engagements, for i was still a stranger in new york, and mollie merk knew it; and i had not learned to tell lies with unstudied ease. finally an inspiration came to me. i could make an engagement and then keep it. i thanked miss merk and told her i intended to dine with my classmates maudie joyce and kittie james. they had come to new york the day before with kittie's sister, mrs. george morgan; and as they were only to stay a week, i felt that i must see all i could of them. as a matter of fact, i had dined with them the previous night, but that did not matter. i knew they would be glad to see me, even two nights in succession. mollie merk was interested as soon as i spoke of them. "classmates?" she yelped. "two more convent kids?" i admitted coldly that maudie and kittie had been graduated with me from st. catharine's the month before. "all right," said mollie merk. "have 'em with us. great. more convent kids the merrier. invite their chaperon, too. i'll get mrs. hoppen. hen-party of six." i hesitated. mrs. george morgan would hardly approve of mollie merk, but she would find her a new type. mrs. morgan liked new types and strange experiences, and had seen many of them, for her husband was a wealthy chicago man who wrote plays. moreover, mrs. hoppen would be with us, and mrs. morgan would surely like her. mrs. hoppen was the city editor's star woman reporter, and very old--older even than mollie merk, who was at least twenty-five. mrs. hoppen, i had heard, was over thirty. she was rather bitter and blasé at times, but usually she had charming manners. i told miss merk i would get mrs. morgan on the telephone and ask if she and the girls could come, and within five minutes i was in the _searchlight's_ telephone-booth calling up her hotel. it was maudie joyce who answered, and she uttered a cry of joy when i told her of mollie merk's invitation. she said mrs. morgan had gone to bed with a sick-headache, and that she and kittie james had been just about sick, too, over the prospect of a whole evening shut up alone in hotel rooms when so much life was going to waste in the outer world. then she turned from the telephone and repeated mollie's message. i observed that she did not say anything about the dinner being bohemian and making our eyes stick out, though i had faithfully repeated our hostess's words. almost immediately her voice, breathless with joy, came over the wire again, telling me that she and kittie could dine with us, and that mrs. morgan was very grateful to miss merk for saving her young friends from a lonely evening. the girls were waiting when we three reached the hotel, and my heart swelled with pride as i introduced them. mrs. hoppen and mollie merk and i were, of course, in our office clothes, as we had not gone home to dress; but kittie and maudie were beautifully gowned for the evening. they were both as charming as helleu drawings, and in the same exquisitely finished way; and their manners were so perfect that i could almost hear mollie merk trying to climb up to them. by the time the five of us had crowded into the taxi-cab, with the little bustle and confusion the effort caused, everybody liked everybody else. maudie and kittie were very proud of being with three newspaper women, and showed it; and they were so fascinated by mollie merk that they could not keep their eyes off her. of course, too, they were quivering with delight over the throngs, the noise, the brilliant electric signs, the excitement on every side, and the feeling that they were in the midst of it. even i, though i had been in new york for a whole month and was a reporter at that, felt an occasional thrill. but as i leaned back and watched the faces of my two friends, i realized that, though we three were about the same age, in experience i was already a thousand years in advance of them. so many things had happened in the past month--things we girls at st. catharine's had never heard of--things i could not even mention to kittie and maudie. i felt that i had lost a great deal which they still retained, and i expected a deep sadness to settle upon my soul. but someway it did not. the cab stopped at a restaurant ornamented by a huge electric sign, and we got out and walked into a marble-lined vestibule. mollie merk and mrs. hoppen led the way, and i followed them with an easy, accustomed step. to dine at a great new york restaurant was just as novel to me as it was to maudie and kittie, but they did not know this, and i sincerely hoped they would not find it out. a maid took our wraps in the anteroom, and sent us in single file along a narrow hall to enter a huge room at the end of it, ablaze with electric light, and full of smoke and music and little tables with people sitting at them. all the tables were clustered close together around the four sides of the room, leaving a big square space in the center, roped off by a heavy red cord. it was empty, and i wondered what it was for. above there was a balcony with more tables and people at them. there was laughter everywhere, some of it quite loud, and many voices were speaking in many tongues. above it all the band at the head of the room poured forth gay music. i could hear maudie and kittie draw quick breaths of delight, and my own feet hardly touched the ground as we followed the head waiter to the table reserved for us. there were bottles and glasses on most of the tables, and even the women were helping to empty them. but i knew that many good people drink wine in moderation, so i was not greatly shocked. after all, this was new york--bohemia, a new world. we were in it, and i at least was of it. the reflection sent a thrill down my spine--the kind that goes all the way. i felt almost wicked, and strangely happy. when we were seated at our table mollie merk asked if we would have cocktails. she spoke with a very casual air, and we tried to decline in the same manner, though i am sure that maudie and kittie felt their hair rise then and there. even my own scalp prickled. i explained in an offhand way that we never drank anything but water, so mollie merk ordered some apollinaris for us, and two cocktails "with a dash of absinthe in them" for mrs. hoppen and herself. for five minutes afterward kittie and maudie and i did not speak. we were stunned by the mere sound of that fatal word. mollie merk seemed to understand our emotions, for she began to tell us about her first experience with absinthe, years ago, in paris, when she drank a large gobletful as if it had been a glass of lemonade. she said it was the amount a frenchman would spend an entire afternoon over, sipping it a few drops at a time at a little sidewalk table in front of some cafe; but that she gulped it down in a few swallows, and then had just enough intelligence left to get into a cab and tell the _cocher_ to drive her around for three hours. she said she had ordered the man to keep to the boulevards, but that he had taken her through the milky way and to the places where the morning stars sang together, and that she had distinctly heard them sing. afterward, she added, she had traveled for centuries through space, visiting the most important objects in the universe and admiring color effects, for everything was pulsing with purple and gold and amethyst lights. as a student of life i admired the unerring instinct with which mollie merk had chosen her subject when she started in to make our eyes stick out. but if this was the beginning, what would be the end? at last maudie joyce, who had always had the manner of a woman of the world, even when she was a school-girl, pulled herself together and asked smilingly if miss merk's cocktail had swept her into space this time. mollie merk sighed and said, alas, no; those were the joys of yesteryear, and that the most a cocktail could do for her at present was to make her forget her depression after she had received a letter from home. then a calcium light blazed from above, making a brilliant circle on the floor inside the red ropes. the musicians struck into wild oriental music, and two mulattoes came into the limelight and began to dance. they were a man and a woman, very young, and in evening dress. they padded into the ring like two black panthers, the woman first, circling slowly around in time to the music, which was soft and rather monotonous, and the man revolving slowly after her. at first she seemed not to see him, but to be dancing by herself, for the love of it, and there was beauty in every movement she made. i forgot all about the dinner, the people, my friends and my hostess, and leaned forward, watching. suddenly she looked over her shoulder and discovered the man. she quickened her steps a little, and the musicians played faster, while she circled in and out, as if through the tangled growths of some dense jungle. i could almost see it springing up around her and hear the sound of animals moving near her--wild things like herself. she was very sure of herself as she writhed and twisted, and she had reason to be; for, however fast the man came toward her, she was always a little in advance of him. the music swelled into a sudden crash of sound as he gave a leap and caught her. but she dipped and slipped out of his hands and whirled away again, sometimes crouching close to the ground, sometimes revolving around him with a mocking smile. once, as he leaped, she bent and let him go over her; again he caught her, but a second time she slipped away. at last the violins sent forth only a queer, muted, barbaric hum, broken by a crash of cymbals as the man made his final spring and captured the woman, this time holding her fast. there was a delirious whirl of sound and motion while he held her up and performed a kind of jungle _pas seule_ before he carried her away. the music grew slower and slower and finally stopped; but for an instant or two after the dancers had disappeared it seemed to me that i could still see the man bearing his burden steadily through strange tropical growths and under trees whose poisonous branches caught at him as he passed. i turned and looked at maudie and kittie. they were sitting very still, with their eyes fixed on the spot where the dancers had been. i knew what they were thinking, and they knew i knew; but when they caught my glance they both began to speak at once, and eagerly, as if to reassure me. maudie said the woman's clothes were in excellent taste, and kittie murmured that such violent exercise must be very reducing. kittie is extremely plump, and she loves good food so much that she is growing plumper all the time. in her interest in the dance she had forgotten her dinner, and now the waiter was taking away a portion of salmon with a delicious green sauce before she had eaten even a mouthful of it. that agonizing sight immediately diverted kittie's mind, and i was glad. mollie merk met my startled eyes and grinned. "cheer up, iverson!" she exclaimed. "worst's yet to come, you know." i managed to smile back at her. this was life, and we were seeing it, but i began to feel that we had seen enough for an evening. i tried to remind myself again that we were in bohemia, but under the look in maudie's eyes i felt my face grow hot. it was i who had brought her and kittie here--i and my new friends. what would sister irmingarde think of me if she knew? i had little time for such mournful reflections. there was a stir on the musicians' platform as all the players but one laid aside their instruments and filed out through a side door. this one, the first violin, came down on the floor and walked about among the diners, stopping at different tables. every time he stopped, i discovered, it was to play to some particular woman who had caught his eye. he was tall and good-looking in his gipsy costume, with a wide red sash around his waist, a white-silk shirt open at the neck, short velvet trousers, and a black-velvet coat. under his dark mustache his teeth looked very white as he smiled, and he smiled often, or sighed and made eyes at the women as he played to them. i glanced at kittie and maudie. they were watching the gipsy with absorbed interest. he must have caught maudie's eye, for suddenly he crossed to our table and began to play to her--turning occasionally to kittie and me for a second only, while his violin shrieked and moaned and sighed and sang in a way that made our hearts turn over. i could see by their faces, which were pink with excitement, and by their shining eyes, what emotions the moment held for my young friends, and certainly it was thrilling enough for three girls just out of school to have a genius playing to them alone in one of the gayest restaurants in new york. for a few moments i was delighted with the gipsy and his music. then i began to notice the way he looked at us, alternately half-closing and slowly opening his eyes as he put his soul into his music. he seemed to be immensely interested in maudie, and played to her much longer than he did to any one else. several times he came so close to her that i was afraid he would touch her. the other musicians had returned by this time, and were playing an accompaniment to the violinist, who had swung into a brahms waltz. when he had finished the first movement he stopped playing, tucked his violin under his arm, and held out his hand to maudie, with his most brilliant smile. she turned first red, then white, and shrank away from him in her chair, while instinctively i, too, threw out my hands to ward him off. he turned to me and took them at once, holding them tight and trying to pull me to my feet. my heart stopped beating as i resisted his drag on my wrists, and i looked at mollie merk and mrs. hoppen, expecting them to spring up and interfere. but for a moment they both sat regarding the scene as indifferently as if they were at a play. at last mrs. hoppen shook her head at the musician with her bored little smile, and he bowed and shrugged his shoulders and went off to a table some distance away, where he began to play to another woman. mollie merk leaned toward me. "say, iverson," she exclaimed, in a tone that must have reached the diners in the balcony, "what's up? you're as white as your copy-paper. which is it--indigestion or cold feet?" her words pulled me together. it was natural that i should look pale, for by this time i was frightened--not for myself, but for kittie and maudie. they, i could see, though embarrassed and ill at ease, were not yet frightened. i knew why. _i_ was there, and they trusted me. they were sure that nothing could harm them while i was with them. i set my teeth in the determination that nothing should. more entertainers came into the space shut off by the red cords. every moment the room grew closer and hotter, the smoke around us became thicker, the atmosphere of excitement increased. the faces of kittie and maudie began to float before me in a kind of mist. i decided that if i ever got them out into a clean world again i would have nothing left to pray for. but i knew i could not wipe the evening and its incidents from their memories, and that knowledge was the hardest thing i had to bear. in desperation i turned from the dancers and began to watch the diners. the way these accepted the dancing and the actions of the gipsy had shown me at once what they were, and now they were becoming gayer every minute and more noisy. some of them got up occasionally and whirled about together on the dancing-floor. many sang accompaniments to the violins. these men and women were moths, i reflected, whirling about a lurid flame of life. there were dozens of young girls in the room--many without chaperons. directly opposite me two persons--a man, and a girl in a white dress--sat at a table alone, absorbed in each other. at first i glanced at them only occasionally and idly, then with growing interest and at last with horror, for i began to understand. the girl had a sweet, good face, but a brief study of the man showed me what he was. he was short and stout, with a bald head and a round, pleasure-loving face. it was not so much his appearance, however, as the way he watched the girl which betrayed him to me. he hardly took his eyes from her face. whatever was going on in the dancing-place, he looked at her; and she, leaning a little forward in her chair, listened to him as he talked, and swayed toward him. i saw him tap her hand, which lay on the table, with his fat forefinger. the sight revolted me, but she did not draw her hand away. as i watched her i thought of all the dreadful things i had heard and read and seen since i had been in new york, and wondered if the time would ever come when i would be old enough and wise enough to rise and go to a girl in such a situation and ask her if she needed help. it seemed impossible that women experienced enough to do this with dignity and courage should sit around to-night, all unheeding, and let such things go on. then looking at them again, table by table, i read the answer. they were themselves the lost and strayed--callous, indifferent, with faces and hearts hardened by the lives they had led. i began to feel sick and faint, and for a moment i closed my eyes. when i opened them, coming toward us slowly through the crowd was godfrey morris, the assistant of nestor hurd, my chief on the _searchlight_. it was plain that he had just entered, for he was looking around in search of a table. i shall never forget the feeling that came over me when i recognized him. now that he was there, i felt absolutely safe. i had almost a vision of him picking up maudie and kittie and me and taking us bodily away, and the relief and gratitude i felt showed me how great my inward panic had been. i kept my eyes on him, hoping he would turn and see me, but he was looking in another direction. still, he was drawing nearer, and i sat tight and waited in silence, though i wanted to call out to him above the uproar around us. it did not surprise me to see the girl in white put out her hand as he passed her table and touch him on the arm. he stopped at once, looking a little surprised, and then stood for a moment beside her and the stout man, talking quietly to them both. i waited breathlessly. now he was speaking to the man alone, probably urging him to leave the place. and then--i heard a sound as unexpected in that place as an altar-bell. mr. morris had thrown back his head and laughed, and as he laughed he smote the stout man heavily on the shoulder and dropped into a chair beside him. the stout man filled a glass. i saw mr. morris lift it, bow to the girl in white, and drink its contents. i lived a long, long time during the next minute. i cannot describe my emotions. i only knew that in that instant life seemed unbearable and new york became a city i could not remain in any longer. surely nothing could be right in a place where even godfrey morris came to resorts like this, not as a knight to the rescue of helplessness, but as a familiar patron, who was there because he enjoyed it and found congenial friends. it was impossible to take my eyes from the horrible group at that table. i kept on staring, and, as if he felt my gaze, mr. morris turned around and saw me. the next instant he was on his feet, and a second after that he was shaking hands with mrs. hoppen and mollie merk and me. evidently, he was neither surprised to find us there nor ashamed to be found there himself. when he was presented to kittie and maudie his manner was exactly as it might have been if he were meeting them at an afternoon tea, and he settled down comfortably into the sixth place at our table, which mrs. morgan had been invited to fill, and chatted as if he had known the girls all his life. i have no idea what he said. it did not matter. after the first few moments maudie and kittie were able to talk to him. i heard their voices, but not their words. i sat with my eyes on the table-cloth and my cheeks burning. i wanted to get away that minute. i wanted to go to my home, out west. most of all, i wanted to return to the convent and never, never leave it. the gipsy was playing among the tables again, and now he was quite near us. but i had reached the point where i was not even interested when he turned, caught sight of our new companion, and crossed quickly to our table, his hand outstretched to mr. morris, his face shining like an electric globe when the light has been turned on inside of it. mr. morris greeted him like a long-lost brother. "hello, fritz!" he exclaimed, taking his hand in a most friendly grasp. "business good? how are the kids?" the gipsy revealed the widest smile of the evening as he answered. "_ach_, herr morris," he cried, in a guttural german voice that simply dripped affection, "you remember dose kids? t'ree we had--_aber_ now, _now_ we got anoder one--since tuesday!" "good!" cried mr. morris, looking around as if he expected us all to share his joy over the glad tidings. "girl or boy?" "girl," the gipsy player told him. "t'ree boys we had. now we haf girl for change. we t'ink, my wife and i, we make her noospaper woman. goot idea, _nicht wahr_?" he laughed, and mr. morris laughed with him. "fine," he declared. "send her down to the _searchlight_ office in a week or two. we'll give her miss merk's job." everybody laughed again, mollie merk, of course, loudest of all. the musician bade us good night, beginning to play again at the tables. i had forgotten about kittie and maudie, but now i knew they had been listening, too, for i heard kittie speak. "why, that gipsy isn't a gipsy at all, is he?" she gasped. "no more than i am," mollie merk told her. "wears the rig because it pays--pleases romantic girls." she grinned at us, while mrs. hoppen leaned forward. "i'm afraid you hurt his feelings," she told maudie and me, "by refusing his invitation to dance a little while ago. that was the greatest compliment he could pay you, you know." mr. morris looked amused. "did he invite them to dance?" he inquired, with interest. "good old fritz. he doesn't often do that, this season." maudie and i exchanged a long glance. "i thought--" maudie began, and then stopped. i was glad she said no more. i looked again at the gipsy, and, as if something had been stripped from my eyes, i saw him as he was--no reckless and desperate adventurer, but a matter-of-fact german, his silk shirt rather grimy, his black hair oily, his absurd red sash and shabby velvet coat rebukes to the imagination that had pictured a wild gipsy heart beating under them. mr. morris was smiling at the girl in white. now he turned to me and nodded toward her. "that's miss hastings and george brook," he said. "have you met them yet?" i was able to shake my head. "well, it's high time you did," were his next words. "i'll bring them over." he rose, but i caught his arm and gasped out something that stopped him. i don't remember what i said, but i succeeded in making him understand that i did not want that particular man to meet my friends. mr. morris stared at me hard for a moment. then he sat down again and looked me straight in the eyes. "miss iverson," he said, quietly, "what have you against brook? he's the foreign editor of the _searchlight_, and one of the best fellows alive." i could not speak. i was too much surprised. "the girl he's with," morris went on, "is marion hastings--mrs. cartwell's social secretary. she and brook are going to be married next week." he waited for me to reply. i muttered something about not wanting my friends to meet any one in this place. that was all i said. my self-control, my poise, had deserted me, but perhaps my burning face was more eloquent than my tongue. mr. morris looked from me to maudie, and then at kittie, and finally back at me. "i see," he said at last, very slowly. "you three actually think you are in a den of iniquity!" he turned to mollie merk and addressed her as crisply and with as much authority as if they were in the _searchlight_ office. "how did you come to give miss iverson that impression?" he demanded. mollie merk looked guilty. "didn't realize she had it till within the last half-hour," she muttered. "i see," said morris again, in the same tone. "and then it was such fun for you that you let it go on!" for a moment miss merk seemed inclined to sulk. then she threw herself back in her chair and laughed. "oh, well," she admitted, "'twas fun. know what started her. said something about showing her life--making her eyes stick out. adding her friends to the party changed the program. brought 'em here instead. seeing us drink cocktails started her panic. harlem tango did the rest. her imagination got busy." i listened to her as one listens to a strange tongue in which one hears an occasional familiar word. she turned to me. "what that dance represents," she said, "is a suburbanite catching a cook. least, that's what the inventor says." "it's very graceful. my nieces dance it charmingly," mrs. hoppen added, mildly. mr. morris smiled, but not as if he really wanted to. then he turned to me. there was a beautiful, understanding look in his gray eyes. "do you realize what has happened, miss iverson?" he asked. "you've been having a bad dream. you expected something lurid, so you have seen something lurid in everything you have looked at to-night. in reality you are in one of the most eminently correct restaurants in new york. of course it has its _cabaret_--most of them have, this season--but it's an extremely well-conducted and conservative one, with no objectionable features whatever. now look around you and try to see things as they are." he made a gesture with his hand, and i followed it slowly around the room. at most of the tables ordinary-looking couples sat contentedly munching food. a german woman near us was telling a friend how she cooked _wiener schnitzel_. a tired-looking girl was doing an acrobatic dance in the ring, but it was not vulgar. it was merely foolish and dull. three men on our left were arguing over some business question and adding up penciled columns on the table-cloth. our wild-hearted gipsy, fritz, was having a glass of beer with some friends off in a corner. the musicians were playing "the rosary," and several fat women were lost in mournful memories. not far away a waiter dropped a tray and broke some glasses, and the head waiter hastened to him and swore under his breath. that was the only lurid thing in the room, and it was mild indeed to ears familiar with the daily conversation of mr. hurd and colonel cartwell. everything else suddenly, unmistakably, was simple, cheerful, entirely proper, and rather commonplace. "so much for the restaurant," remarked mr. morris, smiling as if he had observed my change of expression. "now for the people. that's the editor of the _argus_ over there"--he pointed to a thin, blond man--"with his daughters. at the table next to them is miss blinn, the artist. the stout old lady who is eating too much is her mother. the chap with the white hair is the leading editorial-writer of the _modern review_, and the lady opposite is his sister. almost every one prominent in new york drops into this place at one time or another. many worthy citizens come regularly. it's quite the thing, though dull!" "i know," i stammered. "i know." i did know, but i was humiliated to the soul. "please don't say any more." it is true that i form impressions quickly. it is also true that i can change them just as quickly when i am shown that i am wrong. mr. morris looked at my face, from which the blood now seemed to be bursting, and took pity on me. "all i want," he ended, "is to make you realize that you're visiting a legitimate place of amusement and that the performers are honest, hard-working people, though i think myself they're going a bit stale." "been doing the same thing too long," corroborated mollie merk. "garroti ought to change his program. just the same," she added, cheerfully, as she called the waiter and paid the bill, "they give you the best _table d'hôte_ dinner in town. if you hadn't been too scared to eat, iverson, you'd have realized that much, anyway!" at this, kittie james broke into the conversation. here was something kittie understood, though, like myself, she had been somewhat mixed as to the place and the performers. kittie told mollie merk with impassioned earnestness that the dinner was one of the best she had ever eaten, and that she would never forget the flavor of the artichoke hearts with the mushrooms on them. mollie merk seemed pleased and patted kittie's hand. "you see," she went on, addressing the others as if i were not there, "iverson's had a pretty hard time since she struck this town. it's jolted her sense of values. thought everything was white. had some unpleasant experiences. decided everything was black. been seeing black to-night. take another month or two," she added, kindly, turning to me, "to discover most things are merely gray." those were her words. it was a moment of agony for me. i had now gone down into the abyss of humiliation and struck the bottom hard. mr. morris spoke to me, though at first i did not hear him. "don't forget one thing, miss iverson," he said, gently. "an imagination like yours is the greatest asset a writer can have. you'll appreciate it when you begin work on your novels and plays in a year or two." i felt a little better. i could see that maudie and kittie were impressed. we drifted out into the street, toward a row of waiting taxi-cabs. there mrs. hoppen and mollie merk bade us good night, and mr. morris put maudie and kittie and me into a taxi-cab and got in after us. his manner was beautiful--serious, sympathetic, and deeply respectful. on the way to the hotel he told them what good work i was doing, and about the "model story" i had written two weeks before. i was glad he spoke of those things. i was afraid they had discovered that, after all, there were still many lessons in life i had not learned. after i had gone up to my room i went to one of the windows facing madison square and looked out. it was not late--hardly eleven o'clock, and the big city below was wide awake and hard at play. many sad and terrible things were happening in it, but i knew that many kind and beautiful things were happening, too. i felt sure that hereafter i would always be able to tell them apart. later, when i closed my eyes, all sorts of pictures crowded upon me. i saw the mulatto dancer pursuing the harlem cook. i heard again fritz's wild gipsy music and saw him wandering among the tables. i saw the stout man and the girl in white, and felt my face burn as i recalled what i had thought of them. but the thing i saw most clearly, the thing that followed me into the land of dreams and drifted about there till morning, was the face of godfrey morris, with a look of sympathy and understanding in his gray eyes. v the case of helen brandow "'s iverson," barked nestor hurd, over the low partition which divided his office from that of his staff, "c'm' here!" i responded to his call with sympathetic haste. it had been a hard day for mr. hurd. everything had gone wrong. every reporter he had sent out seemed to be "falling down" on his assignment and telephoning in to explain why. next to failures, our chief disliked explanations. "a dead man doesn't care a hang what killed him," was his terse summing up of their futility. he was shouting an impassioned monologue into the telephone when i reached his side, and as a final exclamation-point he hurled the receiver down on his desk, upsetting a bottle of ink. i waited in silence while he exhausted the richest treasures of his vocabulary and soaked up the ink with blotters. it was a moment for feminine tact, and i exercised it, though i was no longer in awe of mr. hurd. i had been on the _searchlight_ a year, and the temperamental storms of my editors now disturbed me no more than the whirling and buzzing of mechanical tops. even mollie merk had ceased to call me the "convent kid." i had made many friends, learned many lessons, suffered many disappointments, lost many illusions, and taken on some new ones. i had slowly developed a sense of humor--to my own abysmal surprise. the memory of my convent had become as the sound of a vesper-bell, heard occasionally above the bugle-calls of a strenuous life. also, i had learned to avoid "fine writing," which is why my pen faltered just now over the "bugle-calls." i knew my men associates very well, and admired most of them, though they often filled me with a maternal desire to stand them in a corner with their faces to the wall. i frequently explained to them what their wives or sweethearts really meant by certain things they had said. i was the recognized office authority on good form, catholicism, and feminine psychology. therefore i presented to mr. hurd's embittered glance the serene brow of an equal--even on occasions such as this, when the peace of the office lay in fragments around us. at last he ceased to address space, threw the blotters into his waste-paper basket, and turned resentful eyes on me. "gibson's fallen down on the brandow case," he snapped. i uttered a coo of sympathy. "the woman won't talk," continued hurd, gloomily. "don't believe she'll talk to any one if she won't to gibson. but we'll give her 'nother chance. go 'n' see her." i remained silent. "you've followed the trial, haven't you?" mr. hurd demanded. "what d'you think of the case?" i murmured apologetically that i thought mrs. brandow was innocent, and the remark produced exactly the effect i had expected. my chief gave me one look of unutterable scorn and settled back in his chair. "great scott!" he groaned. "so you've joined the sobbing sisterhood at last! i wouldn't have believed it. 's iverson"--his voice changed, he brought his hand down on the desk with a force that made the ink-bottle rock--"that woman's as guilty as--as--" i reminded him that the evidence against mrs. brandow was purely circumstantial. "circumstantial? 'course it's circumstantial!" yelped hurd. "she's too clever to let it be anything else. she has hidden every track. she's the slickest proposition we've had up for murder in this state, and she's young, pretty, of good family--so she'll probably get off. but she killed her husband as surely as you stand there, and the fact that he was a brute and deserved what he got doesn't make her any less guilty of his murder." it was a long speech for mr. hurd. he seemed surprised by it himself, and stopped to glare at me as if i were to blame for the effort it had caused him. "you know davies, her lawyer, don't you?" he asked, more quietly. i did. "think he'll give you a letter to her?" i thought he would. "'l right," snapped mr. hurd. "go 'n' see her. if she'll talk, get an interview. if she won't, describe her and her cell. tell how she looks and what she wears--from the amount of hair over her ears to the kind of polish on her shoes. leave mawkish sympathy out of it. see her as she is--a murderess whose trial is going to make american justice look like a hole in a doughnut." i went back to my desk thinking of his words. while i was pinning on my hat the door of mr. hurd's room opened and shut, and his assistant, godfrey morris, came and stood beside me. "i don't want to butt in," he began, "but--i hope you're going on this assignment with an open mind, miss iverson." that hurt me. for some reason it always hurt me surprisingly to have godfrey morris show any lack of faith in me in any way. "i told mr. hurd," i answered, with dignity, "that i think mrs. brandow is innocent. but my opinion won't--" "i know." mr. morris's ability to interrupt a speaker without seeming rude was one of his special gifts. "hurd thinks she's guilty," he went on. "i think she's innocent. what i hope you'll do is to forget what any one thinks. go to the woman without prejudice one way or the other. write of her as you find her." "that," i said, "is precisely what i intend to do." "good!" exclaimed morris. "i was afraid that what hurd said might send you out with the wrong notion." he strolled with me toward the elevator. "i never knew a case where the evidence for and against a prisoner was so evenly balanced," he mused. "i'm for her simply because i can't believe that a woman with her brains and courage would commit such a crime. she's too good a sport! by jove, the way she went through that seven-hour session on the witness-stand the other day ..." he checked himself. "oh, well," he ended, easily, "i'm not her advocate. she may be fooling us all. good-by. get a good story." "i'll make her confess to me," i remarked, cheerfully, at the elevator door. "then we'll suppress the confession!" "we'll give her a square deal, anyway," he called, as the elevator began to descend. it was easy to run out to fairview, the scene of the trial, easy to get the letter from mr. davies, and easiest of all to interview the friendly warden of the big prison and send the note to mrs. brandow in her cell when she had returned from court. after that the broad highway of duty was no longer oiled. very courteously, but very firmly, too, mrs. brandow declined to see me. many messages passed between us before i was admitted to her presence on the distinct understanding that i was not to ask her questions, that i was not to quote anything she might say; that, in short, i was to confine the drippings of my gifted pen to a description of her environment and of herself. this was not a heartening task. yet when the iron door of number on the women's tier of the prison had swung back to admit me my first glance at the prisoner and her background showed me that mr. hurd would have at least one "feature" for the _searchlight_ the next morning. on either side of number were typical white-painted and carbolic-scented cells--one occupied by an intoxicated woman who snored raucously on her narrow cot, the other by a wretched hag who clung to the bars of her door with filthy fingers and leered at me as i passed. between the two was a spot as out of place in those surroundings as a flower-bed would seem on the stern brow of an alpine glacier. mrs. brandow, the newspapers had told the world, was not only a beautiful woman, but a woman who loved beauty. she had spent six months in fairview awaiting her trial. all the members of the "good family" mr. hurd had mentioned had died young--probably as a reward of their excellence. she had no intimate friends--her husband, it was said, had made friendships impossible for her. nevertheless, first with one trifle, then with another, brought to her by the devoted maid who had been with her for years, she had made herself a home in her prison. tacked on the wall, facing her small, white-painted iron bed, was a large piece of old java print, its colors dimmed by time to dull browns and blues. on the bed itself was a cover of blue linen, and the cement floor was partly concealed by a chinese rug whose rich tones harmonized with those of the print. over the bed hung a fine copy of a hobbema, in which two lines of trees stretched on and on toward a vague, far-distant horizon. near this a large framed print showed a great stretch of scotch moors and wide, empty skies. a few silver-backed toilet articles lay on a small glass-covered hospital table. against this unlooked-for background the suspected murderess, immaculate in white linen tailor-made garments, sat on a white-enameled stool, peacefully sewing a button on a canvas shoe. the whole effect was so unprecedented, even to me after a year of the varied experiences which come to a new york reporter, that my sense of the woman's situation was wiped out by the tableau she made. without intending to smile at all, i smiled widely as i entered and held out my hand; and mrs. brandow, who had risen to receive me, sent back an answering smile, cool, worldly, and understanding. "it _is_ a cozy domestic scene, isn't it?" she asked, lightly, reading my thoughts, "but on too small a scale. we're a trifle cramped. take the stool. i will sit on the bed." she moved the stool an inch, with a hospitable gesture which almost created an effect of space, and sat down opposite me, taking me in from head to foot with one straight look from black eyes in whose depths lurked an odd sparkle. "you won't mind if i finish this?" she asked, as she picked up her needle. "i have only two more buttons." i reassured her, and she bit off a piece of cotton and rethreaded her needle expertly. "they won't let me have a pair of scissors," she explained, as she began to sew. "it's a wonder they lend me a needle. they tell me it's a special privilege. once a week the guard brings it to me at this hour, and the same evening he retrieves it with a long sigh of relief. he is afraid i will swallow it and cheat the electric chair. he needn't be. it isn't the method i should choose." her voice was a soft and warm contralto, whose vibrations seemed to linger in the air when she had ceased to speak. her manner was indescribably matter-of-fact. she gave a vigorous pull to the button she had sewed on and satisfied herself of its strength. then she bit the thread again and began to secure the last button, incidentally chatting on, as she might have chatted to a friend over a cup of tea. very simply and easily, because it was my cue, but even more because i was immensely interested, i fell into her mood. we talked a long time and of many things. she asked about my work, and i gave her some details of its amusing side. she spoke of the books she had read and was reading, of places she had visited, and, in much the same tone, of her nights in prison, made hideous by her neighbors in near-by cells. as she talked, two dominating impressions strengthened in me momentarily: she was the most immaculate human being i had ever seen, and the most perfectly poised. when she had sewed on the last button, fastening the thread with workman-like deftness, she opened a box of pipe-clay and whitened both shoes with a moist sponge. "i don't quite know why i do all this," she murmured, casually. "i suppose it's the force of habit. it's surprising how some habits last and others fall away. the only wish i have now is that i and my surroundings may remain decently clean." "may i quote that?" i asked, tentatively--"that, and what you have told me about the books you are reading?" her expression of indifferent tolerance changed. she regarded me with narrowed eyes under drawn, black brows. "no," she said, curtly. "you'll be good enough to keep to your bond. you agreed not to repeat a word i said." i rose to go. "and i won't," i told her, "naturally. but i hoped you had changed your mind." she rose also, the slight, ironic smile again playing about her lips. "no," she answered, in a gentler tone, "the agreement holds. but i don't wonder i misled you! i've prattled like a school-girl, and"--the smile subtly changed its character--"do you know, i've rather enjoyed it. i haven't talked to any one for months but my maid and my lawyer. mary's chat is punctuated by sobs. i'm like a freshly watered garden when she ends her weekly visits. and the charms of mr. davies's conversation leave me cold. so this has been"--she hesitated--"a pleasure," she ended. we shook hands again. "thank you," i said, "and good-by. i hope"--in my turn i hesitated an instant, seeking the right words. the odd sparkle deepened in her eyes. "yes?" she murmured. "you hope--?" "i hope you will soon be free," i ended simply. her eyes held mine for an instant. then, "thank you," she said, and turned away. the guard, who had waited outside with something of the effect of a clock about to strike, opened the iron door, and i passed through. late that night, after i had turned in my copy and received in acknowledgment the grunt which was mr. hurd's highest tribute to satisfactory work, i sat at my desk still thinking of the brandow case. suddenly the chair beside me creaked as godfrey morris dropped into it. "just been reading your brandow story. good work," he said, kindly. "without bias, too. what do you think of the woman now, after meeting her?" "she's innocent," i repeated, tersely. "then she didn't confess?" laughed morris. "no," i smiled, "she didn't confess. but if she had been guilty she might have confessed. she talked a great deal." morris's eyes widened with interest. the day's work was over, and he was in a mood to be entertained. "did she?" he asked. "what did she say?" i repeated the interview, while he leaned back and listened, his hands clasped behind his head. "she _was_ communicative," he reflected, at the end. "in a mood like that, after months of silence, a woman will tell anything. as you say, if she had been guilty she might easily have given herself away. what a problem it would have put up to you," he mused, "if she _had_ been guilty and _had_ confessed! on the one hand, loyalty to the _searchlight_--you'd have had to publish the news. on the other hand, sympathy for the woman--for it would be you who sent her to the electric chair, or remained silent and saved her." he looked at me quizzically. "which would you have done?" he asked. it seemed no problem at all to me, but i gave it an instant's reflection. "i think you know," i told him. he nodded. "i think i do," he agreed. "just the same," he rose and started for his desk, "don't you imagine there isn't a problem in the situation. there's a big one." he turned back, struck by a sudden idea. "why don't you make a magazine story of it?" he added. "i believe you can write fiction. here's your chance. describe the confession of the murderess, the mental struggle of the reporter, her suppression of the news, and its after-effect on her career." his suggestion hit me much harder than his problem. the latter was certainly strong enough for purposes of fiction. "why," i said, slowly, "thank you. i believe i will." before mr. morris had closed the door i was drawing a fresh supply of copy-paper toward me; before he had left the building i had written the introduction to my first fiction story; and before the roar of the presses came up to my ears from the basement, at a quarter to two in the morning, i had made on my last page the final cross of the press-writer and dropped the finished manuscript into a drawer of my desk. it had been written with surprising ease. helen brandow had entered my tale as naturally as she would enter a room; and against the bleak background of her cell i seemed to see her whole life pass before me like a series of moving-pictures which my pen raced after and described. the next morning found me severely critical as i read my story. still, i decided to send it to a famous novelist i had met a few months before, who had since then spent some of her leisure in good-naturedly urging me to "write." i believed she would tell me frankly what she thought of this first sprout in my literary garden, and that night, quite without compunction, i sent it to her. two days later i received a letter which i carried around in my pocket until the precious bit of paper was almost in rags. "your story is a corker," wrote the distinguished author, whose epistolary style was rather free. "i experienced a real thrill when the woman confessed. you have made out a splendid case for her; also for your reporter. given all your premises, things _had_ to happen as they did. offer the story to mrs. langster, editor of _the woman's friend_. few editors have sense, but i think she'll know enough to take it. i inclose a note to her." if mrs. appleton had experienced a thrill over my heroine's confession we were more than quits, for i experienced a dozen thrills over her letter, and long afterward, when she came back from a visit to england with new honors thick upon her, i amused her by describing them. within twenty-four hours after receiving her inspiring communication i had wound my way up a circular staircase that made me feel like an animated corkscrew, and was humbly awaiting mrs. langster's pleasure in the room next to her dingy private office. she had read mrs. appleton's note at once, and had sent an office boy to say that she would receive me in a few minutes. i gladly waited thirty, for this home of a big and successful magazine was a new world to me--and, though it lacked the academic calm i had associated with the haunts of literature in the making, everything in it was interesting, from the ink-spattered desks and their aloof and busy workers to the recurrent roar of the elevated trains that pounded past the windows. mrs. langster proved to be an old lady, with a smile of extraordinary sweetness. looking at her white hair, and meeting the misty glance of her near-sighted blue eyes, i felt a depressing doubt of mrs. appleton's wisdom in sending me to her with a work of fiction which turned on murder. one instinctively associated mrs. langster with organ recitals, evening service, and afternoon teas in dimly lighted rooms. but there was an admirable brain under her silver hair, and i had swift proof of the keenness of her literary discrimination; for within a week she accepted my story and sent me a check for an amount equal to the salary i received for a month of work. her letter, and that of mrs. appleton, went to sister irmingarde--was it only a year ago that i had parted from her and the convent? then i framed them side by side and hung them in a place of honor on my study wall, as a solace in dark hours and an inspiration in brighter ones. they represented a literary ladder, on the first rung of which i was sure i had found firm footing, though the upper rungs were lost in clouds. mrs. langster allowed my story to mellow for almost a year before she published it; and in the long interval helen brandow was acquitted, and disappeared from the world that had known her. i myself had almost forgotten her, and i had even ceased to look for my story in the columns of _the woman's friend_, when one morning i found on my desk a note from mr. hurd. it was brief and cryptic, for mr. hurd's notes were as time-saving as his speech. it read: pls. rept. immed. n. h. without waiting to remove my hat i entered mr. hurd's office. he was sitting bunched up over his desk, his eyebrows looking like an intricate pattern of cross-stitching. instead of his usual assortment of newspaper clippings, he held in his hand an open magazine, which, as i entered, he thrust toward me. "here!" he jerked. "what's this mean?" i recognized with mild surprise the familiar cover of _the woman's friend_. a second glance showed me that the page mr. hurd was indicating with staccato movements of a nervous forefinger bore my name. my heart leaped. "why," i exclaimed, delightedly, "it's my story!" mr. hurd's hand held the magazine against the instinctive pull i gave it. his manner was unusually quiet. unusual, too, was the sudden straight look of his tired eyes. "sit down," he said, curtly. "i want to ask you something." i sat down, my eyes on the magazine. as mr. hurd held it, i could see the top of one illustration. it looked interesting. "see here," mr. hurd jerked out. "i'm not going to beat around the bush. did you throw us down on this story?" i stared at him. for an instant i did not get his meaning. then it came to me that possibly i should have asked his permission to publish any work outside of the _searchlight_ columns. "but," i stammered, "you don't print fiction." mr. hurd tapped the open page with his finger. the unusual quiet of his manner began to impress me. "_is_ it fiction?" he asked. "that's what i want to know." godfrey morris rose from his desk and came toward us. until that instant i had only vaguely realized that he was in the room. "hurd," he said, quickly, "you're in the wrong pew. miss iverson doesn't even know what you're talking about." he turned to me. "he's afraid," he explained, "that mrs. brandow confessed to you in fairview, and that you threw us down by suppressing the story." for an instant i was dazed. then i laughed. "mr. hurd," i said, "i give you my word that mrs. brandow never confessed anything to me." mr. hurd's knitted brows uncreased. "that's straight, is it?" he demanded. "that's straight," i repeated. hurd dropped the magazine on the floor and turned to his papers. "'l right," he muttered, "don't let 't happen 'gain." mr. morris and i exchanged an understanding smile as i picked up the magazine and left the room. in the outer room i met gibson. his grin of greeting was wide and friendly, his voice low and interested. "read your story last night," he whispered. "say, tell me--_did_ she, really?" i filled the next five minutes explaining to gibson. he looked relieved. "i didn't think there was anything in it," he said. "that woman's no murderess. but, say, you made the story read like the real thing!" within the next few days everybody on the _searchlight_ staff seemed to have read _the woman's friend_, and to be taking part in the discussion my story aroused. those of my associates who believed in the innocence of mrs. brandow accepted the tale for what it was--a work of fiction. those without prejudice were inclined to think there was "something in it," and at least half a dozen who believed her guilty also firmly believed that i had allowed an acute and untimely spasm of womanly sympathy to deprive the _searchlight_ of "the best and biggest beat in years." for a few days i remained pleasantly unconscious of being a storm-center, but one morning a second summons from mr. hurd opened my eyes to the situation. "see here!" began that gentleman, rudely. "what does all this talk mean, anyway? they're saying now that you and morris suppressed the brandow confession between you. jim, the elevator-boy, says he heard you agree to do it." godfrey morris leaped to his feet and came toward us. "good lord, hurd," he cried, fiercely, "i believe you're crazy! why don't you come to me with this rot, if you're going to notice it, and not bother miss iverson? we joked about a confession, and i suppose jim heard us. the joke was what suggested the magazine story." "well, _that's_ no joke." hurd spoke grudgingly, as if unwillingly impressed. "suppose the woman had confessed," he asked me, suddenly--"would you have given us the story?" i shook my head. "certainly not," i admitted. "you forget that i had agreed not to print a word she said." hurd's expression of uncertainty was so funny that i laughed. "but she didn't," i added, comfortingly. "do you think i'd lie to you?" "you might." hurd was in a pessimistic mood. "to save her, or--" a rare phenomenon occurred; he smiled--all his boyish dimples suddenly revealed--"to save morris from losing his job," he finished, coolly. i felt my face grow hot. morris rushed to the rescue. "the only thing i regret in this confounded mess," he muttered, ignoring hurd's words, "is the effect on mrs. brandow. _the woman's friend_ has half a million readers. they'll all think she's guilty." "good job," said hurd. "she _is_ guilty!" "rot! she's absolutely innocent," replied morris. "why, even the fool jury acquitted her on the first ballot!" i left them arguing and slipped away, sick at heart. in the sudden moment of illumination following morris's words it had come to me that the one person to be considered in the whole episode was the person of whom i had not thought at all! i had done helen brandow a great wrong. her case had been almost forgotten; somewhere she was trying to build up a new life. i had knocked out the new foundations. it was a disturbing reflection, and the events of the next few days deepened my depression. several reviewers commented on the similarity of my story to the brandow case. people began to ask where mrs. brandow was, began again to argue the question of her innocence or her guilt. efforts were made to find her hiding-place. the thought of the injury i had done the unhappy woman became an obsession. there seemed only one way to exorcise it, and that was to see or write to my "victim," as hurd jocosely called her, make my confession, and have her absolve me, if she would, of any intent of injury. on the wings of this inspiration i sought mr. davies, and, putting the situation before him, asked for his client's address. "of course i can't give you her address," he explained, mildly. "but i'll write to her and tell her you want it. yes, yes, with pleasure. i know how you feel." he smiled reflectively. "she's a wonderful woman," he added. "most remarkable woman i ever met--strongest soul." he sighed, then smiled again. "i'll write," he repeated; and with this i had to be content. i had done all that i could do. but my nerves began to feel the effect of the strain upon them, and it was a relief when i reached my home in madison square late one evening and found mrs. brandow waiting for me. she was sitting in a little reception-room off the main hall of the building, and as i passed the door on my way to the elevator she rose and came toward me. she wore a thick veil, but something in me recognized her even before i caught the flash of her eyes through it, and noticed the characteristically erect poise of the head which every reporter who saw her had described. "mr. davies said you wanted to talk to me," she began, without greeting me. "here i am. have i come at the wrong time?" i slipped my hand through her arm. "no," was all i could say. "it was very good of you to come at all. i did not expect that." in silence we entered the elevator and ascended to my floor. as i opened the door with my latch-key and waited for her to go in i spoke again. "i can't tell you how much i've been thinking of you," i said. she made no reply. we passed through the hall into my study, and while i turned on the electric lights she dropped into a big arm-chair beside a window overlooking the square, threw back her veil, and slipped off the heavy furs she wore. as the lights flashed up we exchanged a swift look. little more than a year had passed since our former meeting, but she seemed many years older and much less beautiful. there were new lines about her eyes and mouth, and the black hair over her temples was growing gray. i started to draw down the window-shades, for it was snowing hard, and the empty square below, with a few tramps shivering on its benches, afforded but a dreary vista. she checked me. "leave them as they are," she directed, imperiously, adding as an afterthought: "please. i like to be able to look out." i obeyed, realizing now, as i had not done before, what those months of confinement must have meant to her. when i had removed my hat and coat, and lit the logs that lay ready in my big fireplace, i took a chair near her. "first of all," i began, "i want to thank you for coming. and then--i want to beg your forgiveness." for a moment she studied me in silence. "that's rather odd of you," she murmured, reflectively. "you know i'm fair game! why shouldn't you run with the pack?" my eyes, even my head, went down before that. for a moment i could not reply. then it seemed to me that the most important thing in the world was to make her understand. "of course," i admitted, "i deserve anything you say. i did a horrible thing when i printed that story. i should never have offered it to an editor. my defense is simply that i didn't realize what i was doing. that's what i want to make clear to you. that's why i asked to see you." "i see," she said, slowly. "it's not the story you're apologizing for. it's the effect." "yes," i explained, eagerly, "it's the effect. i hadn't been out of school more than a year when i came to you in fairview," i hurried on. "i was very young, and appallingly ignorant. it never occurred to me that any one would connect a fiction story with--with your case." she looked at me, and with all the courage i could summon i gazed straight back into her strange, deep eyes. for a long instant the look held, and during it something came to me, something new and poignant, something that filled me with an indescribable pity for the loneliness i now understood, and for the courage of the nature that bore it so superbly. she would ask nothing of the world, this woman. nor would she defend herself. people could think what they chose. but she would suffer. i leaned toward her. "mrs. brandow," i said, "i wish i could make you understand how i feel about this. i believe it has made me ten years older." she smiled. "that would be a pity," she said, "when you're so deliciously young." "is there anything i can do?" i persisted. she raised her eyebrows. "i'm afraid not," she murmured, "unless it is to cease doing anything. you see, your activities where i am concerned are so hectic." i felt my face burn. "you're very hard on me, but i deserve it. i didn't realize," i repeated, "that the story would suggest you to the public." "even though you described me?" she interjected, the odd, sardonic gleam deepening in her black eyes. "but i didn't describe you as you are," i protested, eagerly. "i made you a blonde! don't you remember? and i made a western city the scene of the trial, and changed some of the conditions of the--" i faltered--"of the crime." "as if that mattered," she said, coolly. "you described _me_--to the shape of my finger-nails, the buttons on my shoes." suddenly she laughed. "those dreadful buttons! i see them still in my dreams. it seems to me that i was always sewing them on. the only parts of me i allowed to move in the court-room were my feet. no one could see them, under my skirt. i used to loosen a button almost every day. then of course i had to sew them on. i had a sick fear of looking messy and untidy--of degenerating physically." she faced the wide windows and the snow-filled sky. in my own chair, facing the fire, i also directly faced her. "i'm going to europe," she announced at last. "i'm sailing to-morrow morning--to be gone 'for good,' as the children say. that's why i came to-night." for a moment she sat in silence, wholly, restfully at her ease. dimly i began to realize that she was enjoying the intimacy of the moment, the sense of human companionship, and again it came to me how tragically lonely she must be. she had no near friends, and in the minds of all others there must always be the hideous interrogation-point that stood between her and life. at best she had "the benefit of the doubt." and i had helped to destroy even the little that was left to her. i could have fallen at her feet. "i'm going away," she added, "to see if there is any place for me in the life abroad. if there is i want to find it. if i were the sort of woman who went in for good works, my problem would be easier; but you see i'm not." i smiled. i could not see her as a worker in organized charity, parceling out benefits tied with red tape. it was no effort, however, to picture her doing many human and beautiful kindnesses in her own way. we talked of europe. i had never been there. she spoke of northern africa, of rides over morocco hills, of a caravan journey from tangier to fez, of algerian nights, of camping in the desert, of palms and ripe figs and of tropical gardens. it was fascinating talk in the purple lights of my driftwood fire, with a snow-storm beating at my windows. suddenly she checked herself. "i think, after all," she said, lightly, "you're rather good for me. you've done me good to-night. you did me good the day you visited me at fairview. you were so young, so much in earnest, so much in love with life, and you saw so much with your big, solemn eyes. you gave me something new to think about, and i needed it. so--don't regret anything." i felt the tears spring to my eyes. she drew on her gloves and buttoned them slowly, still smiling at me. "i might never even have seen your story," she went on, quietly, "if my maid had not brought it to me. i don't read _the woman's friend_." there was a hint of the old superciliousness in her tone and about her upper lip as she spoke. "on the whole, i don't think it did me any harm. the opinion of strangers is the least important thing in my little arctic circle. so, forget me. good night--and good-by." i kept her hand in mine for a moment. "good-by," i said. "peace be with you." she drew her veil down over her face, and moved to the door. i followed and opened it for her. on the threshold she stopped and hesitated, looking straight at me; and in that instant i knew as surely as i ever knew anything in my life that now at last her guard was down--that from the fastness of her soul something horrible had escaped and was leaping toward me. she cast a quick glance up and down the outer hall. it was dim and empty. i hardly dared to breathe. "there is one thing more," she said, and her words rushed out with an odd effect of breathlessness under the continued calm of her manner. "the only really human emotion i've felt in a long time is--an upheaval of curiosity." i looked at her, and waited. she hesitated an instant longer, then, standing very close to me, gripped my shoulders hard, her eyes deep in mine, her voice so low i hardly caught her meaning. "oh, wise young judge!" she whispered. "tell me, before we part--_how did you know_?" vi the last of the morans on my right rose a jagged wall of rock, hundreds of feet high and bare of vegetation save for a few dwarfed and wind-swept pines. on my left gaped the wide mouth of what seemed to be a bottomless ravine. between the two was a ledge not more than six feet wide, along which "jef'son davis," my mountain horse, was slowly and thoughtfully making his difficult way. occasionally from the pit's depths a hawk or turkey-buzzard rose, startling me with the flapping of its strong wings, and several times the feet of jef'son davis dislodged a bit of rock which rattled across the ledge, slipped over the side, and started on a downward journey whose distance i dared not estimate. for more than an hour i had not met a human being. i had not seen a mountain cabin or even a nodding plume of smoke. i had not heard the bark of a dog, the tinkle of a cow-bell, nor any other reassuring and homely testimony that i was in a world of men. yet i knew that somewhere around me must be lurking figures and watchful eyes, for i was in the stronghold of the morans and the tyrrells, and the morans and tyrrells were on the war-path, and therefore incessantly on guard. this journey through the virginia mountains to "write up family feuds" was the result of an inspiration recently experienced by colonel cartwell, our editor-in-chief. he was sure i could uncover "good dramatic stuff." "they're potting at each other every minute down there," he explained to me when he sent me off on the assignment. "give their time to it. morans and tyrrells are the worst. tyrrell has killed six morans. get his story before the morans get him. see? and find out what it's all about, anyway." according to the map i had made that morning under the direction of the postmaster of jayne's crossroads, i knew i must be even now within a mile of the cabin of the morans. "'tain't healthy travelin' fo' men," that gentleman had volunteered languidly, "but i reckon a lady's safe 'nuff, 'specially ef yo' leave the jou'ney to the hawse. jef'son davis, he knows ev'ry inch of that thar trail. all yo' got t' do is t' give jef'son his haid." jef'son davis was having his head, and he had thus far been true to his trust. at a certain point on the trail i was to look for huge boulders in a strange position, with a big and lonely cedar standing guard near them. at the right of this cedar was an almost hidden trail, which, followed for twenty minutes, would lead me to the moran cabin. i was not to be alarmed if a bullet whispered its sinister message in my ear. to kill women was no part of the moran traditions, and a fatality to me would be a regrettable incident, due wholly, if it occurred at all, to the impulsive nature of samuel tyrrell, who had formed the careless habit of firing at moving objects without pausing to discover what they were. it was because of this eccentricity, i gathered, that the sympathy of the mountain people lay largely with moran--who, moreover, though both men were the last of their respective lines, was a boy of twenty-two, while tyrrell was well on in middle life. i rode slowly along the trail, which, clear in the high lights of the noonday sun, was now widening and turning to the right. the ravine appeared to be growing more shallow. flashes of red haw and scarlet dogwood began to leap out at me from the edges. presently, beyond the turn, i discovered the boulders, silhouetted sharply against the soft october sky. near them was the lonely cedar, and after twice passing it i found the side-trail, and rode peacefully down its dim corridor. there was nothing to mark the moran home, and that, too, i almost passed before i noticed it, a strongly built log cabin, backed against the side of a hill, and commanding from its three barred windows the approaches on every side. as i rode up, the door opened and an old woman in a homespun dress stood before me. her shoulders sagged under the burden of seventy-five years, but the flame of an unconquerable spirit burned in the keen black eyes set bead-like in her withered little brown face. this, i knew, was betsy moran, who had helped to bury her husband, four sons, and a grandson, all killed by the tyrrells, and who was said finally to have seized a gun herself and added at least one tyrrell to the row in the family burial-lot. "how do you do?" i asked, cheerfully. "may i come in and rest for a few moments?" her face did not soften, nor did she speak, but there was neither suspicion nor fear in her steady regard; it held merely a dispassionate curiosity. i slipped from the back of jef'son davis and hesitated, looking around for a post or tree to tie him to, and the old woman, stirred to a quick instinct of hospitality, looked uncertainly behind her into the cabin. at the same instant a young giant appeared behind her, pushed her lightly to one side, and strode toward me with a nod of greeting. then, taking the bridle-rein from my hand, and still in silence, he led the horse away. evidently the morans were not a talkative family. wholly forgetting the old woman, i stared after him. here, obviously, was young "shep," the last of the morans; and from the top of his curly black hair to the boot-soles six feet two inches below it, he looked extremely well able to take care of himself. he was powerfully built, and he moved with the natural grace of the superb young animal he was. he wore a rough homespun blue shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of corduroy trousers tucked into high boots. from the swing of his back as he strode off with jef'son davis i should hardly have been surprised to see him throw that weary animal across his mighty shoulders. when he had disappeared i walked thoughtfully to the cabin door, meeting again the level gaze of my hostess. a sudden gleam in her eyes and a quick lift of her white head showed me she had caught my unconscious tribute to the strength and beauty of the young man, who was not only the last of her line, but, according to mountain traditions, the "apple of her eye." "come 'long in," she said, quietly; and she added as i crossed her threshold, "ef yo' rid 'crost th' gap, yo' mus' be mi-i-ghty ti'ed." [illustration: it was young "shep," the last of the morans] she pushed a chair in front of the great fireplace which filled one side of the cabin, and i dropped gladly into it and took off my hat, while she bustled about with hospitable enterprise, heating water and rattling tea-cups. suddenly she disappeared, and in another instant i heard the despairing, final squawk of an unfortunate hen. i knew that within the hour it would be served to me in a strange dish in which the flavors of burnt feathers and of tough, unseasoned meat would struggle for recognition, and i sighed. but the great logs burning in the old fireplace were good to watch, and their warmth was comforting, for the sun had suddenly gone behind a cloud and an autumn wind had begun to whine around the cabin and in the big chimney. there were only five pieces of furniture in the room--a narrow, home-made wooden bed occupying one corner, a large spinning-wheel, a pine table, a rough log settle, and the chair in which i sat. at the right of the fireplace a ladder led to a trap-door which evidently opened into a low attic--young moran's quarters, i assumed. just outside the open door stood a low, flat-topped tree-trunk, holding a tin basin full of water; a homespun towel on a nail below it testified mutely to its past usefulness. while i was regarding these, the master of the house reappeared, plunged his black head into the basin, flung the water in a spray over his face and hands, wiped them on the towel, and entered the cabin, ready for dinner. his immediate impulse was to attend to the fire, and as he approached it he cast a side glance at me, as shy and curious as that of some half-tamed creature of the open. when he had put on another log he spoke without looking at me, his brown cheeks flushing with the effort. "done fed th' critter," he announced, laconically. i thanked him, and mercifully kept my eyes on the fire. for a time he remained there, too, with occasional darting glances at me, which finally, as i seemed unaware of them, settled into a steady and close inspection. i realized what a strange, new type i presented to him--a young woman from new york, wearing a riding-habit and riding-boots, trim and slim and tailor-made. his glance lingered a long time on my hair and my hands. there was nothing offensive about it. at first merely curious, it had finally become reflective and friendly. at last i began to talk to him, and after several false starts he was able to respond, sprawling opposite me on the big settle, his hands clasped behind his curly head, his legs extended toward the fire, while i told him of new york and answered his extraordinary questions. it had seemed somehow fitting that the sun should go behind a cloud when i entered this tragic home; but for a long time there was no intimation in our talk of the other shadows that lay over the cabin, of the bloody trail that led to it, of the tragic row of graves on the hill beside it, or of the bullets that had whispered the failure of their mission in this boy's ears. we were a fairly cheerful company as we drew up to the pine table when the old woman announced dinner, and even the stoic calm of her face relaxed over the story of some of my experiences on the trail with jef'son davis. she did the honors of her house a little stiffly, but with dignity; and always, except when she was thus engaged, her black eyes focused on the face of her grandson and clung there, fixed. her contribution to our talk consisted of two eloquent sentences: "sometimes we got but'r," she remarked, as we sat down, "sometimes we hain't. t'day we hain't." we had, however, the expected chicken, with corn bread and tea, and in the perfect flowering of his hospitality, young shep moran heaped these high upon my plate, and mourned when i refused to devour the entire repast. he was chatting now with much self-possession, while under his talk and his occasional shy but brilliant smile his grandmother expanded like a thirsty plant receiving water. he had, he told me proudly, learned to read, and he owned two books--the bible and some poems by a man named whittier. he knew most of the poems "by hea't." he had never ridden on a railroad-train, but he could ride any animal that traveled on four legs, and he had heard a fiddle played upon during his one expedition out into the great world--his solitary visit to jayne's crossroads, two years before. when dinner was over he smoked a clay pipe before the fire, and gradually his talk grew more intimate. he and his grandmother were going to leave the cabin, he said, and live on the other side of the mountain. a man had offered him a job in some coal-mines that were being opened up. but he could not go yet--there was something he had to do first. the shadow over the cabin seemed to deepen as he spoke. i knew what he had to do--he had to kill samuel tyrrell, who had killed his father. his uncles, his brother, and samuel tyrrell's sons had killed one another. there were only himself and samuel tyrrell left. he turned and looked at me. his whole expression had changed--his brow was somber, his eyes brooding, his lips drawn back from his teeth in an odd, unconscious snarl. quite naturally he took it for granted that i knew of him and his feud. "sam tyrrell, he'd--" he hesitated, then added under his breath, as he glanced at the old woman moving toward the cupboard with her dishes--"he'd even shoot at gran ef he ketched 'er on the trail." i rose and put on my hat. before my eyes my mountain demigod had suddenly been transformed into a young beast, lusting for blood. i felt that i must get away from the oppression of the place. he made no comment, but picked up his hat and went for my horse. when he returned he was leading jef'son davis and riding his own horse, a rough-coated mountain animal which, powerful though it was, seemed hardly up to the huge bulk astride it. with a jerk of his head, he checked my protest and the little cry that broke from his grandmother's lips. "i'm jes' gwine ter th' bend," he told her, "t' p'int aout th' trail t' clapham's. she's gwine t' stay all night thar. look fo' me home 'fore sundown." the grandmother cast a quick glance at me, then dropped her eyes. the fire seemed to have flickered and died out. her steps dragged. in an instant she had become a feeble, apprehensive old woman. "don't you take shep no furder 'n th' bend," she quavered. "will yuh?" i met her look squarely. "you may be sure i will not," i promised, and we rode away. young moran's horse proved better than he looked. with the greatest ease and lightness he carried his rider along the trail, a little in advance of me where it was narrow, and close beside me when it widened out. as we rode, the young man became all boy again. he knew every mountain tree and shrub, every late plant that had raised a brave head above the pall of autumn leaves, every bird whose note sounded near us or which winged its flight above us. he pointed out the bright yellow blossoms of the evening primrose, the bursting pods of the milkweed, the "purty look" of asters, gentian, and white everlasting against the somber background of the hills. he was delighted when we flushed a covey of quail, and at one point he stopped abruptly to show me the old swimming-hole which he and his brother had used, and on the banks of which, he added grimly, his brother had been killed by tyrrell's eldest son. at this memory the shadow fell upon him again, and it was while we were riding on in a silence broken only by the padded hoof-beats of the horses that we heard a shot. something from the underbrush at our right went humming past me, clipped a leaf from an overhanging bough above my companion's head, and sped onward to its harmless finish. moran's horse, jerked back on its haunches by the rider's powerful grip on the bridle, stopped, trembling. jef'son davis shied violently, only to be caught and steadied by the instantaneous grasp of moran's right hand. in the same second the young man himself was transformed from the simple, gentle nature-lover of the trail to a half-human spirit of hatred and revenge. "the polecat!" he hissed. "i know whar he is. i'll _git_ him this time!" with a quick swing he turned his horse. "thar's your trail," he called back over his shoulder. "straight on tuh th' bend--then go left." he put his horse at a low but sharp incline on the right, and the animal scrambled up it with straining muscles and tearing hoofs that sent back a shower of stones and earth. in another moment horse and rider were out of sight. it had all happened so suddenly that i had felt no fear. now, left alone, it seemed incredible that it should have happened at all. outwardly, everything was as it had been a moment before. the soft haze of the october atmosphere still lay over the silent hills; the reassuring whir of crickets was in the air. jef'son davis, happy in the comfort of a lax bridle, was eagerly cropping the leaves from an overhanging tree-branch. yet within pistol-shot of this spot an assassin had crouched. even now he and his enemy were perhaps having their last struggle. with a deep breath, i gathered up the bridle and rode back at full speed along the trail over which i had come. when i drew near the moran cabin i checked jef'son davis's pace and proceeded at a gentle canter. i did not wish to alarm betsy moran, but the door flew open while i was still some distance away, and the old woman hurried to meet me. almost as soon as i had jumped from the saddle she was beside me, her eyes staring into mine with the question she dared not ask. "nothing serious has happened," i said, quickly, "but--" as i hesitated, she finished the sentence. "they're arfter each othe'?" she said, dully. "they're shootin'?" i nodded. without another word, she turned and entered the cabin. i tethered my horse to a tree and followed her. there was nothing of helpless age about her now. instead there was something horrible in her silence, something appalling in the preparations she at once began to make. she had gone through it all before--many, many times. she was ready to go through it again whenever the hour struck, and she had developed a terrible efficiency. she filled the great kettle with water. she turned down the covers of the bed. from a closet in the wall she brought out linen and bandages, a few bottles, and several bundles of herbs, of which she began to make some sort of brew. at last she came and sat by the fire, crouched over it, waiting and listening. occasionally she rose, went to the door, and looked out. once or twice she whimpered a little, but she did not speak. darkness came. several times i rose and put fresh logs on the fire. i found and lit a candle, to help out the firelight. it had become impossible to sit longer in that dim room, with its shadows and its memories, watching the terrible patience of the mountain woman and picturing a dead man, or a wounded one, lying helpless near the trail. "can't i ride somewhere and get some one?" i suggested once. "no," the old woman answered, curtly. half an hour later she added, more gently, and as if there had been no interval between her words: "they ain't no doctor in thirty miles. ef shep gits home, i kin tend t' him." it was after ten o'clock before we heard a sound outside. i jumped to my feet, but the old woman was before me. hurrying to the door, she flung it wide, and, shielding the candle with her hand, peered out into the blackness. then, with a little cry, she handed the candle to me and ran forward. in the darkness something was crawling toward us, something that stumbled and rose and stumbled again. it collapsed just as it reached us, and fell near the threshold. someway, together, we dragged the last of the morans into his home, and closed the door between him and his mountain world. his great body seemed to fill the cabin as it lay upon the floor, the arms and legs sprawling in incredible helplessness, the boots and trousers covered with mud, the blue shirt torn and blood-stained. seizing one of her bottles, the old woman forced some of its contents between the boy's teeth, and as she did so he opened his eyes. for a moment he stared at her, at me, and around the cabin, dim in the flickering light of logs and candle. then a gleam lit up his black eyes. his lips drew back over his teeth in a hideous, wolflike grin. "he's done daid, gran," he choked out. "i got 'im!" the old woman, who had been bending above him, dropped the bottle and sat back suddenly, flinging her lean arms above her head in a movement of wild exultation. a high cackle of joy broke from her. then, remembering his need, she bent over him again and tried to force him to take more of the liquor; but he frowned it away, his stiff tongue seeking to form words. "i--watched--him--die," he finally articulated, "'fo'--ever--i--tho't--o'--home!" he closed his eyes and lapsed into unconsciousness. the old woman rocked above him. "he's daid," she crooned. "he's daid, daid, daid!" for a moment i thought it was her grandson she meant, but i saw that she was continuing her ministrations, accompanying them with this reassurance to those deaf ears. for a long time the hideous lullaby went on, while she washed the wound in the boy's breast and checked its flow of blood, bandaging it as skilfully as any surgeon could have done the work. she let me help her now--keeping cold compresses on his hot head, for he was moaning with pain and fever, and giving him from time to time the medicine she had brewed. we could not move his great body, but we made him as comfortable as we could on the floor, and worked over him there while the night wore on, and the cries of prowling animals came to us from the mountainside. toward dawn the fever subsided. the boy's high color faded, and he hardly seemed to breathe. in my inexperience i was not sure whether these were good or bad signs, and i had no indication from betsy moran, whose face never changed as she hung above him. at sunrise she rose and went to the door, motioning to me to accompany her. there, following the direction indicated by her pointing, shaking old finger, i saw on the side of the hill, at the left of the cabin, six low mounds marked by six great boulders. for a long time the mountain woman looked at them in silence. then she turned to me. "he's daid," she whispered, with a kind of fierce delight. "_tyrrell's daid._ here's the e-end." she leaned against the jamb of the door, staring up at the row of mounds defined against the desolate mountain by the first clear rays of the sun. a light breeze lifted the loose locks of her white hair and blew them about her face. in her eyes shone the wild exultation that had burned there the night before, when her boy had gasped out his message. "mrs. moran," i asked, quietly, "how many tyrrell graves are there?" she answered me somberly, almost absently. "five," she said. then, on a sudden memory, her shriveled arm went up in a gesture of triumph. "_six!_" she corrected herself, exultantly. "be six in th' tyrrell lot t'-morrer." six in the tyrrell lot to-morrow. six in the moran lot to-day--perhaps seven there to-morrow. and why? unconsciously i uttered the word aloud, and the hills seemed to fling back the ironic question. beside me the old woman stirred, thinking i was speaking to her. as if the words had touched a hidden spring, her confidence gushed forth, and as she talked she lifted her hands and began to twist into the tiny knob of hair at the back of her head the white locks that blew about her eyes. "'twas fo'ty yeahs back," she said, at last, almost to herself. "come christmas, hit's fo'ty yeahs back. er yearlin' o' ourn had tooken up with neighbor cattle, an' tyrrell, he done claimed hit. they was always polecats, th' tyrrells. words come o' that, an' licks follered clost. at las' tyrrell, he shot amos--my man. 'twa'n't long fo' jep, my oldest, shep's father, he killed tyrrell. that's th' sta't of it. now we've come t' th' e-end," she finished, and drew a long breath. "he's daid--tyrrell's daid. shep, he seen 'um die." she led the way back into the cabin, and stopped at the foot of the ladder. "go up thar," she said, almost gently. "git some sleep. i reckon ye're perished fo' it." i protested, but in vain. it finally became plain that for some reason she wished to be rid of me. she brought me a cup of some dark liquid and urged me to drink it. it was not tempting in appearance or flavor, but i drank it down. then, as she still waited, i ascended the ladder and found myself in shep's room--a tiny attic, its rafters hung with drying herbs, its pallet on the floor surprisingly clean, its one narrow window covering the tyrrell trail. i had not expected to sleep, but i did--slept while the day mounted to high noon and waned to a gorgeous autumnal sunset. i was awakened by the sound of hoof-beats, of men's voices, of many steps on the floor of the room below. for an instant i lay in puzzled silence, staring at the rafters above my head. then, as memory awakened in its turn, i rose hurriedly and began to dress, my fingers shaking with excitement and nervousness. i understood the meaning of those pawing hoofs, of those heavy steps and rough voices, and as i dressed i listened. but all i caught was the tramp of feet, the scrape of furniture dragged across the floor, the whinnying of horses, impatient in the rising evening wind. once i heard the old woman's voice, but i could distinguish only the word "sheriff." soon i heard the heavy steps pass out of the house, and the creak and rattle of saddles and bridles as the visitors mounted their horses and rode away. they went slowly. they had arranged, i assumed, some sort of litter for the wounded man. in the room below there was absolutely no sound. for a moment i hesitated. how could i go down and face that stricken old creature to whom life had just given this final turn of its relentless screw? then, very slowly, i descended the ladder, my back to the room, afraid to move my eyes for fear of the scene they might rest upon. it was not until i stood on the cabin floor that i dared to look around me. the living-room was swept and in perfect order. the last reflection of the setting sun lay in a brilliant line across its immaculate floor. the door was open, affording a view of the long trail, along which the horsemen could be seen, riding slowly in single file. the kettle hung on the crane, the table was set for supper, and in the center of this peaceful scene my hostess sat alone, knitting a blue yarn sock. slowly she looked up at me. "ef yo' slep' well," she said, quietly, "mou't be yer ready t' eat?" she rose, laid down the blue sock, and began to move about the room. speechless, i stared at her. i had thought the night before that, coming from her, no evidence of self-control could surprise me. but this uncanny poise filled me with a sort of awe. i dared not even ask a question. she had erected between us the barrier of her primitive dignity, her terrible courage. i could no more pass it than i could have broken through the thick walls of her cabin. she placed the chair at the table, and in silence i sat down. she poured tea for me, and cut a wedge of corn bread, but i could not eat. after a few moments i gave up the effort, rose, and took my hat from the nail on which it hung. she watched me as i drew on my gloves. the action seemed to recall something to her. "shep," she said, casually, "he had t' borry yo' critter. ye'll git it back soon's he kin send it." "oh!" i exclaimed, startled. "but--but was he able to ride--with his wound?" she looked at me, her eyes showing the scorn of the primitive woman for such softness. "lordy! hawseback's same's a cradle to shep," she muttered. i drew a deep breath. "they rode very slowly," i said. "i hope it won't hurt him. good-by," and i held out my hand. "i'll walk to clapham's. i know the way." she put her hand in mine. in her eyes danced a sudden light, half mocking, half ecstatic. "shep, he got off 'bout sun-up," she drawled. "fo'ty mile along he wuz 'fo' ever sheriff come a-nigh this place!" i could not speak, but something, i know, flashed in my face and was reflected in hers. for a moment longer her wrinkled old hand lay still in mine. she seemed loath to withdraw it, anxious to say more. perhaps she was recalling the long vigil of the night, when we two had worked together over the unconscious form of the last of the morans. but her vocabulary offered her nothing with which to clothe those naked hours. "good-by," she repeated. and she ended primly: "i wish yo' well, miss. i sho'ly hev inj'yed yo' comp'ny!" vii to the rescue of miss morris i met grace morris for the first time at mrs. hatfield's musical tea--a unique affair at which the half-dozen world-famous artists our hostess had engaged for the afternoon strove vainly to make their music heard above the care-free voices of her guests. i had isolated myself behind a potted palm in the great music-room, and was trying to distinguish the strains of mischa elman's playing from the conversational high notes around me when a deprecating little laugh sounded in my ear. "it's no use," said a clear, languid young voice. "we might as well chat, too. but first _do_ rise on your toes, look over the purple plume on the fat woman's hat, and catch one glimpse of elman's expression! he thinks we're all insane, or that he is." i did not follow this stimulating suggestion. instead i looked at the speaker. she was a typical new york society girl of twenty-three, or possibly twenty-four, dressed to perfection and bored to extinction, her pale, pretty features stamped with the avid expression of the chronic seeker of new sensations. "you're miss iverson, aren't you?" she went on, when i had smiled my acknowledgment of her swift service across the conversational net. "my brother pointed you out to me at the theater the other night. he wants us to meet. he's one of your editors on the _searchlight_, you know--godfrey morris." in another minute we were chatting with as little compunction as the ruthless throng around us, and while we talked i studied miss morris. i knew a great deal about her. she had only recently returned from germany, where for two years she had been studying singing with lehmann. she had an exquisite voice, and, though it was understood that she would make no professional use of it, she had already sung at several concerts given in behalf of charities that appealed to her. she possessed a large fortune, inherited from her grandfather; her brother godfrey had inherited one of equally impressive proportions, but its coming had not interrupted the daily and nightly grind of his editorial work. evidently the morrises, despite their languid air, sprang from energetic stock. it was whispered that miss morris's energies occasionally lent themselves to all-night tango parties, and late suppers with bohemian friends in operatic and dramatic worlds whose orbits hardly touched the exclusive one in which she dwelt; but thus far there had been nothing more significant than a few raised eyebrows to emphasize this gossip. "i'm lucky to meet you," she ran on now. "it saves writing a note. mother and i want you to dine with us thursday evening of next week, at our hotel. we haven't gone to housekeeping. we're at the berkeley for the winter, because godfrey has an apartment there. can you come?--i'm so glad. at eight, then." a ravishing strain of music reached us. simultaneously the voice of the fat woman with the purple plume uttered the final notes of the recital she had been pouring into the ears of the acquaintance on her left. "then, and not till then," she shouted, "i found that the unhappy woman _lived on the west side_!" miss morris's eyes and mine exchanged a look that carried us a long way forward on the road of friendship. "i wouldn't miss these musicales for the world," she murmured. "isn't mrs. hatfield unique? look at her now, out in the dining-room, putting a layer of french pastry over amato's perfectly good voice! he won't be able to sing for a week. oh, elman has finished. do you know him? no? then come and meet him." miss morris interested me, and i was sorry to say good-by to her when we parted, and genuinely disappointed when i reached the berkeley the following thursday night, to learn that she was not to be with us at dinner. her mother lost no time in acquainting me with this distressing fact. "grace wants me to apologize for her, and to tell you how _very_ sorry she is to miss you," mrs. morris drawled at once, as she came forward to receive me. she was a charming woman of fifty, with white hair, a young face, and the figure of a girl of twenty. under the controlled calm of her manner a deep-seated nervousness struggled for expression. she had her daughter's languor, but none of her cool insolence or cynicism; in the look of her gray eyes i caught a glint oddly like that in the eyes of her son. "grace was looking forward to your coming," she went on, as she seated herself on a davenport facing the open fire, and motioned me to a place beside her. "but an hour ago she received a note from a friend who is in town only for the night. there was something very urgent in it, and grace rushed off without stopping to explain. my son godfrey will be with us--and we hope grace will be back before you leave." as if in response to his cue, "my son godfrey" appeared, looking extremely handsome in his evening clothes, and rather absurdly pleased to find his mother and me so deep in talk that we did not hear him approach. "friends already, aren't you?" was his comment on the effective tableau we made, and as we descended in the elevator to the hotel dining-room he explained again how glad he was to have his mother and sister home after two years of absence, and to bring us together at last. the little dinner moved on charmingly, but before an hour had passed i realized that my host and hostess were under some special strain. mrs. morris wore a nervous, expectant look--the look of one who is listening for a bell, or a step long overdue. several times i saw godfrey glance toward the door, and once i caught a swift look that passed between him and his mother--a look charged with anxiety. both obviously tried to throw off their care, whatever it was, and to a degree they succeeded. i was sending my spoon into the deep heart of a raspberry-ice when a servant leaned over the back of my chair and confidentially addressed me. "beg pardon, miss," he murmured, deprecatingly. "but if it's miss iverson, a person wants miss iverson on the wire." i flushed and hesitated, glancing at mrs. morris. "party says it's urgent, miss," prompted the servant. i apologized to my hostess, and rose. there seemed no other course open to me. mrs. morris looked mildly amused; her son looked thoughtful as he, too, rose and accompanied me across the dining-room to the door, returning then to the table, as i insisted that he must. in the telephone-booth the voice of grace morris came to me over the wire, not languid now, but quick and imperative. "miss iverson?" she called. "is that you at last? thank heaven! i thought you were never coming. are mother and godfrey still in the dining-room? good! will you do me a favor? it's a big one--vital." i expressed my willingness to do miss morris a vital favor. "thank you," she said. "then please do exactly what i tell you. go to the hotel desk and ask the clerk for the key to my suite. i left it with him. then go up to my bedroom. on my dressing-table you'll find an open letter i dropped there--or perhaps it's on the floor. conceal it in your bosom, the way they do in books, and keep it for me till we meet." i gasped. with a rush, my mind leaped at some of the possible results of carrying out this startling suggestion. "really, miss morris," i protested, "i can't do that. suppose some one caught me in the act? it's likely to happen. we're at dessert, and i heard your mother order the coffee brought up to her sitting-room. isn't the letter safe till you get home?" there was a sharp exclamation at the other end of the line. then miss morris's voice came to me again, in the controlled accents of desperation. "miss iverson," she urged, "you've simply got to help me out! if my mother goes into my room and sees that letter, she'll read it. she'll think it's her duty. if she reads it--well, in plain words, there will be the devil to pay. now do you understand?" "but why not come home and get it yourself?" i persisted. "i can't. there isn't time. i'm away down at the lafayette. heavens! i didn't mean to let that slip out, i'm so nervous i don't know what i'm saying. don't tell a soul where i am. don't even let any one know i've talked to you. and you _must_ get that letter. there isn't a minute to lose!" it began to look as if i had to get that letter. and since the thing must be done, i wanted it over. "very well," i said, between my teeth, and hung up the receiver, shutting off the stream of thanks that gushed forth from the other end of the wire. in the same mood of grim acceptance i went to the hotel desk. i did not intend to make this part of my task more difficult than it need be, so i paid the clerk the compliment of truth. "i want to get something from miss morris's room," i told him, casually. "will you give me the key, please? i am dining with mrs. morris to-night." he gave me a swift glance, then took the key from its rack and handed it to me with a little bow. in another moment i was in the elevator and on my way to the tenth floor, on which, as i had learned, each independent member of the morris family occupied a separate apartment, though the suites of mrs. morris and her daughter had a connecting door. the tag on miss morris's key gave me the number of her suite, and i found her door without difficulty. my fingers shook with nervousness as i inserted the key in the lock. i felt like a housebreaker, and probably looked like one, as i glanced anxiously over my shoulder and up and down the long hall, which, fortunately, was empty. once inside the apartment i regained my courage. i went swiftly through the entrance-hall and the sitting-room, turning, by instinct as it seemed, to the door that opened into the bedroom. this, like the sitting-room, was dark, and i could not immediately find the switch that turned on the electric light. there was, however, an open fire burning behind a brass fender, and by its uncertain light i made my way to the dressing-table, my eyes racing ahead in their eager search. there, among a litter of silver and glass toilet articles, powder-puffs, and shell-pins, was the letter i was after--an unfolded sheet, lying face downward. an envelope, obviously that from which it had been taken, had fallen to the floor. i picked up the letter. just as i did so the door at the other end of the bedroom opened, and mrs. morris entered. for an instant, startled, we faced each other in the gloom. the next second, acting on an impulse which seemed to flex the muscles of my arm before it touched my brain, i flung the letter into the fire. at the same moment mrs. morris touched an electric switch beside the door and filled the room with light. then she came toward me, easily and naturally. "oh, here you are," she said. "the elevator-boy told me you had come this way. is anything wrong? are you ill?" her manner was perfect. there was exactly the right degree of solicitude in her voice, of quiet assurance that everything would be at once and satisfactorily explained. but as she spoke she turned and fixed her eyes on the blazing letter in the fire. all but one corner was burned, but the thick paper kept its perfect outline. bending, she picked up the envelope from the floor, glanced at the address, and nodded as if to herself, still holding it in her hand. for a second i remained speechless. it was a hideous situation to be in. still, even confronted by godfrey morris's mother, i felt that i had done right, and before the pause was too deeply underlined i managed to reply naturally that nothing was wrong and that i was quite well. when my hostess realized that i did not intend to make any explanation, she threw her arm across my shoulder and led me from the room. it was not until we were again in her sitting-room, and side by side on her big davenport, that she spoke. "my dear," she said, then, very quietly, "won't you trust me?" i looked at her, and she smiled back at me, but with something in her face that hurt. she seemed suddenly to have grown old and care-worn. "do you imagine i don't understand?" she went on. "i have not lived with my daughter grace for almost a quarter of a century without knowing her rather well. of course it was she who telephoned you. of course she asked you to find and burn that letter. what else did she say? where is she now? there is a vital reason why her brother and i should know. we have been anxious about her all evening. i am afraid you noticed it." i admitted that i had. "i'm sorry," i added. "but i can't explain. i really can't say anything. i wish i could. i'm sure you will understand." mrs. morris studied me in silence for a moment. the glint in her gray eyes deepened. her jaw-line took on a sudden firmness, oddly like that of her son. "of course i understand," she said. "it's girlish loyalty. you think you must stand by grace--that you must respect her confidence. but can't you believe that grace's mother and brother may be wiser than she is?" this, to one only two years emancipated from family rule, had a familiar sound. instinctively i resented it. "aren't you forgetting," i asked, gently, "that miss morris is really a woman of the world? it isn't as if she were merely a school-girl, you know, with immature judgment." mrs. morris sighed. "you don't understand," she murmured. "you may feel differently when you talk to my son. i see that we must be very frank with you." with an effort she talked of other things for a few moments, until godfrey joined us. his face brightened as he entered, and darkened when his mother told him briefly what had occurred. without preface, he went at the heart of the tangle, in as direct and professional a manner as if he were giving me an assignment in the _searchlight_ office. "it all means just this, miss iverson," he said. "grace has fallen in love with an utterly worthless fellow. he has no family, no position; but those things don't matter so much. perhaps she has, as she says, enough of them for two. what does matter is that he comes of bad stock--rotten stock--that he's a bounder and worse." that surprised me, and i showed it. "oh, he has some qualities, i admit," added morris. "the most important one is a fine tenor voice. he is a professional singer. that interested grace in the beginning. now she is obsessed by him. she has lost her head. evidently he's in town to-night--you heard my mother say that envelope was addressed in his handwriting. they're together somewhere, and heaven only knows what they're hatching up." i resented that at first. then it disturbed me. perhaps they _were_ hatching up something. "i'm sorry to bore you with all this," mr. morris apologized, "but grace seems to have dragged you into it. she and dillon--that's the fellow's name--have been trying to bring us 'round to their marriage. lately they've about given up hope of that. now i believe grace is capable of eloping with him. of course, as you say, we can't control her, but i've been looking up his record, and it's mighty bad. if i could show her proofs of what i know is true, she would throw him over. with a little more time i can get them. i expect them this week. but if in the mean time--to-night--" he broke off suddenly, stood up, and began to stride about the room. i rose. "i haven't any idea what she intends to do," i told him, truthfully. "and i can't tell you where she is. but i'll do what i can. i'll try to find her, and tell her what you say." i turned to his mother. "good night," i said. "i'll go at once." they looked at each other, then at me. there was something fine in the way their heads went up, in the quiet dignity with which they both bade me good-by. it was plain that they were hurt, that they had little hope that i could do anything; but they would not continue to humiliate themselves by confidences or appeals to one who stood outside the circle of anxiety which fate had drawn around them. arrived at the lafayette, i went patiently from room to room of the big french restaurant, glancing in at each door for the couple i sought. it was not long before i found them. they were in a corner in one of the smallest of the side rooms--one which held only four or five tables. grace morris's back was toward me as i entered the room, but her escort faced me, and i had a moment in which to look him over. he was a thin, reedy person, about thirty years old, in immaculate evening dress, with a lock of dry hair falling over a pale and narrow brow, and with hollow, hectic eyes that burned into those of his companion as he leaned over the table, facing her. they were talking in very low tones, and so earnestly that neither noticed me until i drew out a third chair at the table and quietly dropped into it. both started violently. the man stared; miss morris caught my arm. "what happened?" she asked, quickly. "mother didn't get that letter?" "no," i said. "no one saw it. it's burned." she relaxed in her chair, with a laugh of relief. "speaking of angels," she quoted. "i was telling herbert about you only a few moments ago." her manner changed. "miss iverson," she said, more formally, "may i present mr. dillon?" the reedy gentleman rose and bowed. she allowed him the barest interval for this ceremony before she continued. "herbert, listen to me," she said, emphatically. "if miss iverson will stand by us, i'll do it." the young man's sallow face lit up. he had nice teeth and a pleasant smile. he had, also, the additional charm of a really beautiful speaking-voice. already i began to understand why miss morris liked him. "by jove, that's great!" he cried. "miss iverson, heaven has sent you. you've accomplished in ten seconds what i've failed to do in three hours." he turned to miss morris. "you explain," he said, "while i pay the bill and get the car ready. i'm not going to give you a chance to change your mind!" he disappeared, and miss morris remarked, casually: "we're going to be married to-night, with you as maid of honor. herbert gave me all the plans in his letter, and i came down fully determined to carry them out; but i've been hanging back. it's frightfully dismal to trot off and be married all by one's self--" i stopped her, and hurriedly described what had occurred at the berkeley. she listened thoughtfully. "the poor dears," she murmured. "they can't get over the notion that i'm still in leading-strings. they'll feel better after it's all over, whereas if mother knew it was really coming off to-night she'd have a succession of heart attacks between now and morning, and godfrey would spend the night pursuing us. we're going to jersey for the ceremony--to a little country minister i've known since i was a child. herbert will drive the car, and we'll put you into the chauffeur's fur coat." it took me a long time to convince her that i would not play the important rôle she had assigned to me on the evening's program. at last, however, she seemed impressed by my seriousness, and by the emphasis i laid on the repetition of her brother's words. she rose, resumed her usual languidly insolent air, and led the way from the room. in the main hall, near the door, we found mr. dillon struggling into a heavy coat while he gave orders to a stout youth who seemed to be his chauffeur. miss morris drew dillon to one side, and for a few moments the two talked together. then they came toward me, smiling. "all right," said the prospective bridegroom, with much cheerfulness. "since she insists, we'll take miss iverson home first." he gave me a cap that lay in the tonneau, helped miss morris and me into fur coats, settled us comfortably in the back seat, folded heavy rugs over our knees with great care, sprang into the driver's place, and took the wheel. in another moment the car leaped forward, turned a corner at an appallingly sharp angle, and went racing along a dark side-street at a speed that made the lamp-posts slip by us like wraiths. the wind sang past our ears. miss morris put her lips close to my face and laughed exultantly. "you're going, after all, you see," she triumphed. "herbert and i aren't easy to stop when we've set our hearts on anything. here--what are you doing? don't be an idiot!" she caught me as i tried to throw off the rugs. i had some mad idea of jumping out, of stopping the car, even if i paid for it by serious injury; but her strong grip held me fast. "i thought you had more sense," she panted. "there, that's right. sit still." i sat still, trying to think. this mad escapade would not only cost me my position on the _searchlight_, where godfrey morris was growing daily in power, but, what was infinitely worse, it would cost me his interest and friendship. more than any one else, in my two years on the newspaper, he had been helpful, sympathetic, and understanding. and this was my return to him. what would he think of me? what must i think of myself? we were across the ferry now. dillon stopped the car and got out to light the lamps. during the interval miss morris held me by a seemingly affectionate, but uncomfortably tight, pressure of an arm through mine. i made no effort to get away. whatever happened, i had now decided i must see the thing through. there was always a chance that in some way, _any_ way, i could prevent the marriage. the great car sped on again, through a fog that, thin at first, finally pressed against us like a moist gray net. though we could see hardly a dozen yards ahead of us, dillon did not slacken his alarming speed. from time to time we knew, by the wan glimmer of street lamps through the mist, that we were sweeping through some town. gradually the roads grew rougher. occasionally we made sharp turns, dillon stopping often to consult with miss morris, who at first had seemed to know the way, but who now made suggestions with growing uncertainty. plainly, we had left the highway and were on country roads. the fog lifted a trifle, and rain began to fall--lightly at first, then in a cold, steady downpour. the car jolted over the ruts in the road, tipped at a dangerous angle once or twice, but struggled on. in varying degrees our tempers began to feel the effect of the cold, the roughness, and the long-continued strain. miss morris and i sat silent. at his wheel dillon had begun to swear, at first under his breath, then more audibly, in irritable, muttered words, and finally openly and fluently, when he realized that we had lost our way. suddenly he stopped the car with a jerk that almost threw us out of our seats. "what dashed place is this?" he demanded, turning for the first time to face us. "thought you knew the way, grace?" with an obvious effort to ignore his manner, miss morris peered unhappily into the gray mist around us. "i don't recognize it at all," she confessed, at last. "we must have taken the wrong turn somewhere. i'm afraid we're lost." our escort swore again. his self-control, sufficient when all was going smoothly, had quite deserted him. i stared at him, trying to realize that this was the charming young man i had met at the lafayette less than three hours ago. "this is an infernal mess," he exclaimed at last. "we're in some sort of marsh! the mud's a foot deep!" he continued to pull and tug and twist and swear, while the car responded with eager throbs of its willing heart, but with lagging wheels. at last, however, we were through the worst of the marsh and out into a wider roadway, and just as we began to go more smoothly there was a sudden, loud report. the car swerved. a series of oaths poured from dillon's lips as he stopped the car and got out in the mud to inspect the damage. "cast a shoe, dash her," he snarled. "and on a road a million miles from any place. of all the fool performances this trip was the worst. why didn't you watch where you were going, grace? you said you knew the way. you knew i didn't know it." his last words had degenerated into an actual whine. looking at him, as he stood in the mud, staring vacantly at us, i had a feeling that, absurd and impossible as it seemed, in another minute the young man would burst into tears! his nerves were in tatters; all self-control, all self-respect, was gone. miss morris did not answer. she merely sat still and looked at him, at first in a white, flaming anger that was the more impressive because so quiet, later in an odd, puzzled fashion, as if some solution of the problem he presented had begun to dawn upon her. he meantime took off his fur coat and evening coat, rolled up his sleeves, and got ready for his uncongenial task of putting on a new tire. i took the big electric bull's-eye he handed me, and directed its light upon his work. by the time the new tire was on, his light evening shoes were unrecognizable, his clothes were covered with mud, his face was flushed with exertion and anger, and the few words he spoke came out with a whine of exhausted vitality. at last he stopped work, straightened up, reached into the car, and fumbled in the pocket of his overcoat. then he walked around to the side of the car farthest from us, and bent forward as if to inspect something there. i started to follow him, but he checked me. "stay where you are," he said, curtly. "don't need you." a moment later he came back to us, opened the door, and motioned us into the tonneau. in the short interval his whole manner had changed. he had stopped muttering and swearing; he seemed anxious to make us comfortable, and he folded the rugs over our knees with special care, casting at miss morris a series of anxious glances, which she quietly ignored. before he got in and took his place at the wheel he made a careful inspection of the other tires, and several times, as i changed the position of the light to fall more directly upon them, he smiled and thanked me. miss morris was evidently impressed by his change of mood. quietly and seriously she studied him. he was directly beside me now, bending over the rear right tire, and suddenly, as his bare arm came into view, i saw on it something that made me start and look at it again. i had not been mistaken. i glanced at miss morris. her eyes were on dillon, but in her place on the left side of the car she commanded a view of only his head and shoulders. as if annoyed by a flicker in the light, i lifted the bull's-eye into my lap and began to fumble with the snap, turning off the light. the little manoeuver had the effect i expected. mr. dillon stood up at once, and his bare arm came helpfully forward. "what's the matter?" he asked, trying to take the bull's-eye. "let me see." i held it tight. at the same instant i flashed the light on again. "_this_ is the matter," i said. "there's no mistaking what it means!" to my ears my voice sounded hysterical, and i have no doubt it was, for what i was doing went against the grain. the one thing i most desire is to play the great game of life according to the highest rules. yet here, under the eyes of dillon's future wife, i was directing a relentless light on the young man's bare arm--an arm peppered with dark needle-pricks, and covered with telltale scars. for one instant, before the mind of its owner took in what i was saying, it remained before us, giving its mute, horrible testimony to constant use of the hypodermatic syringe. the next, it was wrenched away with a jerk that knocked the bull's-eye from my hand. over me dillon leaned, his face livid with rage. "i'll make you regret that!" he snarled. "oh no, you won't, herbert," miss morris said, gently. "this is not a melodrama, you know. and you haven't anything against miss iverson, for i was already beginning to--to--understand. take us home." he started to speak, but something in her eyes checked him, and with a little shrug--no doubt, too, with the philosophy of the drug victim who has just had his drug--he turned away. in silence he rolled down his sleeves, put on his fur coat, took his place at the wheel, and, turning the car, started back through the clearing fog toward the far lights of the city. it was a long ride and a silent one. at his wheel dillon sat motionless, his jaws set, his eyes staring straight ahead. his driving, i noticed, was much more careful than on our outward ride. not once did i see grace morris look at him. once or twice she shivered, as if she felt cold. when we were on the ferry-boat dillon turned and spoke to her. "i'm sorry i lost my temper," he said. "i suppose--your manner seems to mean--that--i've lost everything." for a moment miss morris did not reply. under the robe her hand slipped into mine and clung there, as if in a lonely world she suddenly felt the need of a human touch. "poor old herbert," she said, then, very gently. "i'm afraid we've both lost everything. this has been a nightmare, but--i needed it." there was absolute finality in her voice. without a word the young man turned from her and sat staring at the river lights before us. miss morris pressed my hand. "i'm going to take you home with me," she announced. she took out her watch and looked at it. "quarter to three," she murmured. "what a night!" and after a moment she added under her breath, "and what an escape!" she threw back her shoulders with a gesture as energetic as if at the same time she had cast off some intolerable burden. then she added, in her cool, cynical fashion, "it's only fair, you know, that after such a vigil your drooping spirit should be refreshed by the rain of my mother's grateful tears--not to speak of godfrey's!" viii maria annunciata it had been a trying day in the _searchlight_ office. godfrey morris, our assistant feature editor, was ill, and much of his work had devolved on me. from ten o'clock in the morning i had steadily read copy and "built heads," realizing as my blue pencil raced over the sheets before me that my associates would resent the cutting of their stories and that colonel cartwell would freely condemn the heads. it was a tradition in park row that no human being save himself had ever built a newspaper head which satisfied our editor-in-chief, and his nightly explosions of rage over those on the proofs that came to his desk jarred even the firm walls of the _searchlight_ building. to-day i sympathized with colonel cartwell, for as i bent wearily over my desk, cutting, rewriting, adding to the pile of edited copy before me, a scare-head in a newspaper i had received that morning from my home city swung constantly before my tired eyes. it was plain that the ambitious western editor had been taking lessons in head-building from the _searchlight_ itself, and was offering us the tribute of humble imitation; for, in the blackest type he could select, and stretching across two columns of the _sentinel's_ first page, were these startling lines: from city room to convent cell miss may iverson, daughter of general john lamar iverson of this city, to take the vows of a nun of the sacred cross the article which followed was illustrated with photographs of my father, of me, and of the convent from which i had graduated nearly four years ago. it sketched my career as a reporter on the new york _searchlight_, mentioned my newspaper work and my various magazine stories with kindly approval, and stated that my intention when i graduated at eighteen had been to enter the convent at twenty-one, but that in deference to the wishes of my father i had consented to wait another year. this time of probation was almost over, the _sentinel_ added, and it was "now admitted" that miss iverson, "despite the brilliant promise of her journalistic career," would be one of the thirty novices who entered the convent of st. catharine in july. all this i had read only once before thrusting the _sentinel_ out of sight under the mass of copy on my desk. now, word by word, it returned to me as i built the heads that were to startle our reading public in the morning. around me the usual sounds of the city room swelled steadily into the familiar symphony of our work. typewriters clicked and rattled, telephone bells kept up their insistent summons, the presses, now printing the final evening editions, sent from far below their deep and steady purr, while through it all the voices of farrell and hurd cut their incisive way, like steamboat whistles in a fog, to members of the staff. it was an hour i loved, even as i loved the corresponding hour at st. catharine's, when students and nuns knelt together in the dim, beautiful convent chapel while the peace of benediction fell upon our souls. i wanted both the convent and my work. i could not have them both. and even now, toward the end of my fourth year of professional life, i was still uncertain which i was to choose. for months i had been hesitating, the helpless victim of changing moods, of conflicting desires. now, i realized, there must be an end to these. the article in the _sentinel_ had brought matters to a focus. in one way or the other, and for all time, i must decide my problem. it was six o'clock when i sent down the last pages of copy, closed my desk, and walked out of the _searchlight_ building to find myself in an unfamiliar world. around me lay the worst fog new york had ever known--a fog so dense that the forms of my fellow pedestrians were almost lost in it, though i could hear their voices on every side. from the near-by river the anxious warnings of horns and whistles came to my ears thickly, as if through padded walls. the elevated station i had to reach was less than a block away, but to-night no friendly eye of light winked at me from it, and twice as i walked cautiously forward i was jostled by vague bulks from which came short laughs and apologies as they groped their way past me. it was an uncanny experience, but it seemed, in my present mood, merely a fitting accompaniment to my own mental chaos. resolutely i tried to steady my thoughts to pull myself together. i knew every inch of the little journey to the station. in a few moments more, i reflected, i would be comfortably seated in an elevated train, and within half an hour, if all went normally, i would be safely at home and dressing for dinner. it was pleasant to remember that i had made no engagement for that evening. i could dine alone, slowly and luxuriously, with an open book before me if i cared to add that last sybaritic touch to my comfort--and later i could dawdle before my big open fire, with a reading-lamp and half a dozen new magazines wooing me at my elbow. or i could take up my problem and settle it before i went to bed. my groping feet touched the lowest step of the elevated stairs. i put my hand forward to raise my skirt for the ascent, and simultaneously, as it seemed, a cold hand slipped through the fog and slid into mine, folding around two of my fingers. it was a very tiny hand--almost a baby's hand. startled, i looked down. something small and plump was pressing against my knee, and as i bent to examine it closely i saw that it was a child--a little girl three or four years old, apparently lost, but obviously unafraid. through the mist, as i knelt to bring her face on a level with my own, a pair of big and wonderful brown eyes looked steadily into mine, while a row of absurdly small teeth shone upon me in a shy but trustful smile. "fine-kine-rady," remarked a wee voice in clear, dispassionate tones. impulsively i gave the intrepid adventurer a friendly hug. "why, you blessed infant!" i exclaimed. "what are you doing here all alone? where do you live? where's your mama?" still kneeling, i waited for an answer, but none came. the soft little body of the new-comer leaned confidingly against my shoulder. a small left hand played with a button on my coat; its mate still clung firmly to my fingers. the child's manner was that of pleased acceptance of permanent and agreeable conditions. into the atmosphere of well-being and dignified reserve which she created, my repeated question projected itself almost with an effect of rudeness. on its second repetition it evoked a response, though merely an echo. "fine-kine-rady," repeated the young stranger, patiently. she continued her absorbing occupation of twirling my coat button while i pondered over the cryptic utterance. it meant nothing to me. "she's certainly lost," i thought. "i wonder if casey would remember her if he saw her." i peered through the fog, looking for the big irish policeman whose post for the past two years had been here at the junction of the three tenement streets that radiated, spoke-like, from under the elevated station. he must be somewhere near, i knew, possibly within ear-shot. i decided to try the effect of a friendly hail. "_oh-ho--officer casey!_" i called, careful to speak cheerfully, that the cry might not frighten the child beside me. "_where--are--you?_" after a moment i heard an answering hail; an instant later the familiar bulk of casey towered above me in the mist. "who's wantin' me?" he demanded, and then, as he recognized me: "hel-_lo_, miss iverson! sure ye're not lost, are ye?" he added, facetiously. "i'm not," i told him, "but i think some one else is. do you recognize this youngster? i found her here just now--or, rather, she found me." "fine-kine-rady," murmured the child, antiphonally. she had turned her brown velvet eyes on the policeman in one fleeting glance which seemed to label and dismiss him. his existence, her manner plainly said, was no concern of hers. casey bent down and surveyed her with interest--a task made somewhat difficult by the fact that she was coldly presenting the back of her head to him and that the top of it was about on a level with his knee. "let's take her up t' the waitin'-room," he suggested, "an' have a good look at her. can she walk, i wonder--or will i carry her?" at the words the independent explorer below us started up the stairs, dragging me with her, her hand still clinging to my fingers, her short, willing legs taking one step at a time and subject to an occasional embarrassing wabble, but on the whole moving briskly and with the ease of habit. "she understands english," remarked casey, as he admiringly followed her, "an' she's used to stairs. _that's_ clear." we found the waiting-room deserted except by the ticket-seller and the ticket-chopper, who were languidly discussing the fog. both took an animated interest in our appearance, and, when they learned our mission, eagerly approached the child for minute inspection of her. in the center of the little circle we made under the station lamp the mite bore our regard with the utmost composure, her brown eyes on my face, her hand still firmly grasping my third and fourth fingers. she seemed mildly surprised by this second delay in getting anywhere, but entirely willing to await the convenience of these strange beings who were talking so much without saying anything. the ticket-seller finally summed up the result of our joint observation. "whoever that kid is, she's a peach," he muttered, in spontaneous tribute to the living picture before us. she _was_ a peach. her bare head was covered with short, upstanding curls, decorated on the left side with a cheap but carefully tied scarlet bow that stood out with the vivid effect of a poinsettia against black velvet. in her cheeks were two deep dimples, and a third lurked in the lower right side of her chin, awaiting only the summons of her shy smile to spring into life. when she lowered her eyes her curly black lashes seemed unbelievably long, and when she raised them again something in their strange beauty made me catch my breath. she wore no mittens, though the night was cold, but her tiny body was buttoned tightly into a worn, knitted, gray reefer-jacket, under which showed a neat little woolen skirt and black stockings and shoes which, though very shabby, revealed no holes. she was surprisingly clean. she had, indeed, an effect of having been scrubbed and dressed with special care and in her best clothes, poor though they were. her complexion had the soft, warm olive tint peculiar to latin races. for a long time she bore the close scrutiny of our four pairs of eyes with her astonishing air of calm detachment. then, as the inspection threatened to be indefinitely prolonged, she became restless and took refuge against my knee. also, with an obvious effort to rise to any social demands the occasion presented, she produced again the masterpiece of her limited vocabulary. "fine-kine-rady," she murmured, anxiously, and this time her lips quivered. "she's eye-talian," decided casey, sagely, "an' 'tis a sure thing she lives somewhere near. hasn't _anny_ of yez set eyes on her before? think, now." hopefully he and i gazed at the station employees, but both heads shook a solemn negative. the light of a sudden inspiration illumined the celtic features of casey. "i'll tell ye what we'll do," he announced. "'tis plain she's strayed from home. i c'u'd take her t' th' station an' let her folks come fur her--but that's the long way t' do ut. there's a shorter wan. 'tis this." he tried to draw me to one side, but the little manoeuver was not successful. tightening her grasp on my fingers, the object of our solicitude promptly accompanied us. casey lowered his voice to a whisper which was like the buzzing of a giant bee. "i'll take her back to the fut of th' stairs an' _lave_ her," he pronounced. "she'll start home, an' she'll find her way like a burrd. av course," he added, hastily, apparently observing a lack of response in my expression, "i'll folly her an' watch her. av she don't find th' place, i'll take her t' th' station. but she _will_. lave it to her." i hesitated. "i suppose that's the best plan," i unwillingly agreed, at last. "probably her mother is half frightened to death already. but--couldn't we lead her home?" casey shook his head. "not an inch w'u'd she budge, that wan," he declared, "unless she was on her own. but lave her be, an' she'll find her way. they're wise, thim young eye-talians. come, now." he took the child's free hand and tried to draw her away. a pathetic wail burst from her. frantically, with both arms she clasped my knee. her poise, so perfect until now, deserted her wholly, as if she had finally decided to admit to an unfeeling world that after all there was a limit to the self-control of one of her tender age. "fine-kine-rady," she sobbed, while great tears formed and fell from the brown eyes she still kept fixed on my face, a look of incredulous horror dawning in them. "i simply cannot send her away," i confessed to casey, desperately. "it seems so heartless. i'll go with her." officer casey was a patient man, but he was also a firm one. "now, see here, miss iverson," he urged. "you've got sinse. use ut. 'tis just a fancy she's takin' t' ye, an' sure i'm th' last t' blame her," he added, gallantly. "but think av th' child's good. ain't her mother raisin' th' roof over her head somewhere this minute?" he added, with deep craft. "wud ye be killin' th' poor woman wid anxiety?" "well--" again i gave way. "but you won't lose sight of her for one second, will you?" i demanded. "you know if you did, in this fog--" casey turned upon me the look of one who suffers and forbears. "w'u'd ye think ut?" he asked, coldly. "an' me wit' kids o' me own? but i'll make her _think_ i've left her," he added. "i'll have to." there seemed nothing to do but try his plan. holding fast to the mental picture of the anxious mother "raising the roof" somewhere in the neighborhood, i gently pried loose the child's convulsively clinging fingers and turned away. the wail and then the sobs that followed wrung my heart. casey picked up the frightened, almost frantic baby and started down the stairs, while i followed at a safe distance to watch their descent. as they went i heard him talking to and coaxing the small burden he carried, his rich irish voice full of friendly cajolery, while, as if in sole but eloquent rebuttal of all he said, the shrill treble refrain, "fine-kine-rady," came back to me sobbingly from the mist. at the foot of the steps he set the child on her feet, told her to "go home now like a good wan," and disappeared under the stairway. i crept down the steps as far as i dared, and watched. the forlorn little wanderer, left alone in a fog that was alarming many grown-ups that night, stood still for a moment staring around her, as if trying to get her bearings. a final sob or two came from her. then in another instant she had turned and trotted away, moving so fast that, though i immediately ran down the remaining steps and followed her, i could hardly keep her in sight. a little ahead of me i saw casey hurriedly cross the street and shadow the tiny figure. i pursued them both, keeping my eyes on the child. i trusted casey--indeed, my respect for his judgment had increased enormously during the last two minutes--but i felt that i must see for myself what happened to that baby. like wraiths the two figures in front of me hurried through the fog, so close now that they almost touched, casey unaware of my presence, the child unconscious of us both. not once, from the time she started, had the little thing looked back. she made her way swiftly and surely along the dingy tenement street that stretched off to the right; and at a certain door she stopped, hesitated a moment, and finally entered. casey promptly followed her. for a moment i stood hesitating, tempted to return to the station and resume my interrupted journey home. the little episode had already delayed me half an hour, and it seemed clear that the child was now safe. surely nothing more could be done. yet even as these logical reflections occurred to me i entered the door, impelled by an impulse which i did not stop to analyze, but which i never afterward ceased to bless. the heavy, typical smell of a tenement building rose to meet me, intensified by the dampness of the night. it seemed incredible that anything so exquisite as that baby could belong to such a place; but, looking up, i saw her already near the head of a long flight of dirty steps that rose from the dimly lighted hall. casey, moving as quietly as his heavy boots permitted, was at the bottom. i waited until he, too, had climbed the uneven staircase. then i followed them both. at the right of the stairs, off a miserable hall lit by one dim, blinking gas-jet, was an open door, which the child had evidently just entered. as i paused for breath on the top step i caught a glimpse of casey's rubber coat also vanishing across the threshold. i slipped back into the shadow of the hall and waited. what i wanted was to hear the reassuring tones of human voices, and i found myself listening for these with suspended breath and straining ears; but for a long moment i heard nothing at all. i realized now that there was no light in the room, and this suddenly seemed odd to me. then i heard casey's voice, speaking to the child with a new note in it--a note of tense excitement that made my heart-beats quicken. the next instant i, too, was in the room. casey stood under the single gas-bracket, striking a match. as i went toward him, the light flickered up, dimly revealing a clean, bleak room, whose only furniture was a bed, a broken chair, and a small gas-stove. on the chair lay an empty tin cup and a spoon. the child, her back to both her visitors, stood beside the bed. characteristically, though casey had spoken to her, she ignored his presence. she was whimpering a little under her breath, and pulling with both hands at something that lay before her, rigid and unresponsive. with a rush i crossed the room, and the desolate mite of humanity at the bed turned to stare at me, blinking in the sudden light. for an instant her wet brown eyes failed to recognize me. in the next, with an ecstatic, indescribably pathetic little cry, she lurched into the arms i opened to her. i could not speak, but i sat down on the floor and held her close, my tears falling on her curly head with its brave red bow. for a moment more the silence held. then the child drew a long, quivering breath and patiently uttered again her parrot-like refrain. "fine-kine-rady," she murmured, brokenly. casey, his cap in his hand, stood looking down upon the silent figure on the bed. "starvation, most likely," he hazarded. "she's bin dead fur an hour, maybe more," he mused aloud. "an' she's laid herself out, d'ye mind. whin she found death comin' she drew her feet together, an' crost her hands on her breast, an' shut her eyes. they do ut sometimes, whin they know they's no wan to do ut for thim. but first she washed an' dressed her child in uts best an' sint ut out--so ut w'u'dn't be scairt. d'ye know th' woman?" he added. "have ye ivir seen her? it seems t' me _i_ have!" holding the baby tight, her head against my shoulder, that she might not see what i did, i went forward and looked at the wasted face. there was something vaguely familiar about the black hair-line on the broad, madonna-like brow, about the exquisitely shaped nose, the sunken cheeks, the pointed chin. for a long moment i looked at them while memory stirred in me and then awoke. "yes," i said, at last. "i remember her now. many evenings last month i saw her standing at the foot of the elevated stairs when i was going home. she wore a little shawl over her head--that's why i didn't recognize her at once. she never begged, but she took what one gave her. i always gave her something. she was evidently very poor. i remember vaguely that she had a child with her--this one, of course. i hardly noticed either of them as i swept by. one's always in a rush, you know, to get home, and, unfortunately, there are so many beggars!" "that's it," said casey. "i remember her now, too." "if only i had realized how ill she was," i reflected aloud, miserably, "or stopped to think of the child. she called me 'kind lady.' oh, casey! and i let her starve!" "hush now," said casey, consolingly. "sure how could ye know? some of thim that's beggin' has more than you have!" "but she called me 'kind lady,'" i repeated. "and i let her--" "fine-kine-rady," murmured the child, drowsily, as if hearing and responding to a cue. she was quiet and well content, again playing with a coat-button; but she piped out her three words as if they were part of a daily drill and the word of command had been uttered. casey and i looked at each other, then dropped our eyes. [illustration: "d'ye know the woman?" he said] "_find kind lady_," i translated at last. then i broke down, in the bitterest storm of tears that i have ever known. beside me casey stood guard, silent and unhappy. it was the whimper of the child that recalled me to myself and her. she was growing frightened. "oh, casey," i said again, when i had soothed her, "do you realize that the poor woman sent this baby out into new york to-night on the one chance in a million that she might see me at the station and that i would remember her?" "what else c'u'd the poor creature do?" muttered casey. "i guess she wasn't dependin' on her neighbors much. 'tis easy to see that ivery stick o' furniture an' stitch o' clothes, ixcept th' child's, was pawned. besides, thim tiniment kids is wise," he repeated. his blue eyes dwelt on the baby with a brooding speculation in their depths. "she's sleepy," he muttered, "but she's not starved. th' mother fed her t' th' last, an' wint without herself; an' she kep' her warm. they do that sometimes, too." with quick decision he put on his cap and started for the door. "i'll telephone me report," he said, briskly. "will ye be waitin' here till i come back? thin we'll take th' mother t' th' morgue an' the child t' th' station." "oh no, we won't," i told him, gently. "we'll see that the mother has proper burial. as for this baby, i'm going to take care of her until i find an ideal home for her. i know women who will thank god for her. i wish," i added, absently--"i wish i could keep her myself." casey turned on me a face that was like a smiling full moon. "'tis lucky th' child is to have ye for a friend. but she'll be a raysponsibil'ty," he reminded me, "and an expinse." i kissed the tiny hand that clung to mine. "that won't worry me," i declared. "why, do you know, casey"--i drew the soft little body closer to me--"i feel that if i worked for her a thousand years i could never make up to this baby for that horrible moment when i turned her adrift again--after she had found me." * * * * * two hours later my waif of the fog, having been fed and tubbed and tucked into one of my nightgowns, reposed in my bed, and, still beatifically clutching a cookie, sank into a restful slumber. my maid, a "settled" norwegian who had been with me for two years, had welcomed her with hospitable rapture. a doctor had pronounced her in excellent physical condition. a trained nurse, hastily summoned to supervise her bath, her supper, and her general welfare, had already drawn up an impressive plan indicating the broad highway of hygienic infant living. now, for the dozenth time, we were examining a scrap of paper which i had found in a tiny bag around the child's neck when i undressed her. it bore a brief message written in a wavering, foreign hand: maria annunciata zamati ½ years old parents dead. no relations. be good to her and god will be good to you. besides this in the little bag was a narrow gold band, wrapped in a bit of paper that read: her mother's wedding-ring. broodingly i hung over the short but poignant record. "maria annunciata," i repeated. "what a beautiful name! three and a half years old! what an adorable age! no relations. no one can ever take her from us! i shall be her godmother and her best friend, whoever adopts her. and i'll keep her till the right mother comes for her, if it takes the rest of my life." the doctor laughed and bade us good night, after a final approving look at the sleeping baby in the big bed. the trained nurse departed with evident reluctance for her room. the telephone beside my bed clicked warningly, then tinkled. as i took up the receiver a familiar voice came to me over the wire. "is that you, may?" it said. "this is josephine morgan. did you get a dinner invitation from me yesterday? not hearing from you, i've been trying to get you on the telephone all evening, but no one answered." "i know," i said, cheerfully. "awfully sorry. i've been busy. i've got a baby." maria annunciata stirred in her sleep. speaking very softly, that i might not awaken her, i told josephine the story of my adventure. "come and see her soon," i ended. "i mustn't talk any more. annunciata is here beside me. she's absolutely different from any other child in the world. good night." i undressed slowly, stopping at intervals to study the pleasing effect of maria annunciata's short black curls on the pillow. at last, moving very carefully for fear of disturbing her, i crept into bed. as promptly as if the yielding of the mattress had been a signal that set her tiny body in motion, maria annunciata awoke, smiled at me, cuddled into the curve of my left arm, reached up, and firmly grasped my left ear. then, with a long sigh of ineffable content, she dropped back into slumber. the only light was the soft glow of an electric bulb behind an amber shade. the button that controlled it was within easy reach of my hand; a touch would have plunged the room into darkness. but i did not press the little knob. instead, i lay for a long, long time looking at the sleeping child beside me. there was a soft knock at the door. it opened quietly and my servant appeared. "mr. and mrs. morgan are outside," she whispered. "they say they've come to see the baby." "but," i gasped, "it's after eleven o'clock!" "i know. mrs. morgan said they couldn't wait till morning. shall i show her in?" i hesitated. i felt a sense of unreasonable annoyance, almost of fear. "yes," i said, at last, "let her come in." josephine morgan came in with a soft little feminine rush. something of the atmosphere of the great world in which she lived came with her as far as the bedside, then dropped from her like a garment as she knelt beside us and kissed me, her eyes on maria annunciata's sleeping face. "oh, the darling, the lamb!" she breathed. "she's the most exquisite thing i ever saw! and the pluck of her! george says she ought to have a carnegie medal." still kneeling, she bent over the child, her beautiful face quivering with feeling. "what do you know about her family?" she asked. with a gesture i indicated the scrap of paper and the ring that lay on my dressing-table. "there's the whole record," i murmured. she rose and examined them, standing very still for a moment afterward, apparently in deep thought. then, still holding them, she returned to the bedside and with a quick but indescribably tender movement gathered maria annunciata into her arms. "let me show her to george," she whispered. i consented, and she carried the sleeping baby into the next room. i heard their voices and an occasional low laugh. a strange feeling of loneliness settled upon me. in a few moments she came back, her face transfigured. bending, she put the child in bed and sat down beside her. "may," she said, quietly, "george and i want her. will you give her to us?" the demand was so sudden that i could not speak. she looked at me, her eyes filling. "we've been looking for a little daughter for two years," she added. "we've visited dozens of institutions." "but," i stammered, "i wanted to keep her myself--for a while, anyway." she smiled at me. "why, you will--" she began, and stopped. "you may have her," i said, quietly. she kissed me. "we'll make her happy," she promised. "i suppose," she added, "we couldn't take her away _to-night_? of course the first thing in the morning will _do_," she concluded, hastily, as she met my indignant gaze. "josephine morgan," i gasped, "i never met such selfishness! of course you can't have her to-night. you can't have her in the morning, either. you've got to adopt her legally, with red seals and things. it will take lots of time." mrs. morgan laughed, passing a tender finger through one of maria annunciata's short curls. "we'll do it," she said. "we'll do anything. and we're going to be in new york all winter, so you can be with her a great deal while she's getting used to us. now i'll go." but she lingered, making a pretext of tucking in the bedclothes around us. "you've seen the _sentinel_," she asked, "with that story about you?" i shook my head at her. "don't, please," i begged. "we'll talk about that to-morrow." she kissed the deep dimple in maria annunciata's left cheek. "good night," she said, again. "you'll never know how happy you have made us." the door closed behind her. i raised my hand and pressed the button above my head. around me the friendly darkness settled, and a silence as warm and friendly. in the hollow of my neck the face of maria annunciata rested, a short curl tickling my cheek. i recalled "the great silence" that fell over the convent at nine o'clock when the lights went out, but to-night the reflection did not bring its usual throb of homesickness and longing. relaxed, content, i lay with eyes wide open, looking into the future. without struggle, without self-analysis, but firmly and for all time, i had decided _not_ to be a nun. ix the revolt of tildy mears every seat in the primitive town hall was occupied, and a somber frieze of dakota plainsmen and their sad-faced wives decorated the rough, unpainted sides of the building. on boxes in the narrow aisles, between long rows of pine boards on which were seated the early arrivals, late-comers squatted discontentedly, among them a dozen women carrying fretful babies, to whom from time to time they addressed a comforting murmur as they swung them, cradle-fashion, in their tired arms. the exercises of the evening had not yet begun, but almost every eye in the big, silent, patient assemblage was fixed on a woman, short and stout, with snow-white hair and a young and vivid face, who had just taken her place on the platform, escorted by a self-conscious official of the little town. every one in that gathering had heard of dr. anna harland; few had yet heard her speak, but all knew what she represented: "new-fangled notions about women"--women's rights, woman suffrage, feminism, unsettling ideas which threatened to disturb the peace of minds accustomed to run in well-worn grooves. many of the men and women in her audience had driven twenty, thirty, or forty miles across the plains to hear her, but there was no unanimity in the expressions with which they studied her now as she sat before them. in the men's regard were curiosity, prejudice, good-humored tolerance, or a blend of all three. the women's faces held a different meaning: pride, affectionate interest, admiration tinged with hope; and here and there a hint of something deeper, a wireless message that passed from soul to soul. at a melodeon on the left of the platform a pale local belle, who had volunteered her services, awaited the signal to play the opening chords of the song that was to precede the speaker's address. in brackets high on the rough walls a few kerosene lamps vaguely illumined the scene, while from the open night outside came the voices of cowboys noisily greeting late arrivals and urging them to "go on in an' git a change of heart!" the musician received her signal--a nod from the chairman of the evening--and the next moment the voices of a relieved and relaxed audience were heartily swelling the familiar strains of "the battle hymn of the republic." as the men and women before her sang on, dr. harland watched them, the gaze of the brilliant dark eyes under her straight black brows keen and intent. even yet she had not decided what she meant to say to these people. something in the music, something in the atmosphere, would surely give her a cue, she felt, before she began to speak. sitting near her on the platform, i studied both her and her audience. the far west and its people were new to me; so was this great leader of the woman's cause. but it behooved me to know her and to know her well, for i had accompanied her on this western campaign for the sole purpose of writing a series of articles on her life and work, to be published in the magazine of which i had recently been appointed assistant editor. during our long railroad journeys and drives over hills and plains she had talked to me of the past. now, i knew, i was to see her again perform the miracle at which i had not yet ceased to marvel--the transformation of hundreds of indifferent or merely casually interested persons into a mass of shouting enthusiasts, ready to enlist under her yellow banner and follow wherever she led. to-night, as she rose and for a moment stood silent before her audience, i could see her, as usual, gathering them up, drawing them to her by sheer force of magnetism, before she spoke a word. "my friends," she began, in the beautiful voice whose vibrating contralto notes reached every person in the great hall, "last monday, at medora, i was asked by a missionary who is going to india to send a message to the women of that land. i said to him, 'tell them the world was made for women, too.' to-night i am here to give you the same message. the world is women's, too. the west is women's, too. you have helped to make it, you splendid, pioneer women, who have borne with your husbands the heat and burden of the long working-days. you have held down your claims through the endless months of western winters, while your men were away; you have toiled with them in the fields; you have endured with them the tragedies of cyclones, of droughts, of sickness, of starvation. if woman's work is in the home alone, as our opponents say it is, you have been most unwomanly. for you have remained in the home only long enough to bear your children, to care for them, to feed them and your husbands. the rest of the time you have done a man's work in the west. the toil has been yours as well as man's; the reward of such toil should be shared by you. the west is yours, too. now it holds work for you even greater than that you have done in the past, and i am here to beg you to begin that work." the address went on. in the dim light of the ill-smelling lamps i could see the audience leaning forward, intent, fascinated. even among the men easy tolerance was giving place to eager response; on row after row of the rough benches the spectators were already clay in the hands of the speaker, to be molded, for the moment at least, into the form she chose to give them. my eyes momentarily touched, then fastened intently on a face in the third row on the left. it was the face of a woman--a little, middle-aged woman of the primitive western type--her graying hair combed straight back from a high, narrow forehead, her thin lips slightly parted, the flat chest under her gingham dress rising and falling with emotion. but my interest was held by her eyes--brown eyes, blazing eyes, almost the eyes of a fanatic. unswervingly they rested on the speaker's face, while the strained attention, the parted lips, the attitude of the woman's quivering little body betrayed almost uncontrollable excitement. at that instant i should not have been surprised to see her spring to her feet and shout, "_alleluia!_" a moment later i realized that dr. harland had seen her, too; that she was, indeed, intensely conscious of her, and was directing many of her best points to this absorbed listener. here was the perfect type she was describing to her audience--the true woman pioneer, who not only worked and prayed, but who read and thought and aspired. the men and women under the flickering lights were by this time as responsive to the speaker's words as a child to its mother's voice. they laughed, they wept, they nodded, they sighed. when the usual collection was taken up they showed true western generosity, and when the lecture was over they crowded forward to shake hands with the woman leader, and to exhaust their limited vocabulary in shy tributes to her eloquence. far on the outskirts of the wide circle that had formed around her i saw the little woman with the blazing eyes, vainly endeavoring to force her way toward us through the crowd. dr. harland observed her at the same time and motioned to me. "will you ask her to wait, miss iverson?" she asked. "i would like to talk to her before she slips away." and she added, with her characteristic twinkle, "that woman would make a perfect 'exhibit a' for my lecture." i skirted the throng and touched the arm of the little woman just as she had given up hope of reaching the speaker, and was moving toward the door. she started and stared at me, almost as if the touch of my fingers had awakened her from a dream. "dr. harland asks if you will wait a few moments till the others leave," i told her. "she is anxious to meet you." the brown-eyed woman drew in a deep breath. "tha's whut i want," she exclaimed, ecstatically, "but it looked like i couldn't git near her." we sat down on an empty bench half-way down the hall, and watched the human stream flow toward and engulf the lecturer. "ain't she jest wonderful?" breathed my companion. "she knows us women better 'n we know ourselves. she knows all we done an' how we feel about it. i felt like she was tellin' them people all my secrets, but i didn't mind." she hesitated, then added dreamily, "it's high time men was told whut their women are thinkin' an' can't say fer themselves." in the excited group around the speaker a baby, held high in its mother's arms to avoid being injured in the crush, shrieked out a sudden protest. my new acquaintance regarded it with sympathetic eyes. "i've raised six of 'em," she told me. "my oldest is a girl nineteen. my youngest is a boy of twelve. my big girl she's lookin' after the house an' the fam'ly while i'm gone. i druv sixty miles 'cross the plains to hear dr. harland. it took me two days, an' it's jest about wore out my horse--but this is worth it. i ain't had sech a night sence i was a girl." she looked at me, her brown eyes lighting up again with their queer, excited fires. "my jim he 'most fell dead when i told him i was comin'," she went on. "but i says to him, 'i ain't been away from this place one minute in twenty years,' i says. 'now i guess you folks can git 'long without me fer a few days. for, jim,' i says, 'ef i don't git away, ef i don't go somewhere an' have some change, somethin's goin' to snap, an' i guess it'll be me!'" "you mean," i exclaimed, in surprise, "that you've never left your ranch in twenty years?" she nodded. "not once," she corroborated. "not fer a minute. you know whut the summers are--work, work from daylight to dark; an' in the winters i had t' hol' down the claim while jim he went to the city an' worked. sometimes he'd only git home once or twice the hull winter. then when we begin to git on, seemed like 'twas harder than ever. jim he kept addin' more land an' more stock to whut we had, an' there was more hands to be waited on, an' the babies come pretty fast. lately jim he's gone to chicago every year to sell his cattle, but i ain't bin able to git away till now." during her eager talk--a talk that gushed forth like a long-repressed stream finding a sudden outlet--she had been leaning toward me with her arm on the back of the bench and her shining eyes on mine. now, as if remembering her "company manners," she sat back stiffly, folded her work-roughened hands primly in her lap, and sighed with supreme content. "my!" she whispered, happily, "i feel like i was in a diff'rent world. it don't seem possible that only sixty miles out on the plains that ranch is right there, an' everything is goin' on without me. an' here i be, hearin' the music, an' all the folks singin' together, an' that wonderful woman talkin' like she did! i feel"--she hesitated for a comparison, and then went on, with the laugh of a happy girl--"i feel like i was up in a balloon an' on my way to heaven!" i forgot the heat of the crowded hall, the smell of the smoking lamps, the shuffle of hobnailed shoes on the pine floors, the wails of fretful babies. i almost felt that i, too, was floating off with this ecstatic stranger in the balloon of her imagination. "i see," i murmured. "you're tired of drudgery. you haven't played enough in all these years." she swung round again until she faced me, her sallow cheeks flushed, her eager, brilliant eyes on mine. "i ain't played none at all," she said. "i dunno what play is. an' work ain't the only thing i'm tired of. i'm tired of everything. i'm tired of everything--except this." her voice lingered on the last two words. her eyes left my face for an instant and followed the lecturer, of whose white head we obtained a glimpse from time to time as the crowd opened around her. still gazing toward her, but now as if unseeingly, the plainswoman went on, her voice dropping to a lower, more confidential note. "i'm sick of everything," she repeated. "most of all, i'm sick of the plains and the sky--stretching on and on and on and on, like they do, as if they was no end to 'em. sometimes when i'm alone i stand at my door an' look at 'em an' shake my fists an' shriek. i begun to think they wasn't anything but them nowhere. it seemed 's if the little town back east where i come from was jest a place i dreamed of--it couldn't really be. nothin' _could_ be 'cept those plains an' the cattle an' the sky. then, this spring--" she turned again to face me. "i dunno why i'm tellin' you all this," she broke off, suddenly. "guess it's because i ain't had no one to talk to confidential fer so long, an' you look like you understand." "i do understand," i told her. she nodded. "well, this spring," she went on, "i begun to hate everything, same as i hated the plains. i couldn't exactly hate my children; but it seemed to me they never did nothin' right, an' i jest had to keep tellin' myself they was mine, an' they was young an' didn't understand how they worried me by things they done. then the hands drove me 'most crazy. they was one man--why, jes' to have that man pass the door made me feel sick, an' yet i hadn't nothin' again' him, really. an' finally, last of all, jim--even jim--" her voice broke. sudden tears filled her eyes, quenching for the moment the sparks that burned there. "jim's a good man," she continued, steadily, after a moment's pause. "he's a good, hard-workin' man. he's good to me in his way, an' he's good to the children. but of course he ain't got much time for us. he never was a talker. he's a worker, jim is, an' when night comes he's so tired he falls asleep over the fire. but everything he done always seemed pretty near right to me--till this spring." her voice flattened and died on the last three words. for a moment she sat silent, brooding, a strange puzzled look in her brown eyes. the crowd around dr. harland was thinning out, and people were leaving the hall. we could easily have reached her now, but i sat still, afraid to dam the verbal freshet that was following so many frozen winters. "this spring," she went on, at last, "it jest seems like i can't bear to have even jim around." she checked herself and touched my arm timidly, almost apologetically. "it's a terrible thing to say, ain't it?" she almost whispered, and added slowly, "it's a terrible thing to _feel_. i can't bear to see him come into the room. i can't bear the way he eats, or the way he smokes, or the way he sets down, or the way he gits up, or the way he breathes. he does 'em all jest like he always has. they ain't nothin' wrong with 'em. but i can't bear 'em no more." she beat her hands together softly, with a queer, frantic gesture. her voice took on a note of rising excitement. "i can't," she gasped. "i can't, _i can't_!" i rose. "come," i said, cheerfully. "dr. harland is free now. i want you to talk to her. she can help you. she's a very wise woman." a momentary flicker of something i did not recognize shone in my companion's eyes. was it doubt or pity, or both? "she ain't a married woman, is she?" she asked, quietly, as she rose and walked down the aisle by my side. i laughed. "no," i conceded, "she isn't, and neither am i. but you know even the bible admits that of ten virgins five were wise!" her face, somber now, showed no reflection of my amusement. she seemed to be considering our claims to wisdom, turning over in her mind the possibility of help from either of us, and experiencing a depressing doubt. "well, you're women, anyway," she murmured, at last, a pathetic note of uncertainty lingering in her voice. "will you tell me your name?" i asked, "so that i may introduce you properly to dr. harland?" "tildy mears," she answered, promptly; then added, with stiff formality, "mrs. james mears of the x. x. m. ranch." we were already facing dr. harland, and i presented mrs. mears without further delay. the leader met her with the brilliant smile, the close hand-clasp, the warm, human sympathy which rarely failed to thrill the man or woman she was greeting. under their influence mrs. mears expanded like a thirsty plant in a gentle shower. within five minutes the two women were friends. "you're at the hotel, of course," dr. harland asked, when she heard of the sixty-mile drive across the country. "then you must have supper with miss iverson and me. we always want something after these long evenings, and i will have it sent up to our sitting-room, so that we can have a comfortable talk." half an hour later we were grouped around the table in the little room, and over the cold meat, canned peaches, lemonade, and biscuits which formed our collation tildy mears retold her story, adding innumerable details and intimate touches under the stimulus of the doctor's interest. at the end of it dr. harland sat for a long moment in silent thought. then, from the briskness with which she began to speak, i knew that she had found some solution of the human problem before us. "mrs. mears," she said, abruptly, and without any comment on the other's recital, "i wish you would travel around with us for a fortnight. we're going to remain in this part of the state, and you would find our meetings extremely interesting. on the other hand, you could give me a great deal of help and information, and, though i cannot offer you a salary, i will gladly pay your expenses." this was a plan very characteristic of dr. harland, to whom half-way measures of any kind made no appeal. i looked at tildy mears. for an instant, under the surprise of the leader's unexpected words, she had sat still, stunned; in the next, her eyes had flashed to us one of their ecstatic messages, as if she had grasped all the other woman's proposition held of change, of interest, of growth. then abruptly the light faded, went out. "i'd love to," she said, dully, "i'd jest _love_ to! but of course it ain't possible. why, i got to start home to-morrer. jim," she gulped, bringing out the name with an obvious effort, "jim expecks me back sat'day night." "listen to me, mrs. mears"--dr. harland leaned forward, her compelling eyes deep in those of the western woman--"i'm going to speak to you very frankly--as if we were old friends; as if we were sisters, as, indeed, we are." tildy mears nodded. her eyes, dull and tired now, looked trustfully back at the other woman. "i feel like we are," she agreed. and she added, "you kin say anything you've a mind to." "then i want to say this." i had never seen dr. harland more interested, more impressive. into what she was saying to the forlorn little creature before her she threw all she had of persuasiveness, of magnetism, and of power. "if you don't have a change," she continued, "and a very radical change, you will surely have a bad nervous breakdown. that is what i want to save you from. i cannot imagine anything that would do it more effectively than to campaign with us for a time, and have the whole current of your thoughts turned in a new direction. why, don't you understand"--her deep voice was full of feeling; for the moment at least she was more interested in one human soul than in hundreds of human votes--"it isn't that you have ceased to care for your home and your family. it's only that your tortured nerves are crying out against the horrible monotony of your life. give them the change they are demanding and everything else will come right. go back and put them through the old strain, and--well, i'm afraid everything will go wrong." as if something in the other's words had galvanized her into sudden action mrs. mears sprang to her feet. like a wild thing she circled the room, beating her hands together. "i can't go back!" she cried. "i can't go back! whut'll i do? oh, whut'll i do?" "do what i am advising you to do." dr. harland's quiet voice steadied the hysterical woman. under its calming influence i could see her pull herself together. "write mr. mears that you are coming with us, and give him our advance route, so that he will know exactly where you are all the time. if your daughter can manage your home for five days she can manage it for two weeks. and your little jaunt need not cost your husband one penny." "i brought twenty dollars with me," quavered tildy mears. "keep it," advised the temporarily reckless leader of the woman's cause. "when we reach bismarck you can buy yourself a new dress and get some little presents to take home to the children." tildy mears stopped her reckless pacing of the room and stood for a moment very still, her eyes fixed on a worn spot in the rug at her feet. "i reckon i will," she then said, slowly. "sence you ask me, i jest reckon i'll stay." the next evening, during her remarks to the gathering she was then addressing, dr. harland abruptly checked herself. "but there is some one here who knows more about that than i do," she said, casually, referring to a point she was covering. "mrs. mears, who is on the platform with me to-night, is one of you. she knows from twenty years of actual experience what i am learning from study and observation. she can tell you better than i can how many buckets of water a plainsman's wife carries into an unpiped ranch during the day. will you tell us, mrs. mears?" she asked a few questions, and hesitatingly, stammeringly at first, the panic-stricken plainswoman answered her. then a woman in the audience spoke up timidly to compare notes, and in five minutes more dr. harland was sitting quietly in the background while tildy mears, her brown eyes blazing with interest and excitement, talked to her fellow plainswomen about the problems she and they were meeting together. seeing the success of dr. harland's experiment, i felt an increased respect for that remarkable woman. she had known that this would happen; she had realized, as i had not, that tildy mears could talk to others as simply and as pregnantly as to us, and that her human appeal to her sister workers would be far greater than any even anna harland herself could make. one night she described a stampede in words that made a slow chill run the length of my spine. half an hour later she was discussing "hired hands," with a shrewd philosophy and a quaint humor that drew good-natured guffaws from "hired hands" themselves as well as from their employers in the audience. within the next few days tildy mears became a strong feature of our campaign. evening after evening, in primitive dakota towns, her self-consciousness now wholly gone, she supplemented dr. harland's lectures by a talk to her sister women, so simple, so homely, so crudely eloquent that its message reached every heart. during the days she studied the suffrage question, reading and rereading the books we had brought with us, and asking as many questions as an eager and precocious child. openly and unabashedly dr. harland gloried in her. "why, she's a born orator," she told me one day, almost breathlessly. "she's a feminine lincoln. there's no limit to her possibilities. i'd like to take her east. i'd like to educate her--train her. then she could come back here and go through the west like a whirlwind." the iridescent bubble was floating so beautifully that it seemed a pity to prick it; but i did, with a callous reminder. "how about her home?" i suggested--"and her children? and her husband?" dr. harland frowned and bit her lip. "humph!" she muttered, her voice taking on the flat notes of disappointment and chagrin. "humph! i'd forgotten them." for a moment she stood reflecting, readjusting her plans to a scale which embraced the husband, the home, and the children of her protégée. then her brow cleared, her irresistible twinkle broke over her face; she smiled like a mischievous child. "i had forgotten them," she repeated. "maybe"--this with irrepressible hopefulness--"maybe tildy will, too!" that tildy did nothing of the kind was proved to us all too soon. six days had passed, and the growing fame of mrs. mears as a suffrage speaker was attracting the attention of editors in the towns we visited. it reached its climax at a mass-meeting in sedalia, where for an hour the little woman talked to an audience of several hundred, making all dr. harland's favorite points in her own simpler, homelier words, while the famous leader of the cause beamed on her proudly from the side of the stage. after the doctor's speech the two women held an informal reception, which the mayor graced, and to which the board of aldermen also lent the light of their presence. these high dignitaries gave most of their attention to our leader; she could answer any question they wished to ask, as well as many others they were extremely careful not to bring up. but the women in the audience, the babies, the growing boys and girls--all these turned to tildy mears. from the closing words of her speech until she disappeared within the hotel she was followed by an admiring throng. as i caught the final flash of her brown eyes before her bedroom engulfed her it seemed to me that she looked pale and tired. she had explained that she wanted no supper, but before i went to bed, hearing her still moving around her room, i rapped at her door. "wouldn't you like a sandwich?" i asked, when she had opened it. "and a glass of lemonade?" she hesitated. then, seeing that i had brought these modest refreshments on a tray, she stepped back and allowed me to pass in. there was an unusual self-consciousness in her manner, an unusual bareness in the effect of the room. the nails on the wall had been stripped of her garments. on the floor lay an open suit-case closely packed. "why!" i gasped. "why are you packing? we're going to stay here over to-morrow, you know." for an instant she stood silent before me, looking like a child caught in some act of disobedience by a relentless parent. then her head went up. "yes," she said, quietly. "i'm packed. i'm goin' home!" "going home!" i repeated, stupidly. it seemed to me that all i could do was to echo her words. "when?" i finally brought out. "to-morrer mornin'." she spoke almost defiantly. "i wanted to go to-night," she added, "but there wasn't no train. i got to go back an' start from dickinson, where i left my horse." "but why?" i persisted. "_why?_ i thought you were going to be with us another week at least?" "well"--she drew out the word consideringly. then, on a sudden resolve, she gave her explanation. "they was a man in the fourth row to-night that looked like jim." "yes?" i said, and waited. "was he mr. mears?" i asked, at last. "no." she knelt, and closed and locked the suit-case. "he looked like jim," she repeated, as if that ended the discussion. for an instant the situation was too complicated for me. then, in a flash of understanding, i remembered that only the week before i had been made suddenly homesick for new york by one fleeting glimpse of a man whose profile was like that of godfrey morris. without another word i sought dr. harland and broke the news to her in two pregnant sentences. "mrs. mears is going home to-morrow morning. she saw a man at the meeting to-night who looked like her husband." dr. harland, who was preparing for bed, laid down the hair-brush she was using, slipped a wrapper over her nightgown, and started for mrs. mears's room. i followed. characteristically, our leader disdained preliminaries. "but, my dear woman," she exclaimed, "you can't leave us in the lurch like this. you're announced to speak in sweetbriar and mendan and bismarck within the coming week." "he looked jest like jim," murmured tildy mears, in simple but full rebuttal. she was standing with her back to the door, and she did not turn as we entered. her eyes were set toward the north, where her home was, and her children and jim. her manner dismissed sweetbriar, mendan, and bismarck as if they were the flowers of last year. suddenly she wheeled, crossed the room, and caught dr. harland by the shoulders. "woman," she cried, "i'm homesick. can't ye understand that, even ef you ain't got a home an' a husband ye been neglectin' fer days, like i have? i'm homesick." patiently she brought out her refrain again. "the man looked jest like jim," she ended. she turned away, and with feverish haste put her case on a chair, and her jacket and hat on the case, topping the collection with an old pair of driving-gloves. the completeness of this preparation seemed to give her some satisfaction. she continued with more animation. "i'm startin' early," she explained. "i told the hotel man soon's i come in to have me called at five o'clock. so i'll say good-by now. an' thank ye both fer all yer kindness," she ended, primly. dr. harland laughed. then, impulsively, she took both the woman's toil-hardened hands in hers. "good-by, then, and god bless you," she said. "my cure has worked. i'll comfort myself with that knowledge." for a moment the eyes of tildy mears fell. "you ben mighty good," she said. "you both ben good. don't think i ain't grateful." she hesitated, then went on in halting explanation. "'s long's you ain't married," she said, "an' ain't got nothin' else to do, it's fine to travel round an' talk to folks. but someway sence i see that man to-night, settin' there lookin' like jim, i realize things is different with us married women." she drew her small figure erect, her voice taking on an odd suggestion of its ringing platform note. "talkin' is one thing," she said, tersely, "livin' is another thing. p'rhaps you ain't never thought of that. but i see the truth now, an' i see it clear." her peroration filled the little room, and like a swelling organ tone rolled through the open door and down the stairs, where it reached the far recesses of the hall below. her lean right arm shot upward in her one characteristic gesture, as if she called on high heaven itself to bear witness to the wisdom of her words in this, her last official utterance. "woman's place," ended tildy mears, "is in the home!" x a message from mother elise the authors' dinner had reached that peak of success which rises serenely between the serving of the dessert and the opening words of the first postprandial speech. relaxed, content, at peace with themselves and their publisher-host, the great assemblage of men and women writers sipped their coffee and liqueurs, and beamed benignly upon one another as they waited for the further entertainment the speeches were expected to afford. here and there, at the numerous small tables which flowered in the great dining-room, a distinguished author, strangely modest for the moment, stealthily consulted some penciled notes tucked under his napkin, or with absent eyes on space mentally rehearsed the opening sentences of his address. even the least of these men was accustomed to public speaking; but what they had said to chautauqua gatherings or tossed off casually at school commencements in their home towns was not quite what they would care to offer to an audience which included three hundred men and women representing every stage of literary success, and gifted, beyond doubt, with a highly developed sense of humor. a close observer could discover the speakers of the evening by running an eye over the brilliantly decorated tables and selecting those faces which alone in that care-free assemblage wore expressions of nervous apprehension. at my table, well toward the center of the room, i felt again a thrill of delight at being a part of this unique composite picture. my first book, still an infant in the literary cradle, had won me my invitation; and nothing except the actual handling of the volume, hot from the press, had given me so strong a sense of having at last made a beginning in the work i loved. save myself, every man and woman of the eight at our table stood on the brow of the long hill each had climbed. three of them--a woman playwright, a man novelist, and a famous diplomat--were among my close friends. the others i had met to-night for the first time. the playwright sat opposite me, and over the tall vase of spanish iris which stood between us i caught the expression of her brown eyes, thoughtful and introspective. for the moment at least she was very far away from the little group around her. beside her sat the author, his white locks caressing a suddenly troubled brow. he was one of the speakers of the evening, and he had just confided to his companions that he had already forgotten his carefully prepared extemporaneous address. at my right the grand old man of american diplomacy smiled in calm content. he rarely graced such festive scenes as this; he was over ninety, and, he admitted cheerfully, "growing a little tired." but his reminiscences, recently published, was among the most widely read literature of the day, and the mind which had won him distinction fifty years ago was still as brilliant as during his days at foreign courts. over our group a sudden stillness had fallen, and with an obvious effort to break this, one of my new acquaintances addressed me, her cold blue eyes reflecting none of the sudden warmth of her manner. "do you know, miss iverson," she began, "i envy you. you have had five years of new york newspaper experience--the best of all possible training. besides, you must have accumulated more material in those five years than the average writer finds in twenty." i had no opportunity to reply. as if the remark had been a gauntlet tossed on the table in challenge, my companions fell upon it. every one talked at once, the best seller and the author upholding the opinion of the woman with the blue eyes, the rest disputing it, until the playwright checked the discussion with a remark that caught the attention of all. "there's nothing new in this world," she said, "and therefore there's nothing interesting. we all know too much. the only interesting things are those we can't understand, because they happen--elsewhere." the author looked at her and smiled, his white eyebrows moving upward ever so slightly. "for example?" he murmured. almost imperceptibly the playwright shrugged her shoulders. "for example?" she repeated, lightly. "oh, i wasn't contemplating an example. not that i couldn't give one if i chose." she stopped. then, stirred by the skeptical look in the author's eyes, her face took on a sudden look of decision. "and i might," she added, quietly, "if urged." the best seller leaned across the table and laid a small coin on her plate. "i'll urge you," he said. "i'll take a story. we want the thing in fiction form." the playwright smiled at him. "very well," she said, indifferently; "call it what you please--an instance, a story." "and mind," interrupted the best seller, "it's something that didn't happen on this earth." the playwright sat silent an instant, intent and thoughtful, as if mentally marshaling her characters before her. "part of it happened on this earth," she said. "it began two years ago, when a friend of mine, a woman editor, received a letter from a stranger, who was also a woman. the stranger asked for a personal interview. she wished, she said, for the editor's advice. the need had suddenly come to her to make her living. she had had no special training; would the editor talk to her and give her any suggestions she could? the editor consented, naming a day and an hour for the interview, and at the time appointed the stranger called at the other's office. "she proved to be a beautiful woman, a little over forty, dressed quietly but exquisitely in black, and with the walk and manner of an empress. the editor was immensely impressed by her, but she soon discovered that the stranger was wrapped in mystery. she could learn nothing about her past, her friends, or herself. she was merely a human package dropped from space and labeled 'miss driscoll'--the name engraved on her card. who 'miss driscoll' was, where she had come from, what she had done, remained as much of a problem after half an hour of conversation as at the moment she had entered the editor's room. she wanted work; how could she get it? that was her question, but she had no answers for any questions asked by the editor. when they were put to her she hedged and fenced with exquisite skill. she had a charming air of intimacy, of confidence in the editor's judgment, yet nothing came from her that threw any light on her experience or her qualifications. "all the time they talked the editor studied her. then suddenly, without warning, she leaned forward and shot out the question that had been slowly forming in her mind. "'when did you leave your order?' she asked. "the stranger stiffened like one who had received an electric shock. the next moment she sagged forward in her chair as if something in her had given way. 'how did you know?' she breathed, at last. "the editor shook her head. 'i did not know,' she admitted. 'i merely suspected. you have one or two habits which suggest a nun, especially the trick of crossing your hands as if you expected to slip them into flowing sleeves. they look like a nun's hands, too; and your complexion has the convent pallor. now tell me all you can. i cannot help you until i know more about you.'" around us there was the scrape of chairs on the polished floor. some of the dinner-guests were rising and crossing the room to chat with friends at other tables. but the little group at our table sat in motionless attention, every eye on the playwright's charming face. "good beginning," remarked the best seller, helpfully. "and, by jove, the orchestra is giving you the 'rosary' as an obbligato. there's a coincidence for you." "then the story came out," resumed the playwright, ignoring the interruption. "at least part of it came out. the stranger had been the mother general of a large conventual order, which she herself had founded twenty years ago. she had built it up from one convent to thirty. she had established schools and hospitals all over america, as well as in cuba, porto rico, and the philippines. she was a brilliant organizer, a human dynamo. whatever she touched succeeded. she did not need to explain this; the extraordinary growth of her community spoke for her. but a few months before she came to the editor, she said, a cabal had been established against her in her mother house. she had returned from a visit to one of her philippine convents to find that an election had been held in her absence, that she had been superseded, that the local superior of the mother house had been elected mother general in her place; in short, that she herself was deposed by her community. "she said that she never knew why. there was much talk of extravagance, of too rapid growth; her broadening plans, and the big financial risks she took, alarmed the more conservative nuns. she took their breath away. possibly they were tired of the pace she set, and ready to rest on the community's achievements. all that is not important. mother general elise was deposed. she could not remain as a subordinate in the community she had ruled so long. neither could she, she said, risk destroying the work of her life by making a fight for her rights and causing a newspaper sensation. so she left the order, taking with her her only living relative, her old mother, eighty-one years of age, to whom for the previous year or two she had given a home in her mother house." "i am afraid," murmured the best seller, sadly, "that this story is going to depress me." the playwright nodded. "at first," she admitted. "but it ends with what we will call 'an uplift.'" the best seller emptied his glass. "oh, all right," he murmured. "here's to the uplift!" "the editor listened to the story," continued the playwright. "then she advised miss driscoll to go to rome and have her case taken up at the vatican. surely what seemed such injustice would be righted there, and without undesirable notoriety for the community. she introduced the former mother general to several prominent new york men and women who could help her and give her letters she needed. there were various meetings at the houses of these people, who were all impressed by the force, the magnetism, and the charm of the convent queen who had been exiled from her kingdom. then miss driscoll and her mother sailed for italy." the diplomat leaned forward, his faded eyes as eager as a boy's. "let me tell some of it!" he begged. "let me tell what happened in rome!" the blue-eyed woman who had started the discussion clapped her hands. "let each of us tell some of it," she cried. the playwright smiled across at the diplomat. "by all means," she urged, "tell the roman end of it." the diplomat laid down his half-finished cigar, and put his elbows on the table, joining his finger-tips in the pose characteristic of his most thoughtful moments. he, too, took a moment for preparation, and the faces of the others at the table showed that they were already considering the twist they would give to the story when their opportunity came. "the mother and daughter reached rome in may," began the diplomat. "they rented a few rooms and bought a few pieces of furniture, and, because they were very poor, they lived very frugally. while the daughter sought recognition at the vatican the old mother spent her days pottering around their little garden and trying to learn a few words of italian from her neighbors. it was hard to be transplanted at eighty-one, but she was happy, for she was with the daughter she had always adored. she would rather have been alone with her in a strange land than in the highest heaven without her. "one of the cardinals at the vatican finally took up the case of miss driscoll. it interested him. he knew of the splendid work she had done as mother general elise. he began an investigation of the whole involved affair, and he had accumulated a great mass of documents, and was almost ready to submit a formal report to the holy father, when he fell ill with pneumonia and died a few days later. "that was a crushing blow for mother elise. under the shock of the disappointment she, too, fell ill, and was taken to what we will call the hospital of the white sisters. her mother went with her, because an old lady of eighty-two could not be left alone." the old diplomat paused and looked unseeingly before him, as if he were calling up a picture. "the convent hospital had a beautiful garden," the diplomat resumed, at last. "there the mother spent the next few days working among the flowers and following the lay sisters along the garden walks as a contented child follows its nurse. once a day she was allowed to see her daughter for a few moments. it was her custom to reach the sick-room long before the hour appointed and to wait in the hall until she was admitted. she said the time of waiting seemed shorter there, where she was so near. so one day, when a pale sister told her that her daughter was not quite ready to be seen, the old lady was not surprised. this was her usual experience. "nothing warned her, no intuition told her, that her daughter had died exactly five minutes before and that the sisters back of that closed door were huddled together, trying to find words to tell her what had happened. they could not find them; words scamper away like frightened beings in moments like that. so they sent for their mother superior, and she came and put an arm around the bent shoulders of the old woman and told her that her daughter's pain and trouble were over for all time. later they took her into the room where her daughter lay in a peace which remained triumphant even while the mother's heart broke as she looked upon it. when they found that they could not persuade her to leave the room they allowed her to remain; and there she sat at the foot of the bed day and night, while the sisters came and went and knelt and prayed, and the long wax tapers at the head and feet of the dead nun burned slowly down to their sockets." the diplomat stopped. then, as no one spoke, he turned to the author. "will you go on?" he asked. the author took up the tale. "mother elise was buried in rome," he said, "and in the chapel of the white sisters tapers still burn for her. her mother remained there, and was given a home in the convent, because she had no other place to go. it was kind of the sisters, for, unlike her daughter, she was not a catholic. but her old heart was broken, and as months passed and she began to realize what had happened she was filled with a great longing for her native land. the bells of rome got on her shattered nerves. they seemed eternally ringing for her dead. from the garden she could see her daughter's grave on the hill just beyond the convent walls. she longed for the only thing she had left--her own country. she longed to hear her native tongue. she said so to all who would listen. one day she received an anonymous letter, inclosing bank-notes for five thousand lira. the letter read: "i hear that you are homesick. take this money and return to your native land. it will pay your passage and secure your admission to a home for aged gentlewomen. do not try to discover the source of the gift. "from one who loved your daughter. "a little blossom of comfort bloomed in the old woman's heart, like an edelweiss on a glacier. she packed her few possessions and sailed for america. there was no one to meet her, but she had kept the name and address of the woman editor; she was sure the editor would advise her about getting into the right home. in the mean time she went from the steamer to a cheap new york lodging-house, of which some fellow passenger had told her, and from there she sent a hurried summons to the editor. she was already panic-stricken in this big country, which held the graves of all she loved but one. it suddenly seemed to her as strange, as terrible as italy. she was afraid of everything--afraid of the people she met, of the sounds she heard, of the prying lodging-house keeper and her red-eyed husband. most of all, she was afraid of these two, and she had reason to be. "the editor had not even known the old lady was coming to this country, but she responded to the call the night she received it, for she could tell that the writer was frantic with fear. she climbed three flights of rickety stairs and found the old woman in a state of unreasoning terror, like a lost child in the dark. already the keepers of the lodging-house had tried to get her money from her; she was hungry, for they did not furnish meals, and she had been afraid to go out for food. the editor took her away from the place that night and home to her own apartment. there she had a long talk with her. "'now, mrs. driscoll,' she said, 'i want you to forget your troubles if you can and settle down here and be at peace. leave the matter of the home to me. i will find the right place, and when i have found it i will tell you about it and take you to see it. then, if you approve, in you go. we will put your money in the bank to-morrow and leave it there until the matter of the home is settled. in the mean time don't think or talk about the future. it may take some time to find the right home. i'm not going to run to you with every hope or disappointment that my investigation brings. forget about it yourself, but don't think i have forgotten because i am not keeping you stirred up with daily or weekly reports.' "the old lady settled down like a contented child in its mother's lap. as the weeks passed her eyes lost their look of panic and took on the serenity of age. her thin figure filled out. she transferred to her only friend something of the devotion she had given her daughter. she was almost happy. "in the mean time the editor began her investigations, and she at once discovered that it is not easy to find a home for an aged and indigent gentlewoman. all the institutions to which she applied were filled, and each had waiting-lists that looked, she said, 'yards long.' the secretaries were courteous. they almost invariably sent her lists of other institutions, and she wrote to these, or visited them if they were within reach; and the weeks and months crawled by, and the city grew hot and stifling. she was worn out by the quest to which she was giving every hour of her spare time, but she was no nearer success than she had been the first day. she had arranged to go to europe for a rest which she sadly needed, and the date of her sailing was very near. but she could not go and leave her protégée unprovided for, nor could she leave her alone with a servant. her search became a very serious thing; it kept her awake nights; it got on her nerves; it became an obsession which, waking or sleeping, she could not forget. she began to go down under it, but no one knew that, for she kept it to herself; and the least suspicious person of all her friends was the old lady, who each evening listened for her footstep as one listens for that of the best beloved, coming home." the author stopped. "by jove!" said the best seller, "it _is_ a depressing yarn. let me see if i can't brighten it up a bit." but the author glanced at me. "forgive me, old man," he said to the best seller, who was a friend of his. "i know what you would do. you would certainly brighten it up. you would discover a long-lost son, throw in thanksgiving at the old home, and wind up with the tango. i think miss iverson ought to go on with the story." he and the playwright smiled at me. i felt neither nervous nor self-conscious as i took up the story, but the best seller openly grumbled. "i could put some snap in that," he exclaimed. "but go on, miss iverson. only i call this a close corporation." "there came," i began, "a very hot day. the editor had heard of a home beyond the city limits, where the view was beautiful and the air was pure. she went to see it. the date was the twenty-second of july, and the day was the hottest of the season. at the end of the trolley-line there was a broiling walk in the sun. the editor dragged her weary feet along the dusty road, her eyes on the great brick building she was approaching. before it a cool lawn sloped down to a protecting hedge. she could see old ladies sitting on benches under trees, and a big lump came into her throat as she thought of her protégée and wondered if at last she had found her a permanent resting-place, if this haven was for her. in the dim reception-room she waited hopefully, but almost the first words of the sister who finally appeared showed that nothing could be expected from her. "she was merely repeating all the phrases the editor knew by heart. the place was 'full to overflowing.' there were 'almost two hundred on the waiting-list.' but, of course, there were other places. she rattled off an impressive list. every home on it was one the editor had already visited or heard from; there was no room, she knew, in any of them. at her side the sister uttered sympathetic murmurs. it was, she said, very sad. then briskly she arose. she was a busy woman, and she had already given this caller more time than she could well spare. perhaps the look on the editor's face checked her steps. uncertainly for a second she hesitated at the threshold. she could do nothing, but--yes, there was still the impulse of hospitality. "'would you like to see our new chapel?' she asked, kindly. 'it is just finished, and we are very proud of it.' "the editor did not really care to see the new chapel. in her depression she would not have cared to see anything. but she was very warm, very tired, utterly discouraged. she wanted a few quiet moments in which to pull herself together, to rest, to think, and to plan. the new chapel would give her these. she followed the sister to its dim shelter, and, crossing its threshold, knelt in a pew near the door. sister italia, kneeling beside her, suddenly leaned toward her and whispered in her ear. "'remember,' she smiled, 'when you pray in a new chapel three prayers are surely answered.' "the editor returned her smile. already she was feeling better. the chapel was really beautiful, and its atmosphere was infinitely soothing. before the altar gleamed one soft light, like a distant star, and like larger stars the rose windows at the right and left seemed to pulse with color. here and there a black-veiled nun knelt motionless with bowed head. the editor offered two of her prayers: that she might soon find a home for mrs. driscoll; that mrs. driscoll might be happy and content in the home when she had found it. then, her eyes still on the distant altar light, her thoughts turned to mother elise--at rest in her roman grave. here, surely, was a fit setting for thought of her--a convent chapel such as those in which she had spent years of her life. how many vigils she must have had in such a place, how many lonely hours of fasting and of prayer! "'i wish,' the editor reflected, dreamily, 'i wish i could feel that she is with me in this search for the home. of course she is--if she knows. i'm sure of that. but _does_ she know? or is she in some place so inconceivably remote that even the tears and prayers of her helpless old mother have never reached her? i wish i could know that she is watching--that she won't let me make a mistake.' "she sighed. close to her sister italia stirred, then rose from her knees and led the way from the chapel. the editor followed. at the outer door of the main building sister italia asked a question. "'did you offer your three prayers?' she wanted to know. "the editor reflected. 'i offered two,' she said, slowly. then a sudden memory came to her, and she smiled. 'why, yes,' she said, 'i offered all three, without realizing it.'" the best seller interrupted. he was an irrepressible person. "it's still too somber," he said. "but i see now how it can be lightened a bit. take your cue from the musicians. they're playing the maxixe." "hush!" begged the woman with the blue eyes. she turned them on me. there was an odd mist over their cold brilliance. "please go on, miss iverson," she said, gently. i glanced at the best seller. "i'll lighten it a bit," i promised. the face of the best seller brightened. "good for you!" he exclaimed, elegantly. "the editor went home," i resumed. "she was very tired and still very much discouraged. the long, hot ride had dispelled the memory of her moments of peace. as she put her key in the lock of her door the old mother heard the sound and came trotting down the hall to meet her. she always did that, and usually she had a dozen questions to ask. was the editor tired? had she had a hard day? had it been very hot in her office? but to-night she asked none of these. she came straight to the editor and laid her hands on the other's shoulders; her face held an odd look, apologetic, almost frightened. "'oh, my dear,' she quavered. 'i have a confession to make to you. i have been false to a sacred trust.' "the editor laughed and led her back into the living-room, where she seated her in a big chair by an open window. she did not believe the old lady had ever been false to any trust, and she was very anxious to get out of her working-clothes and into cool garments. "'i suppose it's something simply appalling,' she said. 'let me fortify myself for it with a bath and a glass of lemonade. then i'll listen to it.' "but the old lady shook her head. 'no, no,' she gulped. 'i've waited too long already. i _must_ do it now. oh, listen; _please_ listen!' "the editor humored her. the old lady was not often unreasonable, and it was clear that she was desperately in earnest. the editor sat down and rested her tired head against the back of her chair while she drew off her gloves. "'very well,' she said, 'i'm listening.' "the old lady began at once. her words came out with an indescribable effect of breathlessness, as if she could not make her explanation soon enough. she leaned forward, her faded eyes, with their old frightened look, fastened on the editor's face. "'the day before my daughter died,' she began, almost in a whisper, 'she and i had our last talk. she seemed better. neither of us thought she was very ill. but she said it was wise when she felt well to discuss a few things. she told me how little money we had and where it was, and she said the mother superior had promised to let me stay in the convent if ever i needed a home. then she took off her ring, the community ring she had always worn as the symbol of her office, and handed it to me. 'if i go before you,' she ended, 'i want you to send this ring to our friend in new york--our friend the editor.' "the old woman stopped. in her hand she held something with which her fingers fumbled. her head drooped. "'i forgot it,' she confessed, in a whisper the editor strained her ears to catch. 'when she died so suddenly the next day i forgot everything except her going. when i remembered a few months later i did not know how to send the ring to you, so i waited. and when i came to new york those first horrible days in the lodging-house sent everything else out of my mind.' her head drooped lower. 'you'll forgive me,' she ended. "she rose and came toward the editor, and the editor rose to face her. "'why, my dear,' she began, 'you mustn't give it a second thought. why should you worry about it?' "but the old lady interrupted her and went on, as if she had been checked in a recital which she must finish without a break. 'wait,' she said. 'to-day, this afternoon, i remembered it! the memory came to me with a kind of shock. i thought, "i have never given her the ring." it brought me out of my chair. i started to get the ring at once, but i could not remember where it was. i stood still, trying to think. then suddenly that came to me, too. it was down in the corner of my biggest trunk, the one i had not unpacked, the one that holds all my winter things. so i unpacked it--and here is the ring.' "she held it out. it was a heavy gold band with a raised latin inscription on its outer surface. the editor took it in her hand, but her mind held only one idea. "'you unpacked that great trunk,' she gasped, 'this frightfully hot day? with all those furs and flannels? why, mrs. driscoll, how _could_ you do such a thing?' "the old woman drew a deep breath. 'i had to,' she muttered. her eyebrows puckered. plainly, she was puzzled and a little afraid. 'i felt i had to,' she repeated. 'it seemed,' she added, slowly, 'almost like a message from my daughter!' "the editor turned the ring in her hand and looked at the latin inscription, and as she did so she saw again, not the face of the beautiful woman who had come to her after her downfall, but the quiet convent chapel in which she herself had knelt that afternoon. a little chill ran the length of her spine. for there were three words on the ring." the diplomat leaned forward. "that's interesting," he said. "i didn't know about the inscription. the three words were--" "'_adveniat regnum tuum_,'" said the editor. "'thy kingdom come,'" translated the best seller, swiftly, proud of his latin. "by jove, the editor got her message, didn't she? i like your ending, miss iverson. but it doesn't prove the original point." the playwright leaned across the table. "doesn't it?" she asked, gently. "then show them the ring, may." i drew the heavy circle from my finger. in silence it was passed from palm to palm. the glance of the blue-eyed woman touched the face of the playwright, the diplomat, and the author and rested on me. then she drew a deep breath. "so it's true!" she said. "you four saw it work out! where is mrs. driscoll now?" "in the emerson home for gentlewomen," the diplomat told her. "the best, i think, in this country. you ran out to see her last week, didn't you, bassinger?" the author admitted the charge. "she's very happy there," he said. at his table at the head of the room our host was on his feet. "ladies and gentlemen," he began-- but the best seller was whispering to me. "it wasn't exactly telepathy," he said, "for no one but the old lady knew anything about that ring. it was just an odd coincidence that sent her burrowing into furs and moth-balls that hot day. but you can make a story of it, miss iverson--a good one, too, if you'll work in a lot of drama and pathos." xi "t. b." conducts a rehearsal the stage director rose and rolled up his copy of the play, pushing toward me with his disengaged hand the half-dozen round white peppermints which, arranged on a chalk-lined blue blotter, had been chastely representing my most important characters in their most vital scene. his smooth, round face was pale with fatigue; the glow of his brown eyes had been dimmed by sleepless nights; he had the weary air of a patient man who has listened to too much talk--but not for one moment had he lost his control of the situation or of us. "that might have made a better picture," he conceded, graciously. "but we can't make any more changes till after the dress rehearsal to-night; and if that goes well we won't want to make any. don't you worry, miss iverson. we've got a winner!" this, coming from herbert elman at the close of our last official conference, was as merciful rain to a parched field, but i was too weary to respond to it, except by a tired smile. under its stimulation, however, our star, who had been drooping forward in her chair surveying the peppermints much as lady macbeth must have gazed upon the stain on her hand, blossomed in eager acknowledgment. "bertie, you are a trump!" she exclaimed, gratefully. "it's simply wonderful how you keep up your enthusiasm after three weeks of work. it was criminal of miss iverson and me to drag you here this afternoon. i suppose we had lost our nerve, but that doesn't excuse us." elman had started for the door on the cue of his valedictory. at her words he turned and came back to the desk where we sat together, his face stamped with a sudden look of purpose; and upon my little study, in which for the past three hours we had wrangled over a dozen unimportant details, a hush fell, as if now, at last, something had entered which was real and vital. for an instant he stood before us, looking down at us with eyes that held an unaccustomed sternness. then he spoke. "i had a few words to say to you two when i came here," he began, "but you were both so edgy that i changed my mind. however, if you're talking about losing your nerve you need them, and i'm going to get them off my chest." miss merrick interrupted him, her blue eyes widening like those of a hurt baby. "oh, bertie," she begged, "p-please don't say anything disagreeable. here we've been rehearsing for weeks, and we three still speak. we're _al-most_ friendly. and now, at the eleventh hour, you're going to spoil everything!" her words came out in a little wail. she dropped her head in her hands with a gesture of utter fatigue. "you are," she ended. "you know you are, and i'm _so-o_ tired!" elman laughed. no one ever took stella merrick seriously, except during her hours on the stage when she ceased to be stella merrick at all and entered the soul of the character she was impersonating. "nonsense," he said, brusquely. "i'm going to show my friendship by giving you a pointer, that's all." miss merrick drew a deep breath and twisted the corner of her mouth toward me--a trick i had learned from nestor hurd five years ago and had unconsciously taught her in the past three weeks. "oh, if that's all!" she murmured, in obvious relief. "you should have been in your beds the entire day," continued elman, severely, "both of you, like the rest of the company. we'll rehearse all night, and you know it; and i'll tell you right now," he added, pregnantly, "that you're going to be up against it." he waited a moment to give his words the benefit of their cumulative effect, and then added, slowly: "just before i came here this afternoon t. b. told me that to-night he intends to rehearse the company himself." i heard stella merrick gasp. the little sound seemed to come from a long distance, for the surprise of elman's announcement had made me dizzy. "t. b." was our manager, better known as "the governor" and "the master." he had more friends, more enemies, more successes, more insight, more failures, more blindness, more mannerisms, more brutality, and more critics than any other man in the theatrical world. his specialty was the avoidance of details. he let others attend to these, and then, strolling in casually at the eleventh hour, frequently undid the labor to which they had given weeks. though his money was producing my play, i had met him only once; and this, i had been frequently assured by the company, had been the one redeeming feature of an unusually strenuous theatrical experience. "t. b." never attended any but dress rehearsals, leaving everything to his stage directors until the black hours when he arrived to consider the results they had accomplished. it was not an infrequent thing for him on these occasions to disband the company and drop the play; that he should change part of the cast and most of the "business" seemed almost inevitable. for days i had been striving to accustom myself to the thought that during our dress rehearsal "t. b." would be sitting gloomily down in the orchestra, his eyes on the back drop, his chin on his breast, a victim to that profound depression which seized him when one of his new companies was rehearsing one of his new plays. at such times he was said to bear, at the best, a look of utter desolation; at the worst, that of a lost and suffering soul. at long intervals, when fate perversely chose to give her screw the final turn for an unhappy playwright, "t. b." himself conducted the last rehearsal, and for several months after one of these tragedies theatrical people meeting on broadway took each other into quiet corners and discussed what had happened in awed whispers and with fearsome glances behind them. it had not occurred to any of us that "t. b." would be moved to conduct _our_ last rehearsal. this was his busiest season, and elman was his most trusted lieutenant. now, however, elman's quiet voice was giving us the details of "t. b.'s" intention, and as she listened stella merrick's face, paling slowly under the touch of rouge on the cheeks, took on something of the exaltation of one who dies gloriously for a cause. she might not survive the experience, it seemed to say, but surely even death under the critical observation of "t. b." would take on some new dignity. if she died in "t. b.'s" presence, "t. b." would see that at least she did it "differently"! "but, bertie, that's _great_!" she exclaimed. "he must have a lot of faith in the play. he must have heard something. he hadn't any idea of conducting when i spoke to him yesterday." "oh yes, he had!" elman's words fell on her enthusiasm as frost falls on a tree in bloom. "he didn't want to rattle you by saying so, that's all. and he isn't doing this work to-night because he's got faith in the play. it's more because he hasn't. he hasn't faith in anything just now. three of his new plays have gone to the store-house this month, and he's in a beastly humor. you'll have the devil of a time with him." miss merrick sprang to her feet and began to pace the study with restless steps. "what are you trying to do?" she threw back at him over her shoulder. "take what little courage we have left?" elman shook his dark head. "i'm warning you," he said, quietly. "i want you both to brace up. you'll need all the nerve you've got, and then some, to get through what's before us. he'll probably have an entirely new idea of your part, stella; and i don't doubt he'll want miss iverson to rewrite most of her play. but you'll both get through all right. you're not quitters, you know." his brown eyes, passing in turn from my face to hers, warmed at what he saw in them. when he began to speak we had been relaxed, depressed, almost discouraged. lack of sleep, nervous strain, endless rehearsals had broken down our confidence and sapped our energy; but now, in the sudden lift of stella merrick's head, the quick straightening of her shoulders, i caught a reflection of the change that was taking place in me. at the first prospect of battle we were both as ready for action as highland regiments when the bagpipes begin to snarl. looking at us, elman's pale face lit up with one of his rare and brilliant smiles. "that's right," he said, heartily. "a word to the wise. and now i'm really off." almost before the door had closed behind him miss merrick had seized her hat and was driving her hat-pins through it with quick, determined fingers. "i'm going home and to bed," she said. "we can both get in three hours' sleep before the rehearsal--and believe me, miss iverson, we'll need it! do you remember what general sherman said about war? he should have saved his words for a description of 't. b.'" i followed her out into the hall and to the elevator door. i felt oddly exhilarated, almost as if i had been given some powerfully stimulating drug. "he doesn't exactly kill, burn, or pillage, does he?" i asked, gaily. with one foot in the elevator, our star stopped a second and looked back at me. there was a world of meaning in her blue eyes. "if he did nothing but that, my lamb!" she breathed, and dropped from sight. i returned to my desk. i had no idea of going to bed. i was no napoleon, to slumber soundly on the eve of a decisive battle, but there was nothing else i could do except to sweep the peppermint drops out of sight and tuck the diagrammed blotter behind a radiator. while i was engaged in these homely tasks the bell of my telephone rang. "hello, miss iverson," i heard when i took down the receiver. "are you going to be at home to-night?" my heart leaped at the familiar greeting of billy gibson, star reporter of the _searchlight_, and one of my stanch friends ever since the days, five long years ago, when he had given me my first lesson in practical reporting. almost before i could reply to him i noticed something unnatural in the quality of his voice. it was a little too easy, too casual, too carefully controlled. "heard any late news about morris?" asked gibson. "news?" i echoed. "what news? what do you mean?" "oh, then you don't know." gibson's voice was still ostentatiously cheerful, but it dropped a little on his next words. "why, he's sick," he said. "pretty sick. has pneumonia." "i didn't know," i said, slowly. it had been difficult to bring out the words. it was for some reason impossible to say more, but gibson went on without waiting, thus giving me time to think. "haven't lost all interest in us, have you, now that you've been away from us a year and are writing plays?" he asked, cheerfully. "oh, billy, what about him?" at last i was able to bring out the words. "is it serious?" i asked. "no one at the office realized it was until to-day," said gibson. "this morning colonel cartwell stopped at the morris house on his way down-town and happened to meet one of the consulting physicians. godfrey's pretty low," he added, gently. "the crisis is expected to-night." for what seemed a long time i sat staring blankly at the telephone. once or twice i tried to speak, but no speech came. the forgotten receiver shook in my hand. every thought but one was wiped out of my mind. godfrey morris was ill--very ill. he had been ill for days--perhaps for weeks--and i had not known it because i had been absorbed in my petty interests, which until this moment had seemed so big. "if you care to have me," went on gibson, hesitatingly, "i'll telephone you later. i'm to be at the morris house most of the night and keep the office posted from there. i can call you up once or twice if--it won't disturb you." i found my voice, but it sounded strange in my own ears. for an instant i had seen myself sitting in my study the long night through, getting messages from the sick-room, but now i remembered my work and the others who were concerned in it. "billy," i said, "we're having the dress rehearsal of my play to-night. i may have to be at the berwyck theater until three or four in the morning. can you send me word there--several times?" gibson's answer was prompt. "you bet i can," he said. "i'll bring it. the morris house is only a few blocks from the berwyck, and i'll be glad of something to do besides receiving and sending bulletins. tell your door-man to let me pass, and i'll drop in two or three times during the night." his voice changed. "i thought," he added, almost diffidently, "you'd want to know." "yes," i said, slowly, "i want to know. thank you." i hung up the receiver, which slipped in my stiff fingers. the exhilaration of a few minutes before lay dead within me. i felt cold and numb. from the living-room off my study the light of my open fire winked at me as if in cheery reassurance. i crossed the room and crouched down before it, stretching out shaking hands to the blaze. i seemed to be moving in a nightmare, but with every sense horribly acute. i remembered previous dreams in which i had seemed to see, as i saw now, the familiar objects of my home around me. i heard the beating of my heart, the hammering of the blood in my head, the sound of the quick breath i drew--almost the murmur of godfrey's voice as he babbled in delirium in his distant sick-room. "_the crisis is expected to-night._" gibson's words came back to me. what was it we had arranged? oh yes--that he was to drop into the berwyck several times and give me the latest bulletins. but that would be hours from now, and suddenly i realized that i could not wait. with a rush i was back at the telephone asking for the morris home. i had neglected grace morris during the past few months, as i had neglected all my other friends in the work which had absorbed me. i dared not ask for her now, when the english accents of the morris butler met my ear. "is that you, crumley?" i asked. "this is miss iverson. i've just heard that mr. morris is very ill. can you tell me how he is?" crumley's reply showed the impassiveness of the well-trained servant. "he's very low, miss," he replied, evenly. "very low indeed. two of the doctors are here now. they don't hope for any change till toward morning." i found words for one more question. "is he suffering?" i asked, almost in a whisper. "suffering, miss?" echoed crumley. "no, miss, i think not. he's very quiet indeed--in a stupor-like." i hung up the receiver with a steadier hand and sat down, staring straight before me. as i had rallied to elman's words half an hour ago, so now i tried to meet this new demand upon me. there was nothing i could do for godfrey; but a few hours later there might be much to do for the manager and the company who were giving my work to the public. i must stand by them and it--that was the one clear fact in a reeling world. i must be very cool, very clear-headed, very alert. i must have, elman had told me, all my nerve, "and then some." all this, as i repeated it to myself, was quite plain, yet it meant nothing vital to me. it was as if one side of me had lashed with these reminders of duty another side which remained unmoved. the only thing of which i was vividly conscious was a scene which i suddenly visualized--a sick-room, large and cool and dim, a silent figure in a big bed, doctors and nurses bending over it. at the foot of the bed sat a figure i recognized, godfrey's mother. of course she would be there. i saw the gleam of her white hair, the look in the gray eyes which were so like her son's. "_the crisis is expected to-night._" the old clock in my hall seemed to be ticking off the words, over and over. the hammering blood in my brain was making them into a refrain which i found myself dully repeating. with a start i pulled myself together. i was on my feet again, walking back and forth, back and forth, across my study. it was growing late. through my dark windows the lights of surrounding buildings glowed in at me like evil eyes. i must get ready for my work. resolutely i held my thoughts to that point for an instant, then they swung away. "_the crisis is expected to-night. the--crisis--is--expected--to-night. time--to--get--to--work. the crisis is expected to-night._" i found that i was dressing. well, let "t. b." do his worst. he could tear me and my play to tatters, he could disband the company and disrupt the universe, if only for a few blessed hours he could keep me from seeing that shadowy room, that still, helpless figure. but he couldn't. "_the--crisis--is--expected--to-night. the--crisis--is--expected-- to-night._" and when it came, while the great battle was waged that i now knew meant life to me, too, i would be in an up-town theater, listening to petty human beings recite the petty lines of a petty play, to which in my incredible blindness i had given my time for months, shutting myself away from my friends, shutting myself away from godfrey. how many times had he telephoned and written? half a dozen at least. he had urged me to go to a concert or two, to a play or two, but i had been "too busy." it was monstrous, it was unbelievable, but it was true. "_the--crisis--is--expected--to-night._" i was at the theater now. how i had reached it was not quite clear. the members of the company were there before me, scattered about in the wings and on the big empty stage, lit by a single "bunch" light. the information that "t. b." himself was to conduct had fallen upon them like a pall. under its sable influence they whispered together in stricken groups of three or four. near the right first entrance elman and miss merrick sat, their heads close, the star talking softly but rapidly, elman listening with his tired, courteous air. they nodded across the stage at me when i appeared, but i did not join them. instead i slipped down into the dark auditorium and took my place in an orchestra seat, where i could be alone. the whole thing was a nightmare, of course. i could not possibly be sitting there when only a few blocks away that sick-room held its watching group, its silent, helpless patient. "_the--crisis--is--expected--to-night._" there was a sudden stir on the stage, a quick straightening of every figure there, a business-like bustle, and much scurrying to and fro. "t. b." had entered the theater by the front door and was striding down the middle aisle. i saw a huge bulk that loomed grotesque for an instant as it leaned toward the dark footlights for a word with mr. elman, and dropped with a grunt into a chair in the third row. other figures--i did not know how many--had entered the dark theater and taken their places around me. from where i sat, half a dozen rows behind him, i had a view of "t. b.'s" hair under the slouch hat he kept on his head, the bulge of his jaw as he turned his profile toward me, the sharp upward angle of the huge cigar in his mouth. the company were in their places in the wings and on the stage. i heard elman's quick word, "curtain." the rehearsal had begun. the familiar words of the opening scene rolled over the footlights as cold and vague as a fog that rolls in from the sea. "_the--crisis--is--expected--to-night._" no, that was not what the office boy on the stage had just said. it was what gibson had said that afternoon, a thousand years ago, when he had called me on the telephone. things were going badly up there on the stage. like a patient coming out of ether during an operation, and vaguely conscious of what was passing around her, i had moments of realizing this. boyce did not know his lines; he was garbling them frightfully, and, by failing to give his associates their cues, was adding to the panic into which "t. b.'s" presence had already thrown them. there! he had ruined miss merrick's opening scene, which was flattening out, going to pieces. it seemed as if some one should do something. yet, what could be done? "_the--crisis--is--expected--to-night._" what difference did it make what happened on that stage? the conscious interval was over. the babble that came over the footlights meant nothing. from his orchestra seat, into which he seemed to be sinking deeper as the moments passed, "t. b." sent forth a sardonic croak. it was a horrible noise--nerve-racking. it reached down to where i was submerged, caught me, drew me up to the surface again. i saw the company cringe under it, heard elman's reprimand of boyce, and his sharp command to begin the scene again. confusion, confusion, so much confusion over such little things, when only a few blocks away was that shadowy sick-room in which the great battle between life and death was being fought with hardly a sound. * * * * * it was midnight. "t. b." was conducting the rehearsal. for three hours he had poured upon the company the vitriol of his merciless tongue. for three hours he had raced up and down the aisles of the theater, alternately yelping commands and taking flying leaps across the footlights to the stage to go through a scene himself. he had laughed, he had wept, he had pleaded, he had sworn, he had cooed, he had roared. he had been strangely gentle with the white-haired old man of the company, and wholly brutal to a young girl who was doing beautiful work. he had reduced every woman to tears and every man to smothered and stuttering profanity. and all the time, sitting in my seat in the auditorium, i had watched him as dispassionately and with almost as detached an interest as if he were a manikin pulled by invisible wires and given speech by some ventriloquist. it was all a bad dream. he did not exist. we were not really there. the things he said to the company swept by my ears like the wail of a winter wind, leaving an occasional chill behind them. the remarks he addressed directly to me touched some cell of my brain which mechanically but clearly responded. i struck out lines and gave him new speeches, scrawling them with a pencil on a pad upon my knee; i "rebuilt" the curtain speech of the second act according to his sudden notion and to his momentary content; i transferred scenes and furnished new cues while he waited for the copy with impatiently extended hand. all the time the hush of the sick-room lay around me; i saw the still figure in the great four-poster bed. i had never seen godfrey morris's bedroom, though his sister had shown me his study. but now it was clear in every detail--the polished, uncarpeted floor, the carved pineapple tops of the four-poster, the great windows, open at top and bottom, the logs on the brass andirons in the grate, the brass-bound wood-box near it, the soft glow of the night lamps, the portrait of his mother which sargent had painted ten years ago and which godfrey had hung in his own room at the front of his bed. yes, i remembered now, he had told me about the portrait. that was why i saw it so plainly, facing him as he lay unconscious. he had told me about the four-poster, too, and the high-boys in the room, and some chests of drawers he had picked up. he was interested in old mahogany. no, he was not interested now in anything. he was "in a stupor-like," crumley had said. "_the--crisis--is--expected--to-night._" "great scott, miss merrick!" shouted "t. b." "don't you realize that the woman would have hysterics at this point? first she'd whimper, then she'd cry, then she'd shriek and find she couldn't stop. like this--" the theater filled with strange sounds--the wail of a banshee, the yelps of a suffering dog, a series of shrieks like the danger-blasts of a locomotive whistle. something in me lent an ear to them and wondered what they meant. surely they could not mean that my heroine was to have an attack of hysteria at that moment in my play. that was all wrong--wholly outside of the character and the scene; enough, indeed, to kill the comedy, to turn it into farce. "that's the idea," i heard "t. b." say. "now you try it. here, we'll do it together." something flamed within me, instinctive, intense. i half rose, then sank numbly back into my chair. what did it matter? the only thing that disturbed me was the noise. the uproar beat against my eardrums in waves of sound that threatened to burst them. my nightmare was growing worse. was it taking me to bedlam? was i shrieking, too? i must not shriek in the big, quiet room where the silent figure lay "in a stupor-like." the chair beside me creaked. gibson had dropped into it. "t. b." and miss merrick were on the top notes of their hysteria, but suddenly i ceased to hear them. every sense i had hung on the new-comer's words. "no change," said gibson, briefly. "none expected till three or four o'clock. thought i'd drop in, anyway. say"--a wraith of his wide and boyish grin appeared--"what's going on? is _this_ your rehearsal?" the question meant nothing to me. "did you see any of the family?" i whispered. gibson nodded. "miss morris came in for a minute at midnight," he told me, "while i was having supper. i opened the door of godfrey's room an inch, too, and saw him through the crack." "see here!" "t. b." was bellowing to a frightened boy on the stage. "you're not giving an imitation of corbett entering the ring; you're supposed to be a gentleman coming into a drawing-room. see? hook in your spine an' try it. and now you're not havin' a hair-cut. you're greeting a lady. and you're not makin' a face at her, either. you're smiling at her. smile, smile--my god, man, smile! try it. t-r-y-y it!" his voice broke. he seemed about to burst into tears. i caught gibson's arm. "oh, billy," i gulped, "how did he look?" gibson patted my hand glancing away from me as he answered. "very quiet," he said. "he's unconscious. the nurse said he was 'resting comfortably.' that's their pet formula, you know. occasionally he mutters something--a few disconnected words. by jove, what _is_ that fellow doing now?" i followed the direction of his eyes. "t. b." had taken one of his flying leaps over the footlights, assisted midway by a chair in the aisle which served the purpose of a spring-board in this acrobatic feat. now he was at the right first entrance, swaggering through the open door, his hands deep in his pockets, every tooth in his head revealed in a fixed and awful grin. yet, strangely, through the swagger, under the grin, one detected for an instant something resembling a well-bred college boy entering a drawing-room--something, too, of radiant youth, irresponsible and charming. "jove," breathed gibson, "he gets it, somehow, doesn't he? one sees exactly what he's driving at." but the little scene had faded as i looked at it, like a negative dimming in the light. the door that opened was the door of the sick-room, and the man who had entered was one of the specialists who watched over godfrey to-night. i saw him approach the bed and lean over the patient, looking at him in silence for a moment, his finger on the pulse of the thin hand that lay so still. somewhere near a woman was sobbing. was it mrs. morris, or the young girl in the wings? i did not know. "t. b.'s" voice was cutting its way to me like the blast of a steam siren through a fog. "miss iverson," he yelled. "cut out that kid's love scene. he can't do it, and no one wants it there, anyway. you've got some drama here now, and, by heaven, it's about time you had! don't throw it away. keep to it." his voice broke on the last words. again he seemed to be on the verge of tears. "_keep--to--it_," he almost sobbed. i carried my manuscript to a point in the wings where, vaguely aided by one electric light hanging far above me, i could make the changes for which "t. b." had asked. they meant new cues for several characters and a number of verbal alterations in their lines. far down within me something sighed over the loss of that love scene--sighed, and then moaned over the loss of something else. "t. b.," his chin on his chest, his eyes on the floor, brooded somberly in an orchestra seat until we were ready to go over the revised scene. as i finished, stella merrick leaned over me, her hand clutching my left shoulder in a grip that hurt. her teeth were chattering with nervousness. "how _can_ you be so calm?" she gasped. "i've never seen him as devilish as he is to-night. if you hadn't kept your nerve we'd all have gone to smash. as it is, i have a temperature of a hundred and four!" i wondered what godfrey's temperature was. gibson had not told me. there must be a fever-chart in the sick-room. it seemed almost as if i could read it. certainly i could see the jagged peaks of it, the last point running off in a long wavering line of weakness. perhaps gibson knew what the temperature was. but when i returned to my seat in the orchestra gibson was no longer there. "open some of those windows," ordered "t. b.," irritably. "it's like a furnace in here." was that an ice-cap on godfrey's head? of course. the nurse was changing it for a fresh one. for a moment, the first in that endless night, i seemed to see his face, waxen, the sensitive nostrils pinched, the gray eyes open now and staring unseeingly into space. "no change," said gibson's voice. another period of time had dragged its way past me like a sluggish snake. "what o'clock?" i heard myself ask. gibson looked at his watch. "quarter of two," he told me, snapping the case shut. "i saw dr. weymarth just before i left." "what did he say?" gibson's eyes shifted from mine, which vainly tried to hold them. "no change," he repeated. "was that all?" gibson's eyes returned to mine for an instant and shifted again. "tell me," i insisted. "he's disappointed in the heart. it's been holding its own, though the temperature has been terrific from the first. but since midnight--" "yes, since midnight--" "it's not quite so strong." gibson's words came slowly, as if against his will. there was a strange silence over the theater. through it the voice of "t. b." ripped its way to us. "now we'll run through that scene again. and if the author and the ladies and gentlemen of the company will kindly remember that this is a rehearsal, and not an afternoon tea, perhaps we'll get somewhere." "billy," i whispered, "i can't bear it." "i know." gibson patted my hand. "sit tight," he murmured. "i'm off again. i'll be back in an hour or so. by then they ought to know." i watched him slip like a shadow through the dark house, along the wall, and back toward the stage-door. the voice of stella merrick was filling the theater. i heard my name. "miss iverson doesn't agree with me," she was saying, "but i think that in this scene, when we are reconciled and i say to my husband, 'my boy,' he ought to answer, 'my mumsey!'" "t. b.'s" reply sounded like a pistol-shot. "what for?" he exploded. "want to turn this play into a farce?" "certainly _not_!" "then follow the lines." it was the settlement for all time of an argument which miss merrick and i had waged for weeks. one scene at least, the final, vital scene, would be spared to me. i felt a throb of gratitude, followed by a sudden sick, indescribable sinking of the heart. had i for one instant forgotten? i remembered again. nothing mattered. nothing would ever matter. some one sat down beside me, smiled at me, then stared frankly. "good heaven, miss iverson, did i frighten you?" cried elman. "you look like a ghost!" before i could answer, "t. b." approached us both. leaning over elman, he nodded toward the youth who was still vainly trying to act like a gentleman. "get rid of him." "but we open in atlantic city to-morrow night--" began elman. "get rid of him." "t. b.'s" tones permitted no argument. "get rid of haskins, too, and of miss arnold." "but, great scott, governor--" elman's voice, usually so controlled, was almost a wail. "t. b." strolled away. to "open" the next night with three new members in the company seemed impossible. probably we wouldn't open at all. by to-morrow night i would know. godfrey would be out of danger, or godfrey would be--why didn't gibson come? elman murmured something to me about "not taking it so hard," but i caught only a few words. he said it could be done--that he had the right people at hand. he would see them the first thing in the morning, and go over the lines with them and have them word-perfect by night. my eyes were strained in the direction of the stage-door. my ears were awaiting the sound of gibson's quick footsteps. for now, i knew, in the sick-room, where my mind and heart had been all night, the crisis was near. through the open windows the blue-gray dawn was visible. the shaded lights were taking on a spectral pallor. nurse and doctors were close to the bed, watching, listening for the change that meant life or death. "good--mighty good!" whispered elman. on the stage miss merrick and peyton, the leading man, were going through their final scene. the familiar words, over which i had labored for months, came to me as if out of a life i had lived on some other planet ages back. "you seem so far away," said the man. "i feel as if i'd have to call across the world to make you hear me. but i love you. oh, harriet, can't you hear that?" the voice of his wife, who was forgiving him and taking him back, replied with the little break in its beautiful notes which stella merrick always gave to her answer. "yes, dear; i guess i'd hear that anywhere." and then, as she drew his head to her breast, "my boy!" within me something alive, suffering and struggling, cried out in sick revolt. what did these puppets know about love? what had i known about it when i wrote so arrogantly? but i knew now. oh yes, i knew now. love and suspense and agony--i knew them all. on the dim stage the leading man and woman melted into the embrace that accompanied the slow fall of the curtain. in the wings, but well in view, the members of the company clustered, watching the final scene and wiping their wet eyes. they invariably cried over that scene, partly because the leading man and woman set the example, but more because they were temperamental and tired. even the brilliant eyes of elman, who still sat beside me, took on a sudden softness. he smiled at "t. b.," who had dropped into a seat near us. "no change there, i guess," he hazarded. "t. b." looked at his watch. "quarter of four," he said, with surprise. then he yawned, and, rising, reached for his light overcoat which lay on the back of a chair. "that's all," he called, as he struggled into it. "boyce, study your lines to-morrow, or you're going to have trouble. peyton, you and miss mason better go over that scene in the second act in the morning. so-long, miss merrick." he started to go, then stopped at my seat. "good night, miss iverson," he said, kindly. "you've got the right nerve for this business. of course we can't make predictions, but i shouldn't wonder if we're giving the public what they want in this play." he nodded and was gone. i had barely caught his words. over his big shoulders i saw gibson approaching, his face one wide, expansive grin. never before had anything seemed so beautiful to me as that familiar gibson smile. never had i dreamed i could be so rapturously happy in seeing it. "good news," he said, as soon as he came within speaking-distance; and he added when he reached me, "he's better. the doctors say they'll pull him through." at the first glimpse of him i had risen to my feet with some vague impulse to take, standing, whatever was coming. for a moment i stood quite still. then the thing of horror that had ridden me through the night loosened its grip slowly, reluctantly, and i drew a deep, deep breath. i wanted to throw myself in gibson's arms. i wanted to laugh, to cry, to shout. but i did none of these things. i merely stood and looked at him till he took my hand and drew it through his arm. "rehearsal's over, i see," he said. "i'm going to hunt up a taxi and take you home." together we went out into the gray morning light, and i stood on the curb, full-lunged, ecstatic, until gibson and the taxi-cab appeared. he helped me into the cab and took the seat beside me. "you ought to go home," i murmured, with sudden compunction. "you must be horribly tired." they were my first words. i had made no comment on the message he brought, and it was clear that he had expected none. now he smiled at me--the wide, kind, understanding smile that had warmed the five years of our friendship. "let me do this much for you, may," he said. "you see, it's all i can do." our eyes met, and suddenly i understood. an irrepressible cry broke from me. "oh, billy," i said. "not _you_! not _me_!" he smiled again. "yes," he replied. "just that. just you and me. but it's all right. i'd rather be your friend than the husband of any other woman in the world." the taxi-cab hummed on its way. the east reddened, then sent up a flaming banner of light. i should have been tired; i should have been hungry; i should, perhaps, have been excited over "t. b.'s" final words. i was none of those things. i was merely in a state of supreme content. nothing mattered but the one thing in life which mattered supremely. godfrey was better; godfrey would live! xii the rise of the curtain on the desk in my study the bell of the telephone sounded a faint warning, then rang compellingly. it had been ringing thus at five-minute intervals throughout the day, but there was neither impatience nor weariness in the haste with which i responded. i knew what was coming; it was the same thing that had been coming since nine o'clock that morning; and it was a pleasant sort of thing, diverting to an exceedingly anxious mind. "hello, hello! is that you, may? this is your awe-struck friend, george morgan. josephine and i want to inquire the condition of your temperature and your pulse." i laughed. "quite normal, thank you," i said. "don't believe it." the sympathetic cadence of george morgan's voice removed all effect of brusqueness from his words. "no playwright was ever normal three hours before the curtain went up on the first night of her play in new york. now i'll tell you exactly how you feel." "don't," i begged. "i _know_." "but i must!" my friend's remorseless voice went on. "i've got to show my insight into the human heart, as you used to say in your convent days. so here goes. you're sinking into a bottomless pit; you're in a blue funk; your feet are cold and your head is hot; you're breathing with difficulty; you're struggling with a desire to take the first train out of town; you're wondering if you can't go to bed and stay there. you think no one suspects these things, for you're wearing a smile that looks as if it had been tacked on; but it's so painful that your father and mother keep their eyes turned away from it. you're--" "george, for heaven's sake--" "oh, all right; i merely wanted to show insight and express sympathy. having lived through four 'first nights' myself, i know what they mean. and say, may,"--his gay voice took on a deeper note--"i needn't tell you that josephine and i will be going through the whole thing with you. we've chosen seats in the fifth row of the orchestra, instead of taking a box, because we both expect to burst into loud sobs of joy during your speech, and we'll feel less exposed down on the floor. and, oh yes, wait a minute; your god-daughter insists on kissing you through the telephone!" there was an instance's silence; then the breathless little voice of maria annunciata morgan, aged "four 'n a half, mos' five," according to herself, came to my ear. "'lo, may, oh-h, may, 'lo, may," it gurgled, excitedly. "hello, babykins," i said. "is that a new song you've learned that you're singing for me?" "no-o-o." maria annunciata's tones showed her scorn for grown-up denseness. "i was just 'ginning my conversation," she added, with dignity. i apologized. "an' papa says," went on the adorable childish treble, "'at if your play lasses till a mat'née, i--can--go--an'--see--it!" "bless your heart, so you shall, my baby," i laughed. "and if the play lasses only a few minutes, i'll give you a 'mat'née' all by yourself. where's that kiss i was to have? i need it very much." "here 'tis. here's fourteen an' 'leven." they came to me over the wire in a succession of reports like the popping of tiny corks. "an' papa says say good-by now, so i mus'. but i love you _very_ mush!" "good-by, darling. i love you very mush, too." i turned from the telephone wonderfully cheered by the little talk, but almost before i had hung up the receiver the bell rang again. "hello, may. if you've finished that impassioned love scene with which you have kept the wire sizzling for the last half-hour i'd like to utter a few calming words." bayard, a brilliantly successful playwright, was talking. "feel as if you were being boiled in oil, don't you?" was his cheery beginning. "feel as if you were being burned at the stake? feel as if you were being butchered to make a roman holiday, and all that kind of thing? but it's nothing to the way you're going to feel as you drive to the theater and as you watch the curtain go up. however, keep a stiff upper lip. margaret and i will be in front, and margaret says you can have my chest to cry on immediately after the performance. good luck. good-by." again, before i had left the room, the telephone bell recalled me. it had been like this all day. i had begun to believe that it would always be like this. life had resolved itself into a series of telephone talks, running through a strenuous but not unpleasant dream. every friend i had seemed determined to call me up and alternate rosy good wishes with dark forebodings of disasters possible through no fault of mine. the voice that came to me now was that of arthur locke, the best actor and the most charming gentleman on the american stage. "good luck, miss iverson," he said, heartily. "i don't need to tell you all my wife and i wish for you. but i want to give you a word of warning about the critics. don't let anything they do to-night disturb you. they've all got their bag of tricks, you know, and they go through them whether they like the play or not. for example"--his beautiful voice took on a delicious quality of sympathetic amusement--"haskins usually drops off to sleep about the middle of the second act. the audience is always immensely impressed by this, and men and women exchange glances and hushed comments over it. but it doesn't mean anything. he wakes up again. he slept through my entire second act last year, and gave me an excellent notice the next morning--to show his gratitude, i suppose. allen usually leaves during the middle of the third act, gathering up his overcoat with a weary sigh and marching down the middle aisle so that no one can miss his dramatic exit. people are so used to it that they don't mind it much. northrup sits with his eyebrows up in his pompadour, as if pained beyond expression by the whole performance, and elkins will take all your best comedy with sad, sad shakes of the head. to equalize this, however, webster will grin over your pathetic scenes. the best thing to do is not to look at any of them. you know where their seats are, don't you? keep your eyes the other way." "thank you," i said, faintly. "i think i will." beyond question mr. locke's intentions had been friendly, but his words had not perceptibly soothed my uneasy nerves. before i walked from my study into my living-room i stopped a moment to straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath. my entire family had come on from the west to attend the first-night performance of my play in new york--my father, my sister grace, my brother jack, now a lieutenant in the army, even my delicate mother, to whom journeys and excitement were not among life's usual privileges. they were, i knew, having tea together, and as i opened the living-room door i found my features taking on the stiff and artificial smile i must have unconsciously worn all day. a saving memory of george morgan's words came to me in time, and i banished the smile and soberly entered the room. the members of the familiar group greeted me characteristically. my mother, by whose chair i stopped for an instant, smiled up at me in silence, patting my hand. my father drew a deep, inviting chair close to the open fire; my brother brought me the cup of tea my sister hurriedly prepared. each beloved face wore a look of acute nervous strain, and from the moment of my entrance every one talked at once, on subjects so remote from the drama that it seemed almost improper to introduce it by repeating the telephone conversations i had just had. i did so, however, and in the midst of the badinage that followed, stella merrick, our "star," was announced. she lived across the square from me, and she promptly explained as she drank her tea that she had been "too nervous to stay at home." for her comfort i repeated again the pregnant words of mr. locke concerning the new york critics, and she nodded in depressed confirmation. during the close association required by our rehearsals, and our months together "on the road," i had not analyzed to my satisfaction the contradictions of miss merrick's temperament. she loved every line of my play and was admirable, if not ideal, in the leading rôle. she fiercely resented the slightest suggestion from me, and combated almost every change i wished to make in the text as my work revealed itself to me more clearly during rehearsals and performances. she seemed to have a genuine fondness for me and a singular personal dependence. she was uneasy if i missed a rehearsal, and had been almost panic-stricken when once or twice during our preliminary tour i had missed a first night in an important city. she claimed the credit of all merit in the play and freely passed on to me the criticisms. the slightest suggestion made by the "cub reporter" on any newspaper or the call-boy in any theater seemed to have more weight with her than any advice of mine. to-day, under the soothing influence of tea, fire-light, and the not too stimulating charms of family conversation, we could see her tense nerves relax. "i've been working mentally on the critics," she confessed, as she passed her cup to grace for the second time. "they're the only persons i've been afraid of here in new york. i know we'll get our audience. we always do. and if miss iverson will stand by us, and make a speech when she's called for, we're sure to have a brilliant night." she smiled her charming smile at me. "but the new york critics are enough to appal the strongest soul," she went on. "they're so unjust sometimes, so merciless, so fiendishly clever in suggesting labels that stick to one through life. do you remember what they said about miss carew--that her play was so feminine she must have done it with crochet needles? and they said nazimova looked like 'the cussed damosel,' and that fairbanks had the figure of romeo and the face of the apothecary. those things appal me. so for the last few days i've been working on them mentally. i believe in mental science, you know." she paused for a moment and sat stirring her tea, a reflective haze over the brilliance of her blue eyes. "some way," she resumed, "in the forty-eight hours since i've been trying the power of mind on them i have ceased to be afraid of the critics. i realize now that they cannot hurt us or our work. i know they are our friends. i have a wonderfully kind feeling for them. why,"--her voice took on a seductive tenderness, her eyes dwelt on the fire with a dreamy abstraction in their depths--"now i almost love the damned things!" she ended, peacefully. my brother jack choked, then laughed irrepressibly. my sister and i joined him. but my mother was staring at miss merrick with startled eyes, while miss merrick stared back at her with a face full of sudden consternation. "mrs. iverson," she gasped, "i beg your pardon! i didn't know what i was saying. i was--really--thinking aloud!" half an hour later i went with her to the elevator for a final word. "i'm going straight to the theater," she told me. "be early, won't you? and come in to see me for a moment just before we begin." she took my hands in a grip that hurt. "we're going to win," she said, as she entered the elevator. it was almost six. i had barely time to dress, to dine comfortably, and to get to the theater before the curtain rose. at every stage of my toilet the inexorable telephone called me; telegrams, too, were coming from all parts of the country. my heart swelled. whether i proved to be a playwright or not, i had friends--many of them new ones, made during the progress of this dramatic adventure. they would not be too dearly bought, it seemed to me then, even by failure. dinner began as a silent meal. no one cared to talk. i recalled with a sardonic smile the invitation of a society friend who had bought three boxes for my first night and was giving a large dinner to precede the play. she had expected me to grace that function and to sit in one of her boxes; and she would never understand, i knew, why i refused to do so. godfrey morris was coming at half after seven, with much pomp and his new limousine, to take us to the theater. his mother and sister were giving a box-party, but godfrey was to sit with us in the body of the house. i had frankly refused to have even him join us at dinner. four pairs of eyes fixed on me with loving sympathy during that repast were, i realized, all i could endure. even godfrey's understanding gaze would be the one thing too much--because it was so understanding. at the table the first few remarks of the family dropped and lay like visible, neglected things before us. then grace and jack entered upon a discussion which they succeeded in making animated, and in which it was not necessary that i should take part. it gave me an opportunity to swallow naturally, to try to control the queer fluttering of my heart and the sense of faintness, almost of nausea, that threatened to overcome me. when i went to my room to put on my evening coat i looked at myself in the long mirror that paneled the door. to my relief, i looked quite natural--pale, beyond question, but i never had much color. of the iciness and rigidity of my hands and feet, of the panic that shook the very soul of me, no one but myself need know. i greeted godfrey with both hands outstretched and a real smile. i had seen him only once before since his return three days ago from palm beach, where he had gone for his convalescence after his attack of pneumonia. he had come back for my first night--he had made that very clear--and for a blessed instant my panic vanished in the comfort of his presence, of the sure grasp of his firm hands, the look in his gray eyes. in the next instant it returned with cumulative force. i could bear failure alone if i had to. others, many others, had borne it before me, and there was always the future in which one could try again. i could bear it before my family, for they would never believe that the fault of failure was mine; or before the eyes of all my friends, for the theater would be full of them. but to bear it in the presence of godfrey, to have him see me fail--no, that was unthinkable. i had reached the point where i must set my teeth, take my nerves and my imagination in hand, and control them as i had once controlled a team of frantic horses plunging toward a river-bank. "a good deal like being executed in the public square, isn't it?" asked godfrey, gently. we were on our way up-town, and now over the whole party a sudden silence fell. the illuminated sign of the big broadway theater was before us: the name of my play and that of our "star" stared at us in letters of fire that took strange shapes before my eyes. my own name modestly adorned the tablet on each side of the entrance and the bill-boards in the lobby. the latter, when we entered it, was banked with flowers. we were early, but the theater was filling rapidly, and the usual throng of "first-nighters," equally ready for an execution or a triumph, chatted on the sidewalk and thronged the entrance. the house manager, his coat adorned with a white carnation, greeted me as we passed in. "good luck, miss iverson," he said, cordially. "lots of telegrams here for you. wait, i'll get them. here, fred, let's have miss iverson's telegrams." he checked the line at the box-office, thrust a hand through the little window, and drew it out with a thick package of the yellow envelopes. godfrey held out his hand. "i'll take care of them, if you wish," he said, and as i nodded he dropped them into a pocket of his coat. in silence we filed down the aisle to our seats. the boxes were already filled; the body of the house filled as we watched it. on every side were faces i knew and loved--mrs. morris and grace with colonel and mrs. cartwell and mr. and mrs. nestor hurd; the morgans, with kittie james and maudie joyce, who had come from chicago for this big night in my life; my friend of the rejected dinner and her brilliantly jeweled guests; a deputation from the _searchlight_ and my magazine offices, which, it seemed to me, filled half the house. mollie merk was there, and billy gibson and mrs. hoppen. the occasion had the atmosphere of a reception. every one knew every one else; friends chatted with each other across the aisles and visited from seat to seat. a few came to greet me. the majority mercifully waited, knowing i would wish them to wait. godfrey, sitting beside me, opened my program and found the evening bill. as he did so i saw that his hand shook. he followed the direction of my eyes, and his brown cheeks flushed. "i won't deny it," he whispered. "i'm as excited as you are; probably more so." our eyes met. for a moment i almost forgot where we were--almost, but not quite. then godfrey went on. "but i'm not going to tell you about that now," he said, quietly. "now i'm thinking of nothing but the play." i rose hurriedly. "i'm afraid i'm not," i admitted. "i forgot to go to miss merrick as i promised." he rose and went with me. from our places at the end of the left-side aisle it was easy to slip back of the boxes and behind the scenes. godfrey waited in the wings while i tapped at the door of miss merrick's dressing-room and entered. the place seemed very full. elman, the stage director, was in the group that surrounded the star, and peyton, our leading man, the latter dressed for his entrance. both came forward at once to shake hands. miss merrick, her eyes on the mirror, following the last touches of her make-up, smiled at me without turning. she was pale under her rouge, and her eyes seemed twice their usual size, but they brightened as she saw me. "i'm not going to say a word," i told her. "you know how i feel." it was clear that she hardly heard me. "look at all these," she said. "everybody's awfully kind." she waved her hand, indicating the masses of flowers around her, the litter of telegrams and notes. "i'm actually frozen with fear," she went on. "but i always am. it will pass off soon after we begin. am i speaking in my usual voice? it sounds like a whisper to me." i reassured her and slipped away. elman, peyton, and her maid closed round her again. i heard her describing her symptoms in detail as i closed the door. i recognized them. they were also mine. the theater was dark and the curtain just rising as godfrey and i returned to our seats. i was deeply thankful for the gloom that enveloped me. my mother, sitting at my right, reached out gently and took my hand, but i was hardly conscious of the action. for the moment there was nothing in the world but the lighted stage on which my familiar characters, my "dea', dea' dollies," as maria annunciata called them, were going through their parts. the house was very still. every head in the great audience was turned toward the stage, politely attentive, willing to be interested, waiting to know if interest was there. a moment dragged by, another and another--the longest of my life except the moments of the night, three months ago, when i had awaited news from godfrey's sick-room. and now he was here beside me, superbly well, wholly himself again. at the thought my heart melted. my mind swerved for a second from the interest on which it was focused. i turned and glanced at him. he was leaning forward in his seat, his gray eyes fixed unwinkingly on the stage, his face pale under its coat of palm beach tan. for an instant he did not know that i was glancing at him; then he turned, and our eyes met in a look which taught me that of all in the crowded house he understood best what this hour meant to me, because it meant as much to him. it was as if we thought with one mind, responded with one nervous system to the influence around us. at the back of the house a little ripple began, grew, swelled into a laugh. i drew my first deep breath, and felt it echoed by godfrey at my side. again our eyes met. his sparkled in the dimness. another laugh rippled around us, swelled, reached the balconies, and rolled down from there. i heard the whisper of silk and the creak of seats as the members of my family at last settled comfortably into their seats. "by jove," whispered godfrey, "you've got them! they're with you!" for the time at least we had them. the big, kindly-disposed audience, anxious to be pleased, met every comedy line with a quick response which grew more generous as the moments passed. the entrance of the star brought an ovation which temporarily checked the progress of the play. under it miss merrick's brilliant eyes lost their look of strain. she touched her highest moments in the pathos of her entrance scene. the audience was again very quiet. around us handkerchiefs rustled; godfrey's eyes, meeting mine, were wet, and my heart turned to water as i looked at them. that he should be moved like that by my play--no, by _our_ play. everything, i knew, was _ours_ henceforth. the curtain went down and the lights flared up. the audience had been amused, interested, touched. it called out the players and called them out again, while the curtain rose and fell, rose and fell, and the members of the company, smiling now and with all their panic gone, came before the footlights singly and in groups. so far all was well. whatever happened later, we had had a triumphant first act. already the play was a third over. i had no fears now as to the success of the second act. it was almost wholly comedy, and the comedy had "got over" with a rush. but the third act--i was by no means sure of the third act, where our manager's scene of hysteria, the fatal scene he had introduced during the dress rehearsal, still claimed its deadly moments. my friends were coming up to greet me--george morgan, bayard, a dozen of them, congratulatory, jubilant. "josephine can't cross the house yet to speak to you herself," explained george, airily, "because her nose isn't fit to be seen. she's crying for joy over there. she'll get around after the next act." "you've got 'em," said bayard, heartily. "they're _eating_ your comedy and spoiling their complexions over your pathos. what more do you want? shall i call for the author now, or wait till the end of the second act?" my mother's gentle voice was in my ear. "i'm so very happy, dear," she said, quietly. i looked at my father. the nod he gave me, the expression in his eyes, were the most beautiful things i had ever seen, except the tears in godfrey's eyes. except--was it possible that at last i was putting some one else before my father? it was possible. it was more than possible; it was certain. for godfrey himself was speaking now, and nothing else had given me the thrill that came at the sound of the quiet voice so close to my ear. "may," he whispered. "dear may, i'm so glad!" that was all, but it was gloriously complete. and now the second act was on, with the rollicking comedy of which i felt so sure. around us the audience rocked and laughed, breaking out frequently into little whirlwinds of applause. the strain of rehearsals had had its effect on my feeling for various members of the company, but to-night as i watched them it seemed to me that i loved them all, for beyond doubt each was giving all that was in him toward the winning of the success that now seemed assured. "your hand is cold even through your glove," whispered godfrey. "that's the only sign you show of nervousness." in the darkness he was holding it close. "it's wonderful to be going through this with you," he whispered. "it was wonderful of you to come back for it," i said. he laughed, a little laugh of warm content. "do you think i could have kept away?" he asked. i could not answer. the night was giving me too much. the curtain was coming down, only to rise again and again and again as the house let itself loose in the joyful tumult of friendly hearts that can at last let friendly impulse have its way. again and again the golden head of stella merrick bent before the storm of applause that greeted her repeated appearance. again and again the members of the company responded, singly and together. again and again the light flashed up, only to be lowered as the uproar continued. and now they were calling for the author in an insistent, steady call, from gallery, balcony, and orchestra--a call that tolerated no failure to respond. my knees shook under me as i rose. to walk the length of the house and out on that empty, waiting stage seemed impossible, but perhaps i could say something here, standing in my place. for a second i stood undiscovered; then, as if on a concerted signal, every head in the house turned toward me. there was a whirl of greeting, of applause, which my loyal friends led and prolonged. "speech! speech! speech!" the word came at me from every corner of the theater. my knees steadied. my voice, as i began, sounded natural, even casual. it seemed all at once the simplest matter in the world to say a few words to this wonderful audience, so receptive, so enthusiastic, so friendly. "ladies and gentlemen," i began. "i shall not try to make a speech. no author should attempt that on a first night. many are called, and some get up, but very few get over." i had to stop. these charming people thought that remark was amusing, too, and joyfully applauded it. "but i am glad of this opportunity," i continued, "to express my deep obligation to our manager, to miss merrick, and to the members of the company for all they have done for my play. and in their behalf first, and then in my own, i thank you for the wonderful reception you have given us." that was all. there was more applause. the lights flashed up, and from every part of the theater the men and women i knew came to me for a few friendly words. the reception took in my little family party and mr. morris, whose presence among us seemed to interest but not to surprise the big delegation from the _searchlight_. "now," i whispered to him, as the curtain rose on the third act, "if only everything goes well for half an hour more! but the least little thing can wreck an act. if some one sneezes--" "if any one sneezes during this act," whispered godfrey, firmly, "he'll never sneeze again." "perhaps a cat will run across the stage," i whispered, "or some one in the audience will see a mouse." godfrey shook his head. "this isn't that kind of an evening," he declared. "the gods are giving their personal attention to it." it seemed, indeed, that they were. the act went on as smoothly as silk thread running through a shuttle. we had a few additional moments of celebration at the end of it, when the curtain fell on an audience that wiped its eyes over the penultimate line even while it laughed over the last line. i went "behind" for a word of appreciation to miss merrick and the company before i left the theater. the great bulk of "t. b.," our manager, loomed huge in the star's dressing-room. "hello, miss iverson!" was his jocund greeting. "you can't always go by the enthusiasm of a first-night audience, but i guess we've got a play here that will run a year or two." he shook hands, said something to miss merrick about photographs in the morning, and swung away. miss merrick, emotional, almost hysterical, fell upon my neck and kissed me with lips that left round red spots on my cheeks. every one was happy. at the front entrance some of my friends were waiting. there was still one thing i wanted, had to have, indeed, and i got it after i had torn open half a dozen of my telegrams. our love, dear may, and our prayers for your success. sister irmingarde. i handed the message to maudie and kittie, who were with me. they had both been crying; their eyes moistened again. "who would have thought all this could happen, when we were school-girls at st. catharine's!" whispered maudie. "do you remember your first play, may--the one we girls put on?" i remembered. i could laugh at that tragedy now. i heard godfrey's voice speaking with a sudden masterfulness. "if you don't mind," he was saying to my father, "i'll send you home in my car and take may for a little spin in the park in a taxi-cab. i think she needs half an hour of quiet and fresh air." my father smiled at him. "i think she does," he agreed. there were more congratulations, more hand-shaking, before i could get away. then i found myself with godfrey in a taxi-cab which was making its purring way up fifth avenue. it was strangely restful to be alone with him after the strain and excitement of the past three hours. i closed my eyes and leaned back against the cushions, my mind at first a whirling kaleidoscope in which the scenes of the evening repeated themselves over and over. then, in the darkness and the silence, they began to disappear. suddenly there seemed nothing in the world but godfrey and me. he had leaned forward and taken my hand. we had entered the park and were slipping along an avenue of awake and watchful trees. "well, may," he said, gently. my heart slipped a beat. there was a new quality in the voice which throbbed and shook a little. "i've waited almost five years," he went on. "isn't that long enough? won't you come to me now?" he held out his arms in the dark cab, and i entered them. from their wonderful shelter i heard his next words. "marrying me," he said, "won't mean that you're giving up anything you have. you are only adding me to it. i shall be as much interested in your books and your plays as you are yourself. you know that, don't you?" but i interrupted him. in that moment books and plays seemed like the snows of yesteryear. "godfrey," i said, "do you imagine that i'm thinking of books and plays now? let's talk about the real things." the taxi-cab sang on its way. the trees that lined the broad drive of the park raced beside us, keeping us company. far above them a tiny new moon smiled down. my professional life, like the lights of the avenue, lay behind me. little in it seemed to count in the new world i was entering. until to-night i had been merely a player waiting in the wings. now, out in front, i heard the orchestra playing. the curtain of life was going up, and i had my cue in godfrey's voice. the end the mind digger by winston marks [transcriber note: this etext was produced from imagination stories of science and fantasy april . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [sidenote: there was a reason why his scripts were smash hits--they had realism. and why not? he was reliving every scene and emotion in them!] it was really a pretty fair script, and it caught me at a moment when every playwright worth his salt was playing in france, prostituting in hollywood or sulking in a slump. i needed a play badly, so i told ellie to get this unknown up to my office and have a contract ready. when she announced him on the inter-com, my door banged open and a youngster in blue-jeans, sweatshirt and a stubbly crew-cut popped in like a carelessly aimed champagne cork. i said, "i'm sorry, son, but i have an interview right now. besides we aren't casting yet. come back in a couple of weeks." his grin never faltered, being of the more durable kind that you find on farms and west of the rockies. his ragged sneakers padded across my persian, and i thought he was going to spring over my desk like a losing tennis player. "i'm your interview," he announced. "at least i'm hillary hardy, and your girl just told me you'd see me." "you--are hillary hardy?" "in the morbid flesh," he said jamming out five enthusiastic fingers that gulped my hand and jack-hammered until i broke his grip with a red-cross life-saving hold. "spare the meat," i groaned. "i have to sign the contract, too." "i did it! i did it! they said i was crazy, but i did it the first time." "did what?" "sold the first play i wrote." "this--is--your first work?" "my very first," he said, splitting his freckles with a double row of white teeth a yard wide. "they said i'd have to go to college, and then i'd have to write a million words before i'd produce anything worthwhile." if he hadn't owned such an honest, open face i'd have thrown him out as an imposter right then. the ream of neatly typed pages on my desk would have fooled any agent, editor or producer like myself, on broadway. the format was professional, the plot carefully constructed, the dialogue breezy as a may afternoon in chicago and the motivation solidly adult. "how old are you?" i asked. "nineteen." "and you'll sign an affidavit that you wrote this play, and it's an original work?" "certainly!" the smile faded a little. "look, mr. crocker, you're not just kidding about this contract, are you? is the play really okay?" "that," i said trying to restrain my own enthusiasm, "is only determined on the boards. but i'm willing to risk a thousand-dollar advance on your signature to this." i shoved the papers at him with my fountain pen on top. he didn't uncap the pen until he had read the whole thing, and while he pored over the fine print i had time to catch my breath. his play competed rather well with the high average output of most professionals i knew--not exactly terrific, but a relatively safe gamble, as gambles go on the street of bright lights. well, i made a mental note to pass the script around a bit before i signed the contract myself. after all, he might have cribbed the whole thing somewhere. he finished reading, signed the contract and handed it back to me with an air of expectancy. i stalled, "i, uh, will have the check for you in a few days. meanwhile, you'd better get yourself an agent and an attorney and fix up that affidavit of authorship. normally, i don't deal with free-lance playwrights, you see." "but i don't need any agent," he protested. "you be my agent, mr. crocker--" he was studying my reaction, and after a moment he said, "you still don't quite believe that i wrote _updraft_, do you, sir? now that you've met me you want more time to check up, don't you?" i said, "frankly, yes, hardy. _updraft_ is a mature piece of writing, and unless you are a genius--well, it's just business son." "i don't blame you," he said smiling that fresh-air smile. "and i'll admit i'm no genius, but i can explain everything. you see, i've read books on how to write plays--" "tut!" i said. "format technique is just a fraction of producing an appealing play." "perhaps," he admitted. "but _i've memorized all books_. what's more, i've been reading and memorizing plays, novels, poetry and history since i was . i have a storehouse of--" "memorizing?" "yes, sir. i'm a student of _mnemonics_, you know, the art of memory perfection. my real ambition is to develop absolute recall. all my reading and memorizing have been just exercises to expand my power of complete recall." "you mean that playwriting is just a hobby?" "not--exactly. i need money, lots of it, to continue my research. psychiatrists come high." well, i suppose good plays have been written for screwier reasons, and i was in no mood to look a gift-author in the mouth. i did pass _updraft_ around to a brace of critics, and none of them could hang a plagiarism charge on hardy. so i wrote out his check and started the wheels going on the production. the boy prodigy dropped out of sight for the time being, taking no further interest in his brain-child. _updraft_ did all right in the sticks, but it was when we opened on broadway that it began to coin money. * * * * * in ten performances we were playing to capacity crowds, and within a month we had to take in the s. r. o. sign. a lucky hit? i thought so at the time. _updraft_ had a dash of humor, a bit of adventure, a dollop of romance and a gentle little heart tug at the conclusion, but damned if the critics could put their fingers on its money-making essence. they gave it pleasant little reviews and mild compliments, but no more. the cash customers, however, came and kept coming and _kept coming_! the morning after the th performance i told ellie to hunt up hardy and see what he was doing about another play. i could stand to have another hit ready when _updraft_ petered out. that afternoon my secretary reported, "he's in a sanitarium over in hoboken." "nuts! i knew we should have held back on his royalties," i exclaimed. "i suppose he's drunk himself into a--" "it's a mental hospital," ellie said, "but mr. hardy told me he is just there for some experimental psycho-therapy. he sounded quite normal and cheerful." hillary hardy showed up next morning at my request, and he did, indeed, appear in good spirits. i demanded, "what's this business of locking yourself up in a looney-bin? don't you realize that's bad public relations?" he chuckled. "i thought of that. so i'm going under an assumed name. your girl said you had something very important to tell me." "sure. i want another play," i told him. "_updraft_ won't run forever, you know." "oh, i have plenty of money now, so i won't have to bother. the people at the sanitarium have become interested in my project, and all i'm spending is board and room there. thanks to your royalty checks i've got quite a pile in the bank." "won't have to bother?" i yelled. "here i launch you on broadway, and that's all the gratitude i get. now's the time to cash in on the reputation of your first play. it's setting attendance records." "sorry, mr. crocker," he said. "i'm in a critical stage of my experiments. i just can't afford the time at the moment." "experiments! experiments! what is this business?" he brightened. "would you believe it? i've contacted memories back to three months after my birth. and at this rate i'll reach birth itself within a few weeks." i shuddered. what a nasty ambition! "what's the percentage?" "you don't understand," he said warming to his subject. "the further back i go the more nearly i approach total recall. at present i can contact any memory in my experience back to six months, day by day, minute by minute. i can run off these memories like colored movies, recalling every sight, sound, smell, feel and taste." "so what happened earlier than six months that's so important?" "probably nothing of great interest," hardy granted, "but the further back i go, the more intense is the reality of all my memories. for instance, right now i can return to the day, hour, minute and second i went to school for the first time. i can remember the look on the teacher's face and hear the screams of twenty-six kindergarten kids. i can smell the freshly oiled floors and the newly painted walls. i can feel the wart on my mother's finger, the one i was holding onto for dear life." the almost fanatic glow in his eager, young face impressed me. realism of memory! could that be the essence of his successful first play? did his down-to-earth touch account for _updraft's_ surprising audience appeal? i pleaded, "don't let me down now, hillary. i gambled thousands of dollars on your first play. if you can repeat we'll both enjoy an even better pay-off. besides, have you looked into what your taxes will be?" "taxes? no, i really haven't, but i'm sure i have enough to last another year. sorry, mr. crocker. maybe later, but right at the moment--" his broad-shouldered, lean athletic form drifted through my door and was gone. two weeks later _parodisiac_ arrived, typed on fools-cap, uncorrected, with pencil notations and coffee-spots on it, but it was by-lined, "hillary hardy," and after a single, quick scanning i was overjoyed to pay the expense of transcribing it to more durable paper. the play was powerful, witty and emotion-stirring. it was a work of art. and on the last page was scribbled in the border: "i looked into my tax bill, and found you were right. i'm almost broke after uncle sam takes his cut, so here is the play you asked for. hope you like it. (signed) h. h." there was a p.s. "expect to hit _birth_ this week." when i phoned him at the sanitarium, asking for sam buckle, the name he had left originally with ellie, he refused to come to the phone. so i wired him. "quit worrying about taxes. i accept your earlier offer to be your agent as well as producer. good luck on your experiments." _parodisiac_ was much too good to hold for the closing of _updraft_. indeed, the first play was showing no signs of weakening, so i began rounding up talent outside the original cast. this was a cinch. meredith crawley finished act i, scene i, and accepted the male lead without turning another page. so did alicia pennington, even though it meant giving up a personal appearance tour to publicize her latest hollywood release that was supposed to win her an oscar. not that i had to go after talent like this to put _parodisiac_ across. it was so potent i believe i could have made it a hit with a cast out of a burleycue revue. the season was getting late, so i did the unthinkable. i cut normal rehearsal time in half and slammed it at the big town without even a trial run in the back-country. nobody connected with the show objected--not even hec blankenship, my publicity manager. in fact it was he who suggested the sleeper treatment. with nothing more than last-minute newspaper notices we opened the box-office to a completely uninformed public, and did it knock the critics for a loop! only a couple showed up for the first performance, along with less than a third-full house of casual first-nighters. * * * * * people wandered out stunned. a substitute drama-critic from the _times_ looked me up after the show, and there were tears of gratitude in his eyes. "my review of this play will establish my reputation," he told me. "if the boss had had any notion of what you were pulling, he'd have been here himself. but what about the author? i thought you were going to have to call the police when you failed to produce the author." * * * * * it had been rough. the skimpy crowd had milled about for a half hour screaming "author, author!" meanwhile, i was too choked up after the last heart-wrenching scene to get up and make a speech. everything had gone perfectly. even the brief rehearsal time failed to leave any rough edges. crawley and pennington were so carried away with their parts that they easily doubled their considerable dramatic stature that first performance. the supporting cast caught fire, too, and, well--the likes of it is rarely seen anywhere. the lines seemed to come out of the actors' hearts, not their mouths. cue-lines blended with the dialogue interplay, the artificiality of stage-sets, costumery and make-up disappeared, and the simple, yet profound drama unreeled like a bolt of vividly printed silk, flowing smoothly, strongly, absorbingly to the tragic-comical climax that left the emotions reeling from the suspense and warm with relief. two days later i looked at the figures on advance ticket sales and could find only one conceivable complaint. _parodisiac_ would make hillary hardy so much money that not even taxes could force him to produce another for a great while. what promised to be a major irritation, fending off the press from hardy and protecting his anonymity, was converted into a master publicity-stroke by hec blankenship. he swore the few of us who knew about hardy's youth and whereabouts, to complete secrecy, then he proceeded to build his publicity around the "mystery-author." "but he's got a past!" i objected when hec first presented the scheme. "old friends and relatives will spill the beans." "have you really looked into hillary's past?" hec asked. i confessed i hadn't. hec said that he had. it developed that hillary hardy was not our boy's real name. in his passion for anonymity he had been changing his name every time he changed locations, which was often. hec had traced his background through three moves that brought the author across the country, but the trail petered out at a ranch in wyoming where hillary had worked a month as a cow-hand. the mystery-author gag worked. inside of two weeks our promotion expense dwindled to almost nothing. columnists were fighting for the privilege of pouring out free copy on both plays. some of their speculations as to hardy's real identity were pretty fabulous--winston churchill, noel coward and even a certain, witty ex-presidential candidate for the democratic party--but no one found him out, and the advance sellout began gaining a week every day. now, i have made and lost my share of theater fortunes, and i have learned a certain caution. at the moment i was quite content to ride with my two smash-hits and leave hardy to his experiments. strangely, it was he who called upon me for action. a month after launching _parodisiac_ he showed up at my office, looking leaner and more intense than ever. his crew-cut was growing out, but it was from neglect rather than a sudden artistic temperament, i was sure. after locking the doors and cancelling my morning appointments, i said, "well, golden boy, what brings you to civilization?" his smile was still strong and warm, but it was no longer youthful. there was a look of deep wisdom in his blue eyes that finally justified the magnificent play he had written. "money," he answered briefly. "haven't my checks been reaching you?" i asked in amazement. "oh, yes. very gratifying," he said pacing a groove in the deep carpet pile. "but i'm moving into prenatal memory now, and i accomplished it by administrations of a new b vitamin derivative. i have a staff of biochemists working for me producing this substance, but it's fearfully expensive. i need more of it, larger lab facilities to produce it secretly. i want to buy the sanitarium." "buy the--" "lock, stock and personnel," he nodded. "i'm three months before birth, already. my goal is conception." a big, brassy gong chimed in my brain. "that sounds like this _dianetics_ business that was going the rounds awhile back." hardy nodded. "in some respects, yes. but i have a single goal, total recall, and i'm taking a more comprehensive approach. psycho-therapy helped a great deal, but i have traced-out every angle of mnemonics, improved on most and invented some new ones. the final problem is one of improving synaptic potentials and actual tissue tone in the brain. biochemistry is giving me the answers. with enough of the new b vitamin derivative i'm confident i can reach conception--and a totality of recall." "but hardy, what have you got when you get there? i still say, what's the percentage?" * * * * * the look he gave me was puzzled but completely tolerant. "you raved to me about my last play, yet you don't see what i'm getting at?" he stopped pacing and sat opposite me with his muscular hands knotted into fists on my desk. "george," he said with quiet intentness, "i will be the first man since creation to have the full potential of his brain at his creative disposal." "how do you figure that?" "the brain has three principal functions. it can store information for recall, it can analyze and correlate this information and finally it can synthesize creatively. now the latter two functions are inherently dependent upon the quality of the first, or memory recall. as a truly thinking animal, man considers he has reached some acme of perfection because his brain is so superior to the lower animals. actually, the real gulf is between what man _has achieved_ and what he _can achieve_ with his brain. "the key lies in perfecting his recall. what good does it do to keep pouring in information when most of us are forgetting old things almost as rapidly as we are learning new ones? of course, we don't really ever forget anything, but our power of exact recall grows fuzzy through disuse. then when we need a certain name or factual bit of information we can't quite dig it up, or it comes up in distorted approximations. "the same holds for calling on experience to help us with new problems. we may grasp the general lesson of experience, but most of the specific incidents of our lives are dulled in time. the lessons we paid dearly to learn are largely useless. so we go on making the same mistakes, paying the same penalties over and over again." i shrugged. "everybody would like a better memory, i suppose, but i've never known anyone to go off the deep end over it like you have. what more can you gain?" "can't you visualize what it would be like to have even a short life-time of knowledge and experience laid out in sharp detail of recall? think of the new associations of thoughts and concepts that would be possible! consider the potential for creating drama, alone! every word ever read or spoken, every emotion ever conveyed, every gesture of anger, love, jealousy, pain, pleasure--all this raw material glittering brightly, ready to pour out in new conflicts, dramatic situations, sharp pungent dialogue--" he made me sense his enthusiasm, but i couldn't quite feel it. would such a tremendous ability necessarily be good? something about its immensity frightened me, and i didn't care to consider it for my own use at all. i said, "don't get me wrong. if this is what's going into your playwriting, i'm all for it. and what you do with your money is your own business. what do you propose?" "can you absorb more of my work?" he asked abruptly. "i'm your agent, aren't i? i'll peddle it if i can't use it myself," i told him, not that i was so eager for the broker's % so much as i wanted to have the pick of his output for my own productions. i didn't know what i was taking on. he turned out his third play in just ten days. _ten days_, i said. i read to the bottom of page two and decided to hell with peddling this one. i'd produce it myself. before i got into second gear on _beach boy_, however, hillary sends a messenger over with _madame president_, a satire so sharp i knew it would make _call me madame_ look like _little women_. what do you do? there are just so many legitimate theaters in the city. while i'm pondering this and negotiating with a hollywood agent to maybe take _beach boy_ off my hands, along comes _red rice_, an epic novel of communist china that out-bucked pearl a hundred heart-wrenches to one. one phone call sold that one to mcmullin, and when they got a look at the manuscript they raised the advance to $ , . this was not bad for a first novel, and i didn't resent my $ agent's fee. before the summer was over i was about ready to give up show business and become a one-author agent. hillary was keeping four secretaries busy taking dictation and transcribing. he never researched, never revised, never even glanced at the copy. i've known some prolific writers, but none could grind it out like hillary hardy. and it was good! every piece was better than the last. his characters were strictly -d right on paper, and word pictures! when he mentioned bedbugs, you itched and bled; when the villain slugged the hero a low-blow, you felt it in your guts; and when boy got girl--brother, turn up the house-lights, quick. i got so involved trying to produce five plays at once, making dickers with publishers and motion picture studios, fighting off television people and answering mail demanding a chance at foreign rights, that it was mid-november before i realized that it was over a month since i'd heard from the golden goose. in fact ellie drew my attention to it one morning. "hadn't you better call the sanitarium?" she suggested. "maybe he had a breakdown or something?" the thought chilled me. not only had i sold hillary's complete output to date, but i had a file full of contracts for future novels and movie scripts worth a couple of million dollars. i didn't phone--i went. to hoboken. in the outskirts i found his private hospital, demanded to see sam buckle and was told to sit down and wait. he was in therapy. * * * * * two hours later they took me to him. he lay on a hospital bed in his shorts, staring at the ceiling and the sweat all over him like he had just stepped out of a showerbath. "hello, george," he said, still looking at the ceiling. "hi, kid! you sick or something?" he smiled a little. "the surf at monterey. the sun fading through the low morning mist, a golden ghost peering through the somber veil--and julia, beside me, clinging to my arm, crying softly--" "hey, kid, i'm in new jersey. where are you?" i said nervously. he blinked. "in california, george. two years ago. i'm there. do you understand? _i'm really there!_" it was a little embarrassing. i felt like an intruder on a beach picnic. "well, hillary, that's just fine," i stammered. "i suppose that means that--that you've done what you set out to." "that's right." he nodded slightly. "total recall, george. every instant of my existence re-filed under 'urgent'. every vision, every sound, every sensation, laid clean and sharp like a sound film ready for running. i've done it, george." "how long ago did you--" "three weeks ago i began heavy dosing with the vitamin. today--just this last hour--i reached back into prenatal to the first instant of my cellular existence. and it was like ripping a curtain aside. i--i can't exactly tell you what it's like. something like coming out of a black cellar into the noon-day sun. it's almost blinding." he closed his eyes, squinting as though to shut out a glare. his blond hair had grown long, and it lay on the pillow like a woman's. he had lost some weight, and except for the heavy chest muscles and thick forearms, he had the appearance of a poet, a delicate soul dedicated to some ephemeral plane out of this world. i figured i'd better provide a little ballast. "congratulations and all that," i said, "but what about your work?" "i'm done," he said quietly. "done? are you forgetting that you bought a sanitarium?--some eight hundred grand worth? and it's only half paid for?" "oh, that. the royalties will take care of the payments." "hillary, you keep forgetting about taxes." "then let them take it back by default. i'm through with it." "dammit," i said, "i looked into this deal. people don't take back sanitariums like over-ripe bananas, especially when they got you on the hook for more than it's worth. they'll hold you to the contract. and you can't get your equity out if you don't protect it by keeping up your payments. you have a wonderful start, and if you just fill the contracts i have on file now you can pay it off and have plenty left to retire on. but right now you aren't so solvent, boy." well, he finally came out of his trance long enough to agree to fulfill the commitments i'd made for him, and i thought that once he got started there would be no holding him. just to make sure i did something on my own. i let his identity and whereabouts leak out. it was a sneaky thing to do to him, but i figured that once he got a real taste of the fame that was waiting him he would never let go of it. the papers splashed it: "mystery genius is lad of !" they swamped him. they swarmed over him and plastered him with honorary literary degrees, domestic and foreign. they oscared him and nobelled him. they wined, dined and adored him into a godhead of the arts. the acting, publishing, tv, radio and movie greats paid homage to his genius by the most hysterical bidding for his talents their check-books could support. i kept waiting for the secretary of the treasury to present him with the key to fort knox. * * * * * meanwhile, i waited patiently--having no choice, since i started the publicity nightmare myself--for the earthquake to settle down. as his agent i was holding off all new commitments until he fulfilled the ones on hand. six months passed, and hillary was still wallowing in glory, too busy sopping up plaudits to bother turning a hand. finally i sent a goon squad after him and dragged him to my office. he arrived in a four-hundred dollar suit and a fifty-dollar tie. each cuff was decorated by a diamond link and a hollywood starlet. i shooed out the excess and came to the point. "recess is over," i said gently. "now we settle down for a few months of patty-cake with your secretaries. they're here in my offices now where i can keep an eye on things. okay?" he grinned his old happy smile, and some of the dewey glaze seemed to peel from his eyes. "you're right, george," he said much to my surprise. "i can't coast forever--and believe me, i never visualized what this would be like. it's wonderful. the world is at my feet, george. at my feet!" i had pegged him right. but after all, who could resist the accolade he had received? for all his monomania on this business of mnemonics, he was a red-blooded boy with active glands and youthful corpuscles. to my further delight he threw off his imported suit-coat and said, "i'm ready right now. where do we start?" * * * * * i broached the file and studied my priority list. "first off, oscar wants a play. that'll take a week or two, i suppose. then i have an assignment for a serial--" i outlined about three months work for him, or what would have been three months work last summer. i moved him into my own penthouse apartment upstairs and herded him to work the next morning. my squad of strong-arms guarded all entrances, and hec blankenship finally convinced the public that we meant business in getting a little privacy for our tame genius so he could hatch some more immortal works. i had lunch sent in to him in the next office and didn't see him until five that first evening. i went in without knocking. one secretary was filing her nails, and the other three were putting on their coats. the covers were still on the typewriters and hillary was asleep or in a coma over in the corner. i kicked his feet off his desk, and he rocked forward. "come on upstairs, i'll buy you a steak," i said. he smiled weakly, "i need one. it didn't go so good." in the elevator he added, "in fact, it didn't go at all." "take it easy," i assured him. "you're a little rusty, that's all. what about the total recall? is it still working?" he nodded, but he didn't say any more about it. next day i stuck my head in before i went to lunch, and i congratulated myself on not pushing him too hard the first day. hillary was off in his corner again, but his mouth was moving and all four girls were doing the things that secretaries do when they are about two hours behind in their work. eight days later the thing dropped on my desk. i wet a finger with keen anticipation, but the spit wasn't dry before i was plowing into hillary's office trailing loose sheets. "are you kidding?" i yelled. he was out of his chair over by the window staring out. all he did was hunch up his shoulders. the girls were standing around trying to act invisible. "hillary," i said trying to laugh. "don't be playing gags on old george. where is it? where's oscar's play?" "i--i'm afraid that's it," he said without turning his head. "this--this fluff? this pablum?" "well--i thought i'd try something light to begin with." "light? this is no play. this is pollyanna. it's been done. where's your conflict? your problem? your suspense? dammit, where's your characters?" "i'll get warmed up tomorrow," hilliary said, but he didn't have much conviction in his voice. he tried. he really did. i heard him thrashing around for a whole hour the next morning. by afternoon he was on his way to the hospital in an ambulance with two men holding him down. all i could get out of the doctors was, "complete nervous breakdown." i finally found a hard-up intern and bribed him to spy for me. he reported that hillary had the whole staff stumped. he was acting more like a dope addict with withdrawal symptoms or a drunk with the d.t.'s. i got in touch with hillary's sanitarium. the head psychiatrist was in europe, so i cabled him and flew him back. he took over, and pretty soon i had the word i dreaded. "your wonder boy will recover," he told me, "but that's a wonder in itself. i presume he told you of his experiments to achieve total recall?" i said yes. "what he probably failed to tell you was that we all tried to dissuade him." "that he didn't mention, but i worried about it." "yes, well you might have. when hillary hardy succeeded in stripping away the last remnant of protective insulation in his memory he exposed himself not only to its full factual content, but also he lay naked every past emotional upset, every pain, fear, dread and sorrow he had ever experienced. it is no longer possible for him to recall an experience and ponder it objectively. _he relives it._" "yes, i get that," i said, "but what's so--" "did you ever hit your thumb with a hammer?" the doctor with the traditional, gray goatee interrupted. "sure, a couple of times." "ever lose a sweetheart or have a loved one die?" i nodded. "suppose that to even think about such experiences you had to endure all the actual physical or emotional pain of the original incident? the crushing blow of the hammer? the heartache and tears of your loss? and suppose further, that you were trying to write a play, and in order to bring genuine emotion to it you forced yourself to endure these pains and emotional stresses, minute after minute--" "god!" i said. "but you said he'd recover?" "in a few weeks, yes. gradually we will reduce sedation until he can control his memories again, but never ask him to write another dramatic work. another attack like this one could drive him irretrievably insane." it wasn't too hard to understand. after all, what is creative writing but setting down little bits of yourself? and the demands of literature are for human problems, conflicts, struggles. young as he was, hillary was no different from the rest of us. sure, he was full of reading and second hand bits of business, but he dug deeply into his own private pot of pain for his genuine dramatic effects. and where others dig with a long-handled ladle, hillary dipped with his bare soul--and he got scalded. getting him well and keeping him that way was a matter of putting the lid back on the pot, so to speak. nobody ever invited him to write another word. i saw to that. he's still with me, because after he went bankrupt on the sanitarium deal he had nowhere to turn. after taxes and the rooking the real estate boys gave him, his royalties were tied up for years to come. he did get better, though. and he even works a little. turns out scripts for mild little comic books, the honey-bunney type that are approved by parent-teacher censors. they don't sell very well. no conflict. no guts. books for young men merriwell series stories of frank and dick merriwell price fifteen cents _fascinating stories of athletics_ a half million enthusiastic followers of the merriwell brothers will attest the unfailing interest and wholesomeness of these adventures of two lads of high ideals, who play fair with themselves, as well as with the rest of the world. these stories are rich in fun and thrills in all branches of sports and athletics. they are extremely high in moral tone, and cannot fail to be of immense benefit to every boy who reads them. they have the splendid quality of firing a boy's ambition to become a good athlete, in order that he may develop into a strong, vigorous right-thinking man. _all titles always in print_ --frank merriwell's school days by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's chums by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's foes by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's trip west by burt l. standish --frank merriwell down south by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's bravery by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's hunting tour by burt l. standish --frank merriwell in europe by burt l. standish --frank merriwell at yale by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's sports afield by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's races by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's party by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's bicycle tour by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's courage by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's daring by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's alarm by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's athletes by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's skill by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's champions by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's return to yale by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's secret by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's danger by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's loyalty by burt l. standish --frank merriwell in camp by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's vacation by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's cruise by burt l. standish in order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued, during the respective months, in new york city and vicinity. they may not reach the readers, at a distance, promptly, on account of delays in transportation. to be published in january, . --frank merriwell's chase by burt l. standish --frank merriwell in maine by burt l. standish to be published in february, . --frank merriwell's struggle by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's first job by burt l. standish to be published in march, . --frank merriwell's opportunity by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's hard luck by burt l. standish to be published in april, . --frank merriwell's protégé by burt l. standish --frank merriwell on the road by burt l. standish to be published in may, . --frank merriwell's own company by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's fame by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's college chums by burt l. standish to be published in june, . --frank merriwell's problem by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's fortune by burt l. standish frank merriwell's new comedian or, the rise of a star by burt l. standish author of the famous merriwell stories. street & smith corporation, publishers - seventh avenue, new york copyright, by street & smith frank merriwell's new comedian (printed in the united states of america) all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian. frank merriwell's new comedian chapter i. "never say die!" it is not a pleasant experience to wake up on a beautiful morning to the realization that one has failed. there seems a relentless irony in nature herself that the day that dawns on a night when our glittering hopes have become dead, dull ashes of despair and ruin should be bright and warm with the sun's genial rays. so frank merriwell felt this fine morning in puelbo, colorado. the night before, with high hopes, he had produced his new play, "for old eli." he recalled the events of that first production with almost a shudder. "for old eli" had been a failure, a flat, appalling, stupefying failure. from the rise of the curtain everything and everybody had gone wrong; lines were forgotten, ephraim gallup had had stage fright, his own best situations had been marred. how much of this was due to the lying handbills which had been scattered broadcast, asserting that he was not the real frank merriwell, but an impostor, a deadbeat and a thorough scoundrel, frank could not tell. he believed that these efforts to ruin him had little effect, for when, at the close of the performance, he had made a speech from the stage, assuring the audience that he would bring his play back and give a satisfactory performance, his reception had been cordial. but the play had failed. parker folansbee, his backer, had acted queerly, and frank knew that, after the company had reached denver, the relations between him and his backer would cease. "for old eli" had been well-nigh ruinous, and when they got back to denver, merry and his friends would be without funds. then the thought came to him of the prejudice expressed against a poor black cat he had allowed to travel with the company. he could not restrain a smile as he perceived that the superstitious members of the company would feel that the cat had hoodooed them. as if a cat could affect the fortunes of men! the thought of the cat gave a pleasant turn to his reflections, and he cheered up immensely. he had failed? no! he would not acknowledge failure, defeat, disaster. he would not lie down and abandon the struggle, for he was not built of such weak material. where was the fault? was it in the piece, or in the way it had been played? he realized that, although the piece was well constructed, it was not of a high, artistic character, such as must appeal by pure literary merit to the best class of theater patrons. it could not be ranked with the best productions of pinero, jones, howard, thomas, or even clyde fitch. he had not written it with the hope of reaching such a level. his aim had been to make a "popular" piece, such as would appeal to the masses. he fell to thinking over what had happened, and trying to understand the cause of it all. he did not lay the blame entirely on the actors. it was not long before he decided that something about his play had led the spectators to expect more than they had received. what was it they had expected? while he was thinking of this alone in his room at the hotel, bart hodge, his old friend and a member of his company, came in. hodge looked disgruntled, disappointed, disgusted. he sat down on the bed without speaking. "hello, old man," said frank, cheerfully. "what's the matter with your face? it would sour new milk." "and you ought to have a face that would sour honey!" growled bart. "i should if i were in your place." "what's the use? that wouldn't improve things." "if i were in your place, i'd take a gun and go forth and kill a few stiffs." "i always supposed a 'stiff' was dead. didn't know one could be killed over again." "oh, you can joke if you want to, but i don't see how you can feel like joking now. anybody else would swear." "and that would be foolish." "perhaps so; but you know, as well as i do, that your play was murdered and mangled last night." "that's so, b'gosh!" drawled a doleful voice, and ephraim gallup, another of the company, frank's boy friend from vermont, came stalking into the room, looking quite as disgusted and dejected as hodge. "an' i'm one of the murderers!" frank looked ephraim over and burst out laughing. "why," he cried, "your face is so long that you'll be hitting your toes against your chin when you walk, if you're not careful." "whut i need is somebuddy to hit their toes against my pants jest where i set down, an' do it real hard," said ephraim. "i wisht i'd stayed to hum on the farm when i went back there and giv up the idee that i was an actor. i kin dig 'taters an' saw wood a darn sight better'n i kin act!" "you're all right, ephraim," assured merry. "you had to fill that part in a hurry, and you were not sure on your lines. that worried you and broke you up. if you had been sure of your lines, so that you would have felt easy, i don't think there would have been any trouble as far as you were concerned." "i dunno abaout that. i never felt so gosh-darn scat as i did larst night. why, i jest shook all over, an' one spell i didn't think my laigs'd hold me up till i got off ther stage. it was awful!" "you had an attack of stage fright. they say all great actors have it once in their lives." "waal, i never want to feel that air way ag'in! an' i spoilt that scene in the dressin' room of the clubhaouse. oh, jeewhillikins! i'm goin' aout of the show business, frank, an' git a job paoundin' sand. it don't take no brains to do that." "cheer up! you are going to play that same part in this play, and you'll play it well, too." "whut? then be yeou goin' to keep right on with the play?" asked the vermonter, in astonishment. "no," said merry, "i am not going to keep right on with it. i am going to put it into shape to win, and then i'm going out with it again. my motto is, 'never say die.' you heard what i told the audience last night. i promised them that i would play in this town and would make a success. i shall keep that promise." hodge shook his head. "you are smart, frank, but there's a limit. i'm afraid your luck has turned. you are hoodooed." just then a coal-black cat came out from under the bed and walked across the room. "and i suppose you think this is my hoodoo?" smiled merry, as the cat came over and rubbed against his leg. "that's where you are away off. this cat is my mascot, and she shall travel with me till the piece wins. she has stuck to me close enough since she walked onto the stage where we were rehearsing in denver." "the cat is not the hoodoo," said bart, shaking his head. "i know what is." "you do?" "sure." "name it." "i am!" "you?" "yes." frank stared at bart in surprise, and then burst out laughing. "well, how in the world did you happen to get such a foolish notion into your head?" he cried. "it's not foolish," declared bart, stubbornly. "it's straight, i know it, and you can't make me think differently." frank rose and walked over to hodge, putting a hand on his shoulder. "now you are talking silly, old man," he said. "you never were bad luck to me in the past; why should you be now. you're blue. you are down in the mouth and your head is filled with ridiculous fancies. things would have happened just as they have if you had not joined the company." "i don't believe it." "you always were superstitious, but i believe you are worse than ever now. you have been playing poker too much. that's what ails you. the game makes every man superstitious. he may not believe in luck at the beginning, but he will after he has stuck to that game a while. he will see all the odd things that happen with cards, and the conviction that there is such a thing as luck must grow upon him. he will become whimsical and full of notions. that's what's the matter with you, hodge. forget it, forget it!" "i think you are likely to forget some things altogether too early, merriwell. for instance, some of your enemies." "what's the use to remember unpleasant things?" "they remember you. one of them did so to an extent that he helped ruin the first presentation of your play." "how?" "it isn't possible that you have forgotten the lying notices circulated all over this city, stating that you were not the real frank merriwell, accusing you of being a fake and a thief?" something like a shadow settled on merry's strong face. "no, i have not forgotten," he declared, "i remember all that, and i'd like to know just who worked the game." "it was a gol-dinged measly trick!" exploded ephraim. "you thought it would not hurt you, frank," said hodge. "you fancied it would serve to advertise you, if anything. it may have advertised you, but it did you damage at the same time. when the audience saw everything was going wrong, it grew angry and became convinced that it was being defrauded. then you had trouble with that big ruffian who climbed over the footlights with the avowed purpose of breaking up the show." "oh, well," smiled merry, in a peculiar way, "that fellow went right back over the footlights." "yes, you threw him back. that quieted the audience more than anything else, for it showed that you were no slouch, even if you were a fake." "oh, i suppose i'll find out some time just who did that little piece of advertising for me." "perhaps so; perhaps not." tap, tap, tap--a knock on the door. "come!" frank called. the door opened, and billy wynne, the property man, looked in. "letter for you, mr. merriwell," he said. frank took the letter, and wynne disappeared, after being thanked for bringing it. "excuse me," said merry, and he tore open the envelope. a moment later, having glanced over the letter, he whistled. "news?" asked bart. "just a note from the gentleman we were speaking of just now," answered frank. "it's from the party who gave me the free advertising." "waal, i'll be kicked by a blind kaow!" exploded gallup. "an' did he hev ther gall to write to ye?" "yes," said frank. "listen to this." then he read the letter aloud. "mr. frank merriwell. "dear sir: by this time you must be aware that you are not the greatest thing that ever happened. you received it in the neck last night, and i aided in the good work of knocking you out, for i circulated the 'warning' notice which denounced you as an impostor, a deadbeat and a thief. the public swallowed it all, and, in disguise, i was at the theater to witness your downfall. it was even greater than i had dared hope it would be. i understand the managers in other towns have canceled with you, folansbee has declined to back your old show any longer, and you are on the beach. ha! ha! ha! this is revenge indeed. you are knocked out at last, and i did it. you'll never appear again as the marvelous young actor-playwright, and the name of frank merriwell will sink into oblivion. it is well. yours with satisfaction, leslie lawrence." "i knew well enough it was that dirty rascal who did the job!" cried hodge, springing up. "the cur!" "waal, dinged if he hadn't oughter be shot!" burst from gallup. "an' he knows folansbee's gone back on ye." "it's no use, frank," said hodge, disconsolately; "you are done for. the story is out. folansbee has skipped us, and----" "he has not skipped us. he's simply decided to go out of the theatrical business. it was a fad with him, anyhow. as long as everything was going well, he liked it; but i see he is a man who cannot stand hard luck. he is changeable and that makes him a mighty poor man to back a venture. it takes a man with determination and a fixed purpose to win at anything. changing around, jumping from one thing to another, never having any clear ideas is enough to make a failure of any man. folansbee doesn't need to follow the show business for a living. he went into it because it fascinated him. the glamour is all worn off now, and he is ready to get out if it. let him go." "it's all right to say let him go, but what are you going to do without him? you are talking about putting your play out again, but how will you do it?" "i'll find a way." "that is easier said than done. you have been lucky, frank, there is no question about that. you can't be that lucky all the time." "there are more ways than one to catch an angel." "i rather think you'll find that angels are not so thick. once in a while there is a soft thing who is ready to gamble with his money by putting it behind a traveling theatrical company, but those soft things are growing scarcer and scarcer. too many of them have been bitten." "still, i have a feeling that i'll find a way to succeed." "of course you can advertise for a partner to invest in a 'sure thing,' and all that, but those games are too near fraud. rascals have worked those schemes so much that honest men avoid them." "i shall not resort to any trickery or deception. if i catch an 'angel' i shall get one just as i obtained folansbee, by telling him all the risks and chances of failure." "well, you'll not get another that way." "darned if i ain't afraid now!" nodded ephraim. "but mr. folansbee's goin' to take keer of this comp'ny, ain't he? he's goin' to take it back to denver?" "he has agreed to do so." at this moment there was another sharp rap on the door, which, happening to be near, frank opened. cassie lee walked in, followed by roscoe havener, the soubrette and the stage manager of "for old eli," cassie showed excitement. "well, what do you think of him?" she cried. "of whom--havener?" asked merry, "no, folansbee." "what about him?" "he's skipped." "skipped?" "sure thing. run away." "impossible!" "it's a straight fact," declared the little soubrette. "there's no doubt of it," corroborated havener. "waal, may i be tickled to death by grasshoppers!" ejaculated gallup. "this caps the whole business!" burst from hodge. "i can't believe that," said merriwell, slowly. "how do you know, havener?" "his baggage is gone. garland and dunton traced him to the station. they were just in time to see him board an eastbound train as it pulled out. he has deserted us." chapter ii. darkness and dawn. frank could not express his astonishment. "i can't believe it," he repeated. "folansbee would not do such a thing." hodge laughed shortly, harshly. "you have altogether too much confidence in human nature, merry," he said. "i never took much stock in this folansbee. he is just the sort of person i would expect to do such a trick." "the company is hot, merriwell," said havener. "they're ready to eat you." "me?" "yes." "for what?" "for getting them into this scrape." "i don't see how they can blame me." there came a sound of feet outside and a bang on the door, which was flung open before frank could reach it. into the room stalked granville garland, followed by the remainder of the company. plainly all were excited. "well, mr. merriwell," said garland, assuming an accusing manner and striking a stage pose, "we are here." "so i see," nodded frank, calmly. "what's the matter?" "you engaged us to fill parts in your play." "i did." "we hold contracts with you." "i beg your pardon. i think you are mistaken." "what?" "i made no contracts with you; i simply engaged you. you hold contracts with parker folansbee." "folansbee has deserted us, sir," declared garland, accusingly. "we have been tricked, fooled, deceived! we hold contracts. you were concerned with folansbee in putting this company on the road, and you are responsible. we have come to you to find out what you mean to do." "i am very sorry----" began frank. "being sorry for us doesn't help us a bit," cut in garland, rudely. "i believe you knew folansbee was going to skip." frank turned his eyes full on the speaker, and he seemed to look his accuser straight through and through. "mr. garland," he said, "you are rude and insulting. i do not fancy the way you speak to me." "well, what are you going to do about it?" "that's what i'd like to know," put in lloyd fowler. "i want my money. i didn't come out here to be fooled this way." "mr. fowler," spoke frank, "you have not earned any money. instead, you have earned a fine by appearing on the stage last night in a state of intoxication." "who says so?" "i do." "then you li----" fowler did not quite finish the word. frank had him by the neck and pinned him against the wall in a moment. merry's eyes were flashing fire, but his voice was steady, as he said: "take it back, sir! apologize instantly for that!" garland made a move as if he would interfere, but bart hodge was before him in an instant, looking straight into his face, and saying: "hands off! touch him and you get thumped!" "get out!" cried garland. "not a bit of it. if you want a scrap, i shall be pleased to give you what you desire." "here, fellows!" called garland; "get in here all of you and give these two tricksters a lesson! come on!" "wait!" cried havener, stepping to the other side of merriwell. "don't try it, for i shall stand by him!" "me, too, boys!" cried cassie lee, getting into line with her small fists clinched, and a look of determination on her thin face. "don't nobody jump on frank merriwell unless i take a hand in the racket." the rest of the company were astonished. they realized that frank had some friends, but it was not until after he had awakened to realize just what the situation meant that ephraim gallup drew himself together and planted himself with merry's party. "whe-ee!" he squealed. "if there's goin' ter be a ruction, yeou kin bet i'll fight fer merry, though i ain't much of a fighter. i'd ruther run then fight any day, onless i have ter fight, but i reckon i'll hev ter fight in this case, if there is any fightin'." immediately granville garland became very placid in his manner. "we didn't come here to fight," he said, "but we came here to demand our rights." "an' to sass frank," put in the vermonter. "but, b'gosh! yeou are barkin' up ther wrong tree when yeou tackle him! he kin jest natterally chaw yeou up." frank still held fowler against the wall. now he spoke to the fellow in a low, commanding tone: "apologize at once," he said. "come, sir, make haste!" "i didn't mean anything," faltered the frightened actor. "i think i was too hasty. i apologize." "be careful in the future," advised merry, releasing him. then merry turned to the others, saying: "ladies and gentlemen, until havener just brought the news, i did not know that parker folansbee was gone. it was a great surprise for me, as i did not dream he was a person to do such a thing. even now i cannot feel that he has entirely deserted us. he may have left town rather than face us, but i hope he has been man enough to leave money behind that will enable us to return to denver, at least. you must see that we are in the same box together. i am hit as hard as any of you, for i had hoped that folansbee would stand by me so that i would be able to put the play in better shape and take it out again. i have lost him as a backer, and if he has skipped without leaving us anything, i have barely enough money to enable me to get back to denver." "haven't you any way of getting hold of money?" asked harper. "unfortunately, i have not," answered merry. "if i had money in my pocket i would spend the last cent to square this thing with you." "and i know that's on the level!" chirped cassie lee. "well, it's mighty tough!" muttered billy wynne. "that's all i've got to say." "we'll have to get up some kind of a benefit for ourselves," said havener. "that's the only thing left to do." "come up to my room," invited miss stanley, "and we'll try to devise a scheme for raising the dust. come on." they followed her out, leaving ephraim, bart and frank. "whew!" breathed gallup, sitting down on the bed. "hanged if i didn't kinder think there was goin' to be a ruction one spell. i wanted to run, but i warn't goin' to leave frank to be thrashed by a lot of hamfatters, b'gee!" "they were excited when they came in," said merry, apologizing for the ones who had departed. "if it hadn't been for that, they would not have thought of making such a scene." "well, frank," spoke bart, "i hope this will teach you a lesson." "how?" "i hope it will teach you not to put so much confidence in human nature after this. have less confidence and do more business in writing. i haven't a doubt but folansbee would have stuck by you all right if the new play had proved a winner, but he saw a chance to squeal when it turned out bad, and he jumped you." "i had a contract with him about the other piece," said merry; "but you know he did not return from st. louis till just before we were ready to start out, and so i had not been able to arrange matters about this piece." "and that lets him out easy." "yes, he gets out without any trouble, and i don't believe i can do a thing about it." again there came a rap on the door. when it was opened, a bell boy, accompanied by a gray-bearded gentleman, stood outside. "mr. merriwell," said the bell boy, "here is a gentleman to see you." the man entered. "walk right in, sir," invited merry. "what can i do for you?" frank closed the door. the stranger slowly drew off his gloves, critically looking merriwell over. "so you are mr. frank merriwell?" he said. "yes, sir." "i recognize you," nodded the man. "do you remember me?" "no, sir; i can't say that i do, although i believe i have seen your face before." "i think you have, but i did not wear a full beard then." "ah! then it is possible the beard has made the change that prevents me from recognizing you." "quite likely." "will you sit down?" "i have some important business with you," explained the stranger, with a glance toward gallup and hodge. immediately bart started for the door. "see you later, frank," he said. "come on, ephraim." gallup followed hodge from the room. when they were gone, frank again invited the stranger to be seated. "thank you," said the man, as he accepted a chair. "for reasons i wish you would look at me closely and see if you recognize me. i recognize you, although you are older, but i must proceed with the utmost caution in this matter, and i wish you would recognize me and state my name, so that i may feel absolutely certain that i am making no mistake." frank sat down opposite the gentleman, at whom he gazed searchingly. he concentrated his mind in the effort to remember. frank had found that he could do many difficult things by concentration of his mental forces. now he sought to picture in his mind the appearance of this man without a beard. gradually, he felt that he was drawing nearer and nearer the object he sought. finally he made a request: "please speak again, sir." "why do you wish me to, speak again?" said the stranger, smiling. "so that your voice may aid me in remembering. i wish to associate your voice and your face." "very well. what do you wish me to say?" "you have said enough. i have your voice now." "i'm afraid you'll not be able to remember," said the stranger. "it doesn't make any great difference, for i recognize you, and i can make assurance doubly sure by asking you a few questions. first, i wish to ask----" "excuse me," interrupted merry. "you are from carson city, nevada. you are connected with the bank in carson, where i deposited a certain amount of valuable treasure, found by myself and some friends years ago in the utah desert. your name is horace hobson." "correct!" cried the man, with satisfaction. "now, can you produce the receipt given you for that treasure?" "yes, sir," nodded frank, immediately producing a leather pocketbook and opening it. "i have it here." in a moment he had found the paper and handed it to mr. hobson. the gentleman adjusted some gold-rimmed nose-glasses and looked the receipt over. "this is the receipt," he nodded. "you instructed the bank officials to use every effort and spare no expense to find the relatives of prof. millard fillmore and the rightful heirs to the treasure." "i did." "i am here to inform you that the bank has carried out your instructions faithfully." "then you have found prof. fillmore's relatives?" quickly asked merry, his heart sinking a bit. "on the contrary, we have found that he has no relatives living. he seems to have been the last of his family--the end of it----" "then----" "it has been necessary for us to go to considerable expense to settle this point beyond a doubt, but we have done so, in accordance with your directions. of course, we shall not lose anything. we have ascertained the exact value of the treasure, and have deducted for our expense and trouble. at a meeting of the bank directors i was instructed to turn over the remainder to you. i have here papers showing the exact valuation of the treasure as deposited with us. here is a complete account of all our expenses and charges. we have found a balance remaining of forty-three thousand seven hundred and thirty-eight dollars. i was sent to turn this money over to you, as i could identify you beyond doubt, and there could be no mistake. to make it certain in my own mind, i wished you to recognize me. you did so, and i knew i could not be making a mistake. i will take up this receipt here, and in return will give you a check for the amount, if that is satisfactory to you." frank sat like one dazed, staring at horace hobson. was it possible that he was not dreaming? was he in his hour of need to receive this immense sum of money? no wonder he fancied he was dreaming. at last he gave himself a slight shake, and his voice did not falter as he said: "it is perfectly satisfactory to me, sir. i will accept the check." chapter iii. merriwell's generosity. mr. hobson departed, and then frank rang for a bell boy and sent for bart and ephraim. merry's two friends came in a short time. "i have called you up," said merry, "to talk over the arrangements for putting 'for old eli' on the road again without delay. i have decided on that. it will take some little time to manufacture the costly mechanical effect that i propose to introduce into the third act, and we shall have to get some new paper. i believe i can telegraph a description to chicago so a full stand lithograph from stone can be made that will suit me, and i shall telegraph to-day." hodge stared at frank as if he thought merry had lost his senses. "you always were a practical joker," he growled; "but don't you think it's about time to let up? i don't see that this is a joking matter. you should have some sympathy for our feelings, if you don't care for yourself." merry laughed a bit. "my dear fellow," he said, "i assure you i was never more serious. i am not joking. i shall telegraph for the paper immediately." "paper like that costs money, and the lithographers will demand a guarantee before they touch the work." "and i shall give them a guarantee. i shall instruct them to draw on the first national bank of denver, where my money will be deposited." "your money?" gasped hodge. "jeewhillikins!" gurgled gallup. then frank's friends looked at each other, the same thought in the minds of both. had merry gone mad? had his misfortune turned his brain? "i believe i can have the effect i desire to introduce manufactured for me in denver," frank went on. "i shall brace up that third act with it. i shall make a spectacular climax on the order of the mechanical horse races you see on the stage. i shall have some dummy figures and boats made, so that the boat race may be seen on the river in the distance. i have an idea of a mechanical arrangement to represent the crowd that lines the river and the observation train that carries a load of spectators along the railroad that runs beside the river. i think the swaying crowd can be shown, the moving train, the three boats, yale, harvard and cornell, with their rowers working for life. harvard shall be a bit in the lead when the boats first appear, but yale shall press her and take the lead. then i will have the scene shifted instantly, so that the audience will be looking into the yale clubhouse. the rear of the house shall open direct upon the river. there shall be great excitement in the clubhouse, which i will have located at the finish of the course. the boats are coming. outside, along the river, mad crowds are cheering hoarsely, whistles are screeching, yale students are howling the college cry. here they come! now the excitement is intense. hurrah! yale has taken the lead! the boats shoot in view at the back of the stage, yale a length ahead, harvard next, cornell almost at her side, and in this form they cross the line, yale the victor. the star of the piece, myself, who has escaped from his enemies barely in time to enter the boat and help win the race, is brought on by the madly cheering college men, and down comes the curtain on a climax that must set any audience wild." hodge sat down on the bed. "frank," he said, grimly, "you're going crazy! it would cost a thousand dollars to get up that effect." "i don't care if it costs two thousand dollars, i'll have it, and i'll have it in a hurry!" laughed merriwell. "i am out for business now. i am in the ring to win this time." "yes, you are going crazy!" nodded hodge. "where is all the money coming from?" "i've got it!" bart went into the air as if he had received an electric shock. "you--you've what?" he yelled. "got the money," asserted frank. "where?" shouted bart. "right here." "may i be tickled to death by muskeeters!" gasped gallup. "got two thousand dollars?" said hodge. "oh, come off, merriwell! you are carrying this thing too far now!" "just take a look at this piece of paper," invited frank, as he passed over the check he had received from horace hobson. bart took it, he looked at it, he was stricken dumb. gallup looked over bart's shoulder. his jaw dropped, his eyes bulged from his head, and he could not utter a sound. "how do you like the looks of it?" smiled merry. "what--what is it?" faltered bart. "a check. can't you see? a check that is good for forty-three thousand seven hundred and thirty-eight dollars." "good for that? why, it can't be! now, is this more of your joking, merriwell? if it is, i swear i shall feel like having a fight with you right here!" "it's no joke, old man. that piece of paper is good--it is good for every dollar. the money is payable to me. i've got the dust to put my play out in great style." even then bart could not believe it. he groped for the bed and sat down, limply, still staring at the check, which he held in his hand. "what's this for?" he asked. "it's for the fillmore treasure, which i found in the utah desert," exclaimed frank. "it was brought to me by the man who came in here a little while ago." then gallup collapsed. his knees seemed to buckle beneath him, and he dropped down on the bed. "waal, may i be chawed up fer grass by a spavin hoss!" he murmured. hodge sat quite still for some seconds. "merry," he said, at last, beginning to tremble all over, "are you sure this is good? are you sure there is no crooked business behind it?" "of course i am," smiled frank. "how can you be?" asked bart. "i received it from the very man with whom i did the business in carson when i made the deposit. in order that there might be no mistake he came on here and delivered it to me personally." "i think i'm dyin'!" muttered ephraim. "i've received a shock from which i'll never rekiver! forty-three thousan' dollars! oh, say, i know there's a mistake here!" "not a bit of a mistake," assured merriwell, smiling, triumphant. "and all that money is yourn?" "no." "why--why, ther check's made out to yeou." "because the treasure was deposited by me." "and yeou faound it?" "i found it, but i did so while in company with four friends." now hodge showed still further excitement. "those friends were not with you at the moment when you found it," he said. "i've heard your story. you came near losing your life. the mad hermit fought to throw you from the precipice. the way you found the treasure, the dangers you passed through, everything that happened established your rightful claim to it. it belongs to you alone." "i do not look at it in that light," said frank, calmly and positively. "there were five of us in the party. the others were my friends diamond, rattleton, browning, and toots." "a nigger!" exclaimed bart. "do you call him your friend?" "i do!" exclaimed merry. "more than once that black boy did things for me which i have never been able to repay. although a coward at heart so far as danger to himself was concerned, i have known him to risk his life to save me from harm. why shouldn't i call him my friend? his skin may be black, but his heart is white." "oh, all right," muttered hodge. "i haven't anything more to say. i was not one of your party at that time." "no." "i wish i had been." "so yeou could git yeour share of the boodle?" grinned ephraim. "no!" cried hodge, fiercely. "so i could show the rest of them how to act like men! i would refuse to touch one cent of it! i would tell frank merriwell that it belonged to him, and he could not force me to take it. that's all." "mebbe the others'll do that air way," suggested the vermont youth. "not on your life!" sneered bart. "they'll gobble onto their shares with both hands. i know them, i've traveled with them, and i am not stuck on any of them." "i shall compel them to take it," smiled frank. "i am sorry, fellows, that you both were not with me, so i could bring you into the division. i'd find a way to compel hodge to accept his share." "not in a thousand years!" exploded bart. "waal," drawled ephraim, "i ain't saying, but i'd like a sheer of that money well enough, but there's one thing i am sayin'. sence hodge has explained why he wouldn't tech none of it, i be gol-dinged if yeou could force a single cent onter me ef i hed bin with yeou, same as them other fellers was! i say hodge is jest right abaout that business. the money belongs to yeou, frank, an' yeou're the only one that owns a single dollar of it, b'gosh!" "that's right, ephraim," nodded hodge. "and there isn't another chap in the country who would insist on giving away some of his money to others under similar circumstances. some people might call it generosity; i call it thundering foolishness!" "i can't help what you call it," said frank; "i shall do what i believe is right and just, and thus i will have nothing to trouble my conscience." "conscience! conscience! you'll never be rich in the world, for you have too much conscience. do you suppose the wall street magnates could have become millionaires if they had permitted their conscience to worry them over little points?" "i fancy not," acknowledged merry, shaking his head. "i am certain i shall never become wealthy in just the same manner that certain millionaires acquired their wealth. i'd rather remain poor. such an argument does not touch me, hodge." "oh, i suppose not! but it's a shame for you to be such a chump! just think what you could do with forty-three thousand dollars! you could give up this show business, you could go back to yale and finish your course in style. you could be the king-bee of them all. oh, it's a shame!" "haow much'll yeou hev arter yeou divide?" asked ephraim. "the division will give the five of us eight thousand seven hundred and forty-six dollars and eighty cents each," answered frank. "he's figured that up so quick!" muttered hodge. "i snum! eight thaousan' dollars ain't to be sneezed at!" cried the vermonter. "it's a pinch beside forty-three thousand," said bart. "yeou oughter be able to go back to college on that, frank." "he can, if he'll drop the show business," nodded bart. "and confess myself a failure! acknowledge that i failed in this undertaking? would you have me do that?" "oh, you wouldn't confess anything of the sort. what were you working for? to go back to yale, was it not?" "sure." "well, i don't suppose you expected to make so much money that you would be able to return with more than eight thousand dollars in your inside pocket?" "hardly." "then what is crawling over you? if you are fool enough to make this silly division, you can go back with money enough to take you through your course in style." "and have the memory of what happened in this town last night rankle in my heart! hardly! i made a speech from the stage last night, in which i said i would play again in this city, and i promised that the audience should be satisfied. i shall keep that promise." "oh, all right! i suppose you'll be thinking of rewarding the ladies and gentlemen who called here a short time ago and attempted to bulldoze you?" "i shall see that the members of the company, one and all, are treated fairly. i shall pay them two weeks salary, which will be all they can ask." hodge got up, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and stared at frank, with an expression on his face that was little short of disgust. "you beat them all!" he growled. "i'd do just like that--i don't think! not one of those people has a claim on you. i'd let them all go to the deuce! it would be serving them right." "well, i shall do nothing of the sort, my dear fellow." "i presume you will pay lloyd fowler two weeks salary?" "i shall." bart turned toward the door. "where are you going?" "i'm going out somewhere all alone by myself, where i can say some things about you. i am going to express my opinion of you to myself. i don't want to do it here, for there would be a holy fight. i've got to do it in order to let off steam and cool down. i shall explode if i keep it corked up inside of me." he bolted out of the room, slamming the door fiercely behind him. frank and ephraim went up to the room of stella stanley, which was on the next floor. they found all the members of the company packed into that room. "may we come in?" asked merry, pleasantly. "we don't need him," muttered lloyd fowler, who was seated in a corner. "don't get him into the benefit performance. let him take care of himself." "come right in, mr. merriwell," invited stella stanley. "i believe you can sing. we're arranging a program for the benefit, you know. shall we put you down for a song?" "i hardly think so," smiled frank. "ah!" muttered fowler, triumphantly. "he thinks himself too fine to take part in such a performance with the rest of us." "i rather think you've hit it," whispered charlie harper. "and i know you are off your trolley!" hissed cassie lee, who had not missed the words of either of them. "he's on the level." "really!" exclaimed miss stanley, in surprise and disappointment. "do you actually refuse?" "yes." "why?" "because there will be no performance." "won't?" "no." "why not?" "i refuse to permit it," said frank, a queer twinkle in his eyes. then several of the company came up standing, and shouted: "what!" "that beats anything i ever heard of in my life!" said fowler. "for genuine crust, it surely does!" spoke up harper. cassie lee looked surprised, and havener was amazed. "surely you are not in earnest, merriwell?" the stage manager hastened to say. "never more so in my life!" answered frank, easily. "then you're crazy." "oh, i guess not." "well, you are," said garland. "you have gone over the limit. we are not engaged to you in any way. you said so. you explained that we could not hold you responsible. you cannot come here and dictate to us. we shall carry out this performance. if you try to prevent it, you will make a great mistake." "be calm," advised merry. "you are unduly exciting yourself, mr. garland." "well, it's enough to excite anyone!" "meow!" out of the room trotted frank's black cat, which had followed him up the stairs. "put that cat out!" cried agnes kirk. "it has caused all our bad luck!" frank picked the cat up. "i told you the cat was a mascot," he said. "it has proved so!" "i should say so!" sneered fowler. "let him take himself out of here, cat and all!" cried charlie harper. "let him explain what he means by saying we shall not give a benefit performance," urged havener, who really hoped that frank could say something to put himself in a better light with the company. "yes," urged cassie. "what did you mean by that, frank?" "such a performance is quite unnecessary," assured merry. "we've got to do something to raise money to get out of this city." "i will furnish you with the money, each and every one." "you?" shouted several. "yes." "how?" asked havener. "you said a short time ago that you hadn't enough money to amount to anything." "at that time i hadn't. since then i have been able to make a raise." now there was another bustle of excitement. "oh!" cried several, "that's different." "i knew there was something behind it!" exclaimed cassie, with satisfaction. "have you been able to raise enough to take us all back to denver, frank?" "i think so, and i believe i shall have a few dollars left after we arrive there." "how much have you raised?" asked havener. "forty-three thousand dollars," answered frank, as coolly as if he were saying forty-three dollars. for a moment there was silence in the room, then expressions of incredulity and scorn came from all sides. fowler set up a shout of mocking laughter. "well, of all the big bluffs i ever heard this is the biggest!" he sneered. "say, i don't mind a joke," said stella stanley; "but don't you think you are carrying this thing a trifle too far, mr. merriwell?" "i would be if it were a joke," confessed frank, easily; "but, as it happens to be the sober truth, i think no one has a chance to ask. i will not only pay your fare to denver, but each one shall receive two weeks salary, which i think you must acknowledge is the proper way to treat you." "i'll believe it when i get my hands on the dough," said fowler. "forty-three thousand fiddlesticks!" "any person who doubts my word is at liberty to take a look at this certified check," said merry, producing the check and placing it on the little table. then they crushed and crowded about that table, staring at the check. fowler nudged harper, to whom he whispered: "i believe it's straight, so help me! i'd like to kick myself!" "yes, it's straight," acknowledged harper, dolefully. "i am just beginning to realize that we have made fools of ourselves by talking too much." "what can we do?" "take poison!" "we'll have to eat dirt, or he'll throw us down." "it looks that way." thus it came about that fowler was almost the first to offer congratulations. "by jove, mr. merriwell," he cried, "i'm delighted! you are dead in luck, and you deserve it! it was pretty hard for you to be deserted by folansbee, in such a sneaking way. i have said all along that you were a remarkably bright man and merited success." "that's right," put in harper; "he said so to me last night. we were talking over your hard luck. i congratulate you, mr. merriwell. permit me!" "permit me!" both harper and fowler held out their hands. frank looked at the extended hands, but put his own hands in his pockets, laughing softly, somewhat scornfully. "it is wonderful," he said, "how many true friends a man can have when he has money, and how few true friends he really has when he doesn't have a dollar." "oh, my dear mr. merriwell!" protested fowler. "i know i was rather hasty in some of my remarks, but i assure you that you misunderstood me. it was natural that all of us should be a trifle hot under the collar at being used as we were. i assure you i did not mean anything by what i said. if i spoke too hastily, i beg a thousand pardons. again let me congratulate you." again he held out his hand. "you are at liberty to congratulate me," said merry, but still disdaining the proffered hand. "i shall pay you the same as the others. don't be afraid of that. but i shall give you your notice, for i shall not need you any more. with several of the others i shall make contracts to go out with this piece again, as soon as i can make some alterations, get new paper, and start the company." fowler turned green. "oh, of course you can do as you like, sir," he said. "i don't think i care to go out with this piece again. it is probable i should so inform you, even if you wanted me." harper backed away. he did not wish to receive such a calling down as had fallen to the lot of fowler. cassie lee held out her hand, her thin face showing actual pleasure. "you don't know how glad i am, frank!" she said, in a low tone. "never anybody deserved it more than you." "that's right," agreed havener. douglas dunton had not been saying much, but now he stood forth, struck a pose, and observed: "methinks that, along with several of me noble colleagues, i have made a big mistake in making offensive remarks to you, most noble high muck-a-muck. wouldst do me a favor? then apply the toe of thy boot to the seat of me lower garments with great vigor." frank laughed. "the same old dunton!" he said. "forget it, old man. it's all right. there's no harm done." while the members of the company were crowding around merriwell, fowler and harper slipped out of the room and descended the stairs. straight to the bar of the hotel they made their way. leaning against the bar, they took their drinks, and discussed frank's fortune. another man was drinking near them. he pricked up his ears and listened when he heard merriwell's name, and he grew excited as he began to understand what had happened. "excuse me, gentlemen," he said, after a time. "i do not wish to intrude, but i happen to know mr. merriwell. will you have a drink with me?" they accepted. they were just the sort of chaps who drink with anybody who would "set 'em up." "do you mind telling me just what has happened to mr. merriwell?" asked the stranger, who wore a full beard, which seemed to hide many of the features of his face. "has he fallen heir to a fortune?" "rather," answered harper, dryly. "more than forty-three thousand dollars has dropped into his hands this morning." "is it possible?" asked the stranger, showing agitation. "are you sure?" "yes, i am sure. i saw the certified check on a carson city bank. he was broke this morning, but now he has money to burn." the stranger lifted a glass to his lips. his hand trembled somewhat. all at once, with a savage oath, he dashed the glass down on the bar, shivering it to atoms. as he did so, the hairs of his beard caught around the stone of a ring on his little finger, and the beard was torn from his face, showing it was false. the face revealed was black with discomfiture and rage. it was the face of leslie lawrence! frank's old enemy was again discomfited! chapter iv. in the smoker. so frank took the company back to denver. he was able to do so without depositing the check till denver was reached, as horace hobson furnished the funds, holding the check as security. hobson went along at the same time. while on the train frank made arrangements with several members of his company in the revised version of "for old eli," when the play went on the road again. he said nothing to lloyd fowler nor charlie harper. although he did not make arrangements with granville garland, he asked garland if he cared to go out with the company again, informing him that he might have an opening for him. fowler saw merry talking with some of the members, and he surmised what it meant. he began to feel anxious as time passed, and frank did not come to him. he went to harper to talk it over. harper was in the smoker, pulling at a brierwood pipe and looking sour enough. he did not respond when fowler spoke to him. "what's the matter?" asked fowler. "sick?" "yes," growled harper. "what ails you?" "disgusted." "at what?" "somebody." "who?" "myself for one." "somebody else?" "yes." "who?" "you're it." fowler fell back and stared at harper. he had taken a seat opposite his fellow actor. harper returned his stare with something like still greater sourness. "what's the matter with me?" asked fowler, wondering. "you're a confounded idiot!" answered harper, bluntly. "well, i must say i like your plain language!" exclaimed fowler, coloring and looking decidedly touched. "you were in a bad temper when we started for denver, but you seem to be worse now. what's the matter?" "oh, i see now that i've put a foot in the soup. i am broke, and i need money. all i am liable to get is the two weeks salary i shall receive from merriwell. if i'd kept my mouth shut i might have a new engagement with him, like the others." "then some of the others have a new engagement?" "all of them, i reckon, except you and i. we are the fools of the company." "well, what shall we do?" "can't do anything but keep still and swallow our medicine." "perhaps you think that, but i'm going to hit merriwell up." "well, you'll be a bigger fool if you do, after the calling down you received from him to-day." at that moment frank entered the smoker, looking for hodge, who had been unable to procure a good seat in one of the other cars. bart was sitting near harper and fowler. as frank came down the aisle, fowler arose. "i want to speak to you, mr. merriwell," he said. "all right," nodded frank. "go ahead." "i have heard that you are making new engagements with the members of the company." "well?" "you haven't said anything to me." "no." "i suppose it is because i made some foolish talk to you this morning. well, i apologized, didn't i?" "yes." "well, i presume you will give me a chance when you take the play out again?" "no, sir." frank said it quietly, looking fowler full in the face. "so you are going to turn me down because i made that talk? well, i have heard considerable about your generosity, but this does not seem very generous." "ever since joining the company and starting to rehearse, mr. fowler, you have been a source of discord. once or twice you came near flatly refusing to do some piece of business the way i suggested. once you insolently informed me that i was not the stage manager. you completely forgot that i was the author of the piece. i have heard that you told others not to do things as i suggested, but to do them in their own way. several times before we started out i was on the verge of releasing you, which i should have done had there been time to fill your place properly. last night you were intoxicated when the hour arrived for the curtain to go up. you went onto the stage in an intoxicated condition. you did not do certain pieces of business as you had been instructed to do them, but as you thought they should be done, therefore ruining a number of scenes. you were insolent, and would have been fined a good round sum for it had we gone on. in a number of ways you have shown that you are a man i do not want in my company, so i shall let you go, after paying you two weeks salary. i believe i have given the best of reasons for pursuing such a course." then frank stepped past fowler and sat down with hodge. the actor took his seat beside harper, who said: "i hope you are satisfied now!" "satisfied!" muttered fowler. "i'd like to punch his head off!" "very likely," nodded harper; "but you can't do it, you know. he is a holy terror, and you are not in his class." behind them was a man who seemed to be reading a newspaper. he was holding the paper very high, so that his face could not be seen, and he was not reading at all. he was listening with the keenest interest to everything. as frank sat down beside hodge he observed a look of great satisfaction on bart's face. "well, merriwell," said the dark-faced youth, with something like the shadow of a smile, "you have done yourself proud." "let's go forward," suggested merry. "the smoke is pretty thick here, and some of it from those pipes is rank. i want to talk with you." so they got up and left the car. as they went out, fowler glared at merriwell's back, hissing: "oh, i'd like to get even with you!" instantly the man behind lowered his paper, leaned forward, and said: "i see you do not like mr. merriwell much. if you want to get even with him, i may be able to show you how to do it." with startled exclamations, both harper and fowler turned round. the man behind was looking at them over the edge of his paper. "who are you?" demanded fowler. "i think you know me," said the man, lowering his paper. lawrence sat there! in denver frank was accompanied to the bank by mr. hobson. it happened that kent carson, a well-known rancher whom frank had met, was making a deposit at the bank. "hello, young man!" cried the rancher, in surprise. "i thought you were on the road with your show?" "i was," smiled frank, "but met disaster at the very start, and did not get further than puelbo." "well, that's tough!" said carson, sympathetically. "what was the matter?" "a number of things," confessed frank. "the play was not strong enough without sensational features. i have found it necessary to introduce a mechanical effect, besides rewriting a part of the play. i shall start out again with it as soon as i can get it into shape." "then your backer is all right? he's standing by you?" "on the contrary," smiled merry, "he skipped out from puelbo yesterday morning, leaving me and the company in the lurch." "well, that was ornery!" said carson. "what are you going to do without a backer?" "back myself. i have the money now to do so. i am here to make a deposit." then it came about that he told mr. carson of his good fortune, and the rancher congratulated him most heartily. frank presented his check for deposit, asking for a check book. the eyes of the receiving teller bulged when he saw the amount of the check. he looked frank over critically. mr. hobson had introduced frank, and the teller asked him if he could vouch for the identity of the young man. "i can," was the answer. "so can i," spoke up kent carson. "i reckon my word is good here. i'll stand behind this young man." "are you willing to put your name on the back of this check, mr. carson?" asked the teller. "hand it over," directed the rancher. he took the check and endorsed it with his name. "there," he said, "i reckon you know it's good now." "yes," said the teller. "there will be no delay now. mr. merriwell can draw on us at once." frank thanked mr. carson heartily. "that's all right," said the cattleman, in an offhand way. "i allow that a chap who will defend a ragged boy as you did is pretty apt to be all right. how long will it take to get your play in shape again?" "well, i may be three or four days rewriting it. i don't know how long the other work will be." "three or four days. well, say, why can't you come out to my ranch and do the work?" "really, i don't see how i can do that," declared frank. "i must be here to see that the mechanical arrangement is put up right." "now you must come," declared carson. "i won't take no for your answer. you can give instructions for that business. i suppose you have a plan of it?" "not yet, but i shall have before night." "can you get your business here done to-day?" "i may be able to, but i am not sure." "then you're going with me to-morrow." "i can't leave my friends who are----" "bring them right along. it doesn't make a bit of difference if there are twenty of them. i'll find places for them, and they shall have the best the twin star affords. now, if you refuse that offer, you and i are enemies." the man said this laughingly, but he placed frank in an awkward position. he had just done a great favor for merriwell, and frank felt that he could not refuse. "very well, mr. carson," he said, "if you put it in that light, i'll have to accept your hospitality." "that's the talk! won't my boy at yale be surprised when i write him you've been visiting me? ha! ha! ha!" mr. carson was stopping at the metropole, while frank had chosen the american. the rancher urged merry to move right over to the metropole, and the young actor-playwright finally consented. but frank had business for that day. first he telegraphed to the lithographers in chicago a long description of the scene which he wanted made on his new paper. he ordered it rushed, and directed them to draw on his bankers for any reasonable sum. then he started out to find the proper men to construct the mechanical effect he wished. he went straight to the theater first, and he found that the stage manager of the broadway was a genius who could make anything. frank talked with the man twenty minutes, and decided that he had struck the person for whom he was looking. it did not take them long to come to terms. the man had several assistants who could aid him on the work, and he promised to rush things. frank felt well satisfied. returning to his hotel, merry drew a plan of what he desired. as he was skillful at drawing, and very rapid, it did not take him more than two hours to draw the plan and write out an explicit explanation of it. with that he returned to the stage manager. they spent another hour talking it over, and frank left, feeling satisfied that the man perfectly understood his wants and would produce an arrangement as satisfactory as it could be if it were overseen during its construction by frank himself. frank was well satisfied with what he had accomplished. he went back to the american and drew up checks for every member of the old company, paying them all two weeks salary. lloyd fowler took the check without a word of thanks. the others expressed their gratitude. then frank moved over to the metropole, where he found kent carson waiting for him. hodge and gallup came along with frank. "these are the friends i spoke of, mr. carson," explained frank. "where's the rest of them?" asked the rancher, looking about. "these are all." "all?" "yes, sir." "why, by the way you talked, i reckoned you were going to bring your whole company along." he remembered hodge, whom he had seen with frank once before, and he shook hands with both bart and ephraim. "you are lucky to be counted as friends of a young man like mr. merriwell," said the cattleman. "that is, you're lucky if he's anything like what my boy wrote that he was. my boy is a great admirer of him." "it's strange i don't remember your son," said frank. "why, he's a freshman." "yes, but i know a large number of freshmen." "so my boy said. said you knew them because some of them had been trying to do you a bad turn; but he was glad to see you get the best of them, for you were all right. he said the freshmen as a class thought so, too." "your son was very complimentary. if i return to yale, i shall look him up." "then you contemplate returning to college?" "i do." "when?" "next fall, if i do not lose my money backing my play." "oh, you won't lose forty-three thousand dollars." "that is not all mine to lose. only one-fifth of that belongs to me, and i can lose that sum." "then why don't you let the show business alone and go back to college on that?" "because i have determined to make a success with this play, and i will not give up. never yet in my life have i been defeated in an undertaking, and i will not be defeated now." the rancher looked at frank with still greater admiration. "you make me think of some verses i read once," he said. "i've always remembered them, and i think they've had something to do with my success in life. they were written by holmes." the rancher paused, endeavoring to recall the lines. it was plain to frank that he was not a highly educated man, but he was highly intelligent--a man who had won his way in the world by his own efforts and determination. for that reason, he admired determination in others. "i have it!" exclaimed the rancher. "here it is: "'be firm! one constant element in luck is genuine, solid, old teutonic pluck. see yon tall shaft; it felt the earthquake's thrill, clung to its base and greets the sunrise still. stick to your aim; the mongrel's hold will slip, but only crowbars loose the bulldog's grip; small as he looks, the jaw that never yields drags down the bellowing monarch of the fields.'" chapter v. nature's nobleman. frank found the twin star ranch a pleasant place. the house was large and well furnished, everything being in far better taste than he had expected. merry knew something of ranches and ranch life which, however, he said nothing about. he was supposed to be a very tender tenderfoot. nobody dreamed he had ever handled a lariat, ridden a bucking broncho, or taken part in a round-up. gallup roamed about the ranch, inspecting everything, and he was a source of constant amusement to the "punchers," as the cowboys were called. after one of these tours of inspection, he came back to the room where frank and bart were sitting, filled with amazement. "vermont farms are different from this one," smiled merry. "waal, naow yeou're talkin'! i'd like ter know haow they ever do the milkin' here. i don't b'lieve all ther men they've got kin milk so menny caows. why, i saw a hull drove of more'n five hundred cattle about here on the farm, an' they told me them warn't a pinch of what mr. carson owns. gosh all hemlock! but he must be rich!" "mr. carson seems to be pretty well fixed," said merry. "that's so. he's got a fine place here, only it's too gol-dinged mernoternous." "monotonous? how?" "the graound's too flat. ain't any hills to rest a feller's eyes ag'inst. i tell yeou it does a man good to go aout where he kin see somethin' besides a lot of flatness an' sky. there ain't northin' in the world purtier than the varmount hills. in summer they're all green an' covered with grass an' trees, an' daown in the valleys is the streams an' rivers runnin' along, sometimes swift an' foamin', sometimes slow an' smooth, like glars. an' ther cattle are feedin' on ther hills, an' ther folks are to work on their farms, an' ther farm haouses, all painted white, are somethin' purty ter see. they jest do a man's heart an' soul good. an' then when it is good summer weather in varmount, i be dad-bimmed if there's any better weather nowhere! ther sun jest shines right daown as if it was glad to git a look at sech a purty country, an' ther sky's as blue as elsie bellwood's eyes. ther birds are singin' in ther trees, an' ther bees go hummin' in ther clover fields, an' there's sich a gol-durn good feelin' gits inter a feller that he jest wants ter larf an' shaout all ther time. aout here there ain't no trees fer ther birds ter sing in, an' there don't seem ter be northin' but flat graound an' cattle an' sky." frank had been listening with interest to the words of the country boy. a lover of nature himself, merry realized that gallup's soul had been deeply impressed by the fair features of nature around his country home. "yes, ephraim," he said, "vermont is very picturesque and beautiful. the vermont hills are something once seen never to be forgotten." gallup was warmed up over his subject. "but when it comes to daownright purtiness," he went on, "there ain't northing like varmount in the fall fer that. then ev'ry day yeou kin see ther purtiest sights human eyes ever saw. then is the time them hills is wuth seein'. first the leaves on ther maples, an' beeches, an' oaks they begin ter turn yaller an' red a little bit. then ther frost comes more, an' them leaves turn red an' gold till it seems that ther hull sides of them hills is jest like a purty painted picter. the green of the cedars an' furs jest orfsets the yaller an' gold. where there is rocks on the hills, they seem to turn purple an' blue in the fall, an' they look purty, too--purtier'n they do at any other time. i uster jest go aout an' set right daown an' look at them air hills by the hour, an' i uster say to myself i didn't see haow heaven could be any purtier than the varmount hills in ther fall. "but there was folks," he went on, whut lived right there where all them purty sights was an' never saw um. they warn't blind, neither. i know some folks i spoke to abaout how purty the hills looked told me they hedn't noticed um! naow, what du yeou think of that? i've even hed folks tell me they couldn't see northin' purty abaout um! naow whut do yeou think of that? i ruther guess them folks missed half ther fun of livin'. they was born with somethin' ther matter with um. "it uster do me good ter take my old muzzle-loadin' gun an' go aout in the woods trampin' in the fall. i uster like ter walk where the leaves hed fell jest to hear um rustle. i'd give a dollar this minute ter walk through the fallen leaves in the varmount woods! i didn't go out ter shoot things so much as i did to see things. there was plenty of squirrels, but i never shot but one red squirrel in my life. he come aout on the end of a limb clost to me an' chittered at me in a real jolly way, same's to say, 'hello, young feller! ain't this a fine day? ain't yeou glad yeou're livin'?' an' then i up an' shot him, like a gol-durn pirut!" ephraim stopped and choked a little. bart was looking at him now with a strange expression on his face. frank did not speak, but he was fully in sympathy with the tender-hearted country youth. bart rose to his feet, heaving a deep sigh. "i'm afraid i missed some things when i was a boy," he said. "there were plenty of woods for me, but i never found any pleasure in them. i used to think it fun to shoot squirrels; but now i believe it would have been greater pleasure for me if i had not shot them. i never listened to the music of the woods, for i didn't know there was any music in them. gallup, you have shown me that i was a fool." then, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he walked out of the room. because ephraim was very verdant the cowboys on the twin star fancied that mr. carson's other visitors must be equally as accustomed to western ways. frank was hard at work on his play, and that caused him to stick pretty close to the house. however, he was a person who believed in exercise when he could find it, and so, on the afternoon of the second day, he went out and asked one of the punchers if he could have a pony. the man looked him over without being able to wholly conceal his contempt. "kin you ride?" he asked. "yes," answered frank, quietly. "hawse or kaow?" asked the cowboy. "if you have a good saddle horse, i'd like to have him," said merry. "and be good enough to restrain your sarcasm. i don't like it." the puncher gasped. he was angry. the idea of a tenderfoot speaking to him in such a way! "all right," he muttered. "i'll git ye a critter, but our western hawses ain't like your eastern ladies' hawses." he departed. hodge had overheard all this, and he came up. "you want to look out, merry," he said. "that chap didn't like the way you called him down, and he'll bring you a vicious animal." "i know it," nodded merry, pulling on a pair of heavy gloves. "it is what i expect." bart said no more. he had seen merry ride, and he knew frank was a natural horse breaker. the puncher returned in a short time, leading a little, wiry, evil-eyed broncho. he was followed by several other cowboys, and merry heard one of them say: "better not let him try it, hough. he'll be killed, and carson will fire you." "i'll warn him," returned the one called hough, "an' then i won't be ter blame. he wants ter ride; let him ride--if he kin." frank looked the broncho over. "is this the best saddle horse you have?" he asked. "waal, he's the only one handy now," was the sullen answer. "he's a bit onreliable at times, an' you'd better look out fer him. i wouldn't recommend him for a lady ter ride." "by that i presume you mean he is a bucker?" "waal, he may buck some!" admitted the puncher, surprised that frank should ask such a question. "you haven't anything but a hackamore on him," said merry. "why didn't you put a bit in his mouth? do people usually ride with hackamores out here?" "he kinder objects to a bit," confessed the cowboy, his surprise increasing. "people out here ride with any old thing. mebbe you hadn't better try him." "has he ever been ridden?" "certainly." "you give your word to that?" "yep." "all right. then i'll ride him." frank went into the saddle before the puncher was aware that he contemplated such a thing. he yanked the halter out of the man's hand, who leaped aside, with a cry of surprise and fear, barely escaping being hit by the broncho's heels, for the creature wheeled and kicked, with a shrill scream. frank was entirely undisturbed. he had put on a pair of spurred riding boots which he found in the house, and now the broncho felt the prick of the spurs. then the broncho began to buck. down went his head, and up into the air went his heels; down came his heels, and up went his head. then he came down on all fours, and his entire body shot into the air. he came down stiff-legged, his back humped. again and again he did this, with his nose between his knees, but still the tenderfoot remained in the saddle. "good lord!" cried the wondering cowboys. bart hodge stood at one side, his hands in his pockets, a look of quiet confidence on his face. from an upper window of the ranch a pretty, sad-faced girl looked out, seeing everything. frank had noticed her just before mounting the broncho. he wondered not a little, for up to that moment he had known nothing of such a girl being there. he had not seen her before since coming to the ranch. all at once the broncho began to "pitch a-plunging," jumping forward as he bucked. he stopped short and whirled end-for-end, bringing his nose where his tail was a moment before. he did that as he leaped into the air. then he began to go up and down fore and aft with a decidedly nasty motion. he screamed his rage. he pitched first on one side and then on the other, letting his shoulders alternately jerk up and droop down almost to the ground. "good lord!" cried the cowboys again, for through all this frank merriwell sat firmly in the saddle. "is this yere your tenderfoot what yer told us ye was goin' ter learn a lesson, hough?" they asked. "waal, i'll be blowed!" was all the reply hough made. the broncho pitched "fence-cornered," but even that had no effect on the rider. hough told the truth when he said the animal had been ridden before. realizing at last the fruitlessness of its efforts, it suddenly ceased all attempts to unseat frank. two minutes later merriwell was riding away on the creature's back, and hough, the discomfited cowboy, was the laughing-stock of the twin star ranch. chapter vi. a change of name. at the open upper window of the ranch the sad-faced, pretty girl watched and waited till frank merriwell came riding back over the prairie. "here he comes!" she whispered. "he is handsome--so handsome! he is the first man i have seen who could be compared with lawton." kent carson had heard of frank's departure on wildfire, the bucking broncho. he found it difficult to believe that his guest had really ridden away on the animal, and he was on hand, together with bart and ephraim, when merry came riding back. near one of the corrals a group of cowboys had gathered to watch the remarkable tenderfoot, and make sarcastic remarks to hough, who was with them, looking sulky and disgusted. mr. carson hurried to greet frank. "look here, young man," he cried, "i'd like to know where you ever learned to ride bucking bronchos?" "this is not the first time i have been on a cattle ranch, mr. carson," smiled frank, springing down from wildfire. one of the cowboys came shuffling forward. it was hough. "say, tenderfoot," he said, keeping his eyes on the ground, "i allows that i made some onnecessary remarks ter you a while ago. i kinder hinted as how you might ride a kaow bettern a hawse. i'll take it all back. you may be a tenderfoot, but you knows how ter ride as well as any of us. i said some things what i hadn't oughter said, an' i swallers it all." "that's all right," laughed frank, good-naturedly. "you may have had good reasons for regarding tenderfeet with contempt, but now you will know all tenderfeet are not alike. i don't hold feelings." "thankee," said hough, as he led wildfire away. frank glanced up toward the open window above and again he caught a glimpse of that sad, sweet face. mr. carson shook hands with frank. "now i know you are the kind of chap to succeed in life," he declared. "i can see that you do whatever you undertake to do. i am beginning to understand better and better how it happened that my boy thought so much of you." he took frank by the arm, and together they walked toward the house. again merry glanced upward, but, somewhat to his disappointment, that face had vanished. it was after supper that merry and hodge were sitting alone on the veranda in front of the house, when bart suddenly said, in a low tone: "merriwell, i have a fancy that there is something mysterious about this place." "is that so?" said frank. "what is it?" "i think there is some one in one of those upper rooms who is never seen by the rest of the people about the place." "what makes you think so?" "there is a room up there that i've never seen anyone enter or leave. the door is always closed. twice while passing the door i have heard strange sounds coming from that room." "this grows interesting," admitted frank. "go on." "the first time," said bart, "i heard some one in there weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break." "her heart?" came quickly from merry's lips. "yes." "then it is a female?" "beyond a doubt. the second time i heard sounds in that room to-day after you rode away on the broncho. i heard some one singing in there." "singing?" "yes. it was a love song. the voice was very sad and sweet, and still there seemed something of happiness in it." hodge was silent. "well, you have stumbled on a mystery," nodded frank, slowly. "what do you make of it?" "i don't know what to make of it, unless some friend or relative of carson's is confined in that room." "why confined there?" "you know as well as i do." frank opened his lips to say something about the face he had seen at the window, but at that moment carson himself came out onto the veranda, smoking his pipe. the rancher took a chair near, and they chatted away as twilight and darkness came on. "how are you getting along on your play, mr. merriwell?" asked the man. "very well." answered frank. "you know it is a drama of college life--life at yale?" "no, i didn't know about that." "it is. just now i am puzzled most to find a name for it." "what was the name before?" "'for old eli.'" "u-hum. who was old eli?" "there!" cried merry. "that shows me there is a fault with the name. even though your boy is in yale, you do not know that yale college is affectionately spoken of by yale men as 'old eli.'" "no, never knew it before; though, come to think about it, berlin did write something in some of his letters about old eli. i didn't understand it, though." "and the public in general do not understand the title of my play. they suppose old eli must be a character in the piece, and i do not fancy there is anything catching and drawing about the title. i must have a new title, and i'm stuck to find one that will exactly fit." "i suppose you must have one that has some reference to college?" "oh, yes! that is what i want. one that brings yale in somehow." "all you yale men seem to be stuck on that college. you're true blue." frank leaped to his feet with a cry of delight. "i have it!" he exclaimed. "what?" gasped mr. carson. "the title!" "you have?" "yes; you gave it to me then!" "i did?" "sure thing." "what is it?" "'true blue.' that is a title that fits the play. yale's color is blue, you know. people may not understand just what the title means, but still i believe there is something attractive about it, something that will draw, and the audience will understand it before the play is over. 'true blue' is the name! i have been well paid for coming out here, mr. carson! besides entertaining me royally, you have given me a striking name for my play." "well, i'm sure i'm glad if i've done that," laughed kent carson. "i must put that title down on the manuscript," said frank. "i feel an inspiration. i must go to work at once. i am in the mood now, and i can write." excusing himself, he hurried into the house. soon a light gleamed from the window of the room in which he worked, which was on the ground floor. looking in at that window, hodge saw frank had started a fire in the grate and lighted a lamp. he was seated at a table, writing away swiftly. kent carson got up and stood beside hodge looking into the room. "merriwell is a great worker," said the rancher. "he's a steam engine," declared bart. "i never saw a fellow who could do so much work and so many things. there is no telling how long he will drive away at that play to-night. now that he has the title, he may finish it to-night, and be ready to leave here in the morning." "if that happens, i shall be sorry i gave the title so soon," said the cattleman, sincerely. "i have taken a great liking to that young man." frank worked away a long time, utterly unconscious of the flight of the hours. at last he became aware that the fire in the open grate had made the room uncomfortably warm. he had replenished it several times, as there was something wonderfully cheerful in an open fire. he arose and flung wide the window. the moon, a thin, shining scimitar, was low down in the west. soon it would drop from view beyond the horizon. there was a haze on the plain. slowly out of that haze came two objects that seemed to be approaching. "cattle," said merry, turning back from the window and sitting down at the table again. he resumed work on the play. he did not hear the door open softly, he did not hear a light footstep behind him, he did not hear a rustling sound quite near, and it was not until a deep, tremulous sigh reached his ears that he became aware of another presence in the room. like a flash frank whirled about and found himself face to face with---- the girl he had seen at the window! in astonishment frank gazed at the girl, who was dressed in some dark material, as if she were in mourning. he saw that she was quite as pretty as he had fancied at first, although her face was very pale and sad. the color of her dress and hair made her face seem paler than it really was. only a moment did frank remain thus. then he sprang up, bowing politely, and saying: "i beg your pardon! i did not know there was a lady in the room." she bowed in return. "do not rise," she said. "i saw you to-day from my window, and i could not sleep till i had seen you again. somehow you seemed to remind me of lawton. i thought so, then, but now it does not seem so much that way. still you made me think of him. i have been shut up there so long--so long! i have not talked to anybody, and i wanted to talk to somebody who could tell me something of the world--something of the places far away. i am buried here, where nobody knows anything to talk about but cattle and horses." frank's heart was thrilled with sympathy. "do they keep you shut up in that room?" he asked. "no; i stay there from choice. this is the first time i have been downstairs for weeks. i have refused to leave the room; i refused to see my father. i can't bear to have him look at me with such pity and anger." "your father--he is mr. carson?" "yes." "it is strange he has never spoken to me of you. i was not aware he had a daughter, although he spoke proudly of his son." in an instant frank regretted his words. a look of anguish swept over the face of the girl, and she fell back a step, one thin hand fluttering up to her bosom. "no!" she cried, and her voice was like the sob of the wind beneath the leaves of a deserted house; "he never speaks of me! he says i am dead--dead to the world. he is proud of his son, berlin, my brother; but he is ashamed of his daughter, blanche." frank began to suspect and understand the truth. this girl had met with some great sorrow, a sorrow that had wrecked her life. instantly merry's heart was overflowing with sympathy, but his situation was most embarrassing, and he knew not what to say. the girl seemed to understand this. "don't think me crazy because i have come here to you in this way," she entreated. "don't think me bold! oh, if you could know how i have longed for somebody with whom i could talk! i saw you were a gentleman. i knew my father would not introduce me to you, but i resolved to see you, hoping you would talk to me--hoping you would tell me of the things going on in the world." "i shall be glad to do so," said merry, gently. "but don't you have any papers, any letters, anything to tell you the things you wish to know?" "nothing--nothing! i am dead to the world. you were writing. have i interrupted you?" "no; i am through working on my play to-night." "your play?" she cried, eagerly. "what are you doing with a play? perhaps--perhaps----" she stopped speaking, seeming to make an effort to hold her eagerness in check. "i am writing a play," frank explained. "that is, i am rewriting it now. i wrote it some time ago and put it on the road, but it was a failure. i am going out again soon with a new company." her eagerness seemed to increase. "then you must know many actors," she said. "perhaps you know him?" "know whom?" "lawton--lawton kilgore." frank shook his head. "never heard of him." she showed great disappointment. "i am so sorry," she said. "i hoped you might be able to tell me something about him. if you can tell me nothing, i must tell you. i must talk to somebody. you see how it is. mother is dead. father sent me to school in the east. it was there that i met lawton. he was so handsome! he was the leading man in a company that i saw. then, after the company disbanded for the season, he came back to spend the summer in the town where i was at school. i suppose i was foolish, but fell in love with him. we were together a great deal. we became engaged." frank fancied he knew what was coming. the girl was skipping over the story as lightly as possible, but she was letting him understand it all. "i didn't write father about it," she went on, "for i knew he would not approve of lawton. he wanted me to marry brandon king, who owns the silver forks ranch. i did not love king. i loved lawton kilgore. but the principal of the school found out what was going on, and he wrote father. then lawton disappeared, and i heard nothing from him. they say he deserted me. i do not believe it. i think he was driven away. i waited and waited for him, but i could not study, i could not do anything. he never came back, and, at last, father came and took me away. he brought me here. he was ashamed of me, but he said he would not leave me to starve, for i was his own daughter. his kindness was cruel, for he cut me off from the world. still i believe that some day lawton will come for me and take me away from here. i believe he will come--if they have not killed him!" she whispered the final words. "they? who?" asked frank, startled. "my father and my brother," she answered. "they were furious enough to kill him. they swore they would." she had told merry her story, and she seemed to feel relieved. she asked him many questions about the actors he knew. he said he had the pictures of nearly all who had taken parts in his two plays. she asked to see them, and he brought them out from his large traveling case, showing them to her one by one. she looked at them all with interest. of a sudden, she gave a low, sharp cry. her hand darted out and caught up one of the photographs. "here--here!----" she panted. "you have his picture here! this is lawton kilgore--lawton, my lover!" it was the picture of leslie lawrence! chapter vii. the tragedy at the ranch. "that?" exclaimed frank. "you must be mistaken! that man's name is not kilgore, it is lawrence." he fancied the girl was crazy. he had wondered if her misfortune had affected her brain. "this is the picture of lawton kilgore!" she repeated, in a dull tone. "do you think i would not know him anywhere--under any circumstances? this is the man who promised to marry me! this is the man my father hates as he hates a snake!" "well, that man is worthy of your father's hatred," said merry, "for he is a thoroughbred villain. but i think you must be mistaken, for your father met him in denver. this man had me arrested, and your father followed to the police station, and was instrumental in securing my release. if this man was kilgore, your father would have found his opportunity to kill him." "you do not understand," panted the girl. "father has never seen him to know him--has never even seen his picture. if lawton was known by another name, father would not have recognized him, even though they met in denver." frank began to realize that the girl was talking in a sensible manner, and something told him she spoke the truth. to his other crimes, lawrence had added that of deceiving an innocent girl. "and he is in denver?" panted the rancher's daughter. "he is so near! oh, if he would come to me!" frank was sorry that he had permitted her to see the photographs, but it was too late now for regrets. the girl pressed the picture to her lips. "you must give it to me!" she panted. "i will take it to my room! i wish to be alone with it at once! oh, i thank you!" then she hurried from the room, leaving merry in anything but a pleasant frame of mind. there was a sound outside the window. frank got up and went over to the window. looking out, he saw two horses standing at a little distance from the ranch. a man was holding them, and the faint light of the moon fell on the man's face. "well, i wonder what that means?" speculated frank. "those horses are saddled and bridled. who is going to ride them to-night?" then he remembered the two forms he had seen coming out of the mist that lay on the plain, and he wondered if they had not been two horsemen. something about the appearance of the man at the heads of the horses seemed familiar. he looked closer. "about the size and build of lloyd fowler," he muttered. "looks like fowler, but of course it is not." there was a step on the veranda, and a figure appeared at the open window. into the room stepped a man. frank sprang back, and was face to face with the intruder. "leslie lawrence!" he whispered. "yes," said the man, advancing insolently; "i am leslie lawrence." "what do you want?" "i want an engagement in your new company. i have come here for it. will you give it to me?" frank was astounded by the insolence of the fellow. "i should say not!" he exclaimed. "what do you take me for? no, leslie lawrence, alias lawton kilgore, villain, deceiver of innocent girls, wretch who deserves hanging, i will not give you an engagement, unless it is with an outraged father. go! if you wish to live, leave instantly. if kent carson finds you here, he will know you now, and your life will not be worth a cent!" at this moment the door was flung open, and ephraim gallup came striding into the room, saying as he entered: "darned if i knowed there was a purty young gal in this haouse! thought i'd come daown, frank, an' see if yeou was goin' to stay up all night writin' on that play of---- waal, i be gosh-blamed!" ephraim saw lawrence, and he was astounded. "didn't know yeou hed visitors, frank," he said. "so you refuse me an engagement, do you, merriwell?" snarled lawrence. "all right! you'll wish you hadn't in a minute!" he made a spring for the table and caught up the manuscript lying on it. then he leaped toward the open grate, where the fire was burning. "that's the last of your old play!" he shouted, hurling the manuscript into the flames. both frank and ephraim sprang to save the play, but neither of them was in time to prevent lawrence's revengeful act. "you miserable cur!" panted frank. out shot his fist, striking the fellow under the ear, and knocking him down. at the same time ephraim snatched the manuscript from the fire and beat out the flames which had fastened on it. lawrence sat up, his hand going round to his hip. he wrenched out a revolver and lifted it. frank saw the gleam of the weapon, realized his danger, and dropped an instant before the pistol spoke. the shot rang out, but even as he pressed the trigger, lawrence realized that merriwell had escaped. but beyond frank, directly in line, he saw a pale-faced girl who had suddenly appeared in the open door. he heard her cry "lawton!" and then, through the puff of smoke, he saw her clutch her breast and fall on the threshold, shot down by his own hand! horror and fear enabled him to spring up, plunge out of the open window, reach the horses, leap on one and go thundering away toward the moonlight mists as if satan were at his heels. there was a tumult at the twin star. there was hot mounting to pursue lawrence and his companion. carson had heard the shot. he had rushed down to find his daughter, shot in the side, supported in the arms of frank merriwell. a few words had told carson just what had happened. he swore a fearful oath to follow lawrence to death. the girl heard the oath. she opened her eyes and whispered: "father--don't! he didn't mean--to shoot--me! it was--an--accident!" "i'll have the whelp stiff at my feet before morning!" vowed the revengeful rancher. he gave orders for the preparing of horses. he saw his daughter carried to her room. he lingered till the old black housekeeper was at the bedside to bind up the wound and do her best to save the girl. then carson bounded down the stairs and sent a cowboy flying off on horseback for the nearest doctor, a hundred miles away. "kill the horse under ye, if necessary, prescott!" he had yelled at the cowboy. "get the doctor here as quick as you can!" "all right, sir!" shouted prescott, as he thundered away. "now!" exclaimed kent carson--"now to follow that murderous hound till i run him to earth!" he found men and horses ready and waiting. he found frank merriwell and bart hodge there, both of them determined to take part in the pursuit. "we know him," said merriwell. "he fired that shot at me. we can identify him." frank believed that lawrence had murdered the rancher's daughter, and he, like the others, was eager to run the wretch down. they galloped away in pursuit, the rancher, four cowboys, merriwell and hodge, all armed, all grim-faced, all determined. the sun had risen when they came riding back to the ranch. ephraim gallup met frank. "did ye git ther critter?" he asked, in a whisper. "no," was the answer. "then he got erway?" came in accents of disappointment from the vermonter. "no." "whut? haow's that?" "neither lawrence nor fowler escaped." "then it was fowler with him?" "i believe so." "whut happened to um?" "they attempted to ford big sandy river." "an' got drownded?" "no. where they tried to cross is nothing but a bed of quicksands. horses and men went down into the quicksands. they were swallowed up forever." the doctor came at last. he extracted the bullet from blanche carson's side, and he told her she would get well, as the wound was not dangerous. kent carson heard this with deep relief. he went to the bedside of the girl and knelt down there. "blanche," he whispered, huskily, "can you forgive your old dad for treating you as he has? you are my own girl--my little blanche--no matter what you have done." "father!" she whispered, in return, "i am glad you have come to me at last. but you know you are ashamed of me--you can never forget what i have done." "i can forget now," he declared, thinking of the man under the quicksands of big sandy. "you are my daughter. i am not ashamed of you. you shall never again have cause for saying that of me." "kiss me, papa!" she murmured. sobbing brokenly, he pressed his lips to her cheeks. and when he was gone from the room she took a photograph from beneath her pillow and gazed at it long and lovingly. she knew not that the man had been swallowed beneath the quicksands of the big sandy. * * * * * the tragic occurrences of the night hastened the departure of frank and his friends from twin star ranch, although kent carson urged them to remain. frank had, however, finished his play, which, thanks to the prompt act of ephraim, had been only slightly injured by its fiery experience, and was anxious to put it in rehearsal. so, a day or so later, frank, bart and ephraim were once more in denver. chapter viii. the old actor's champions. along a street of denver walked a man whose appearance was such as to attract attention wherever seen. that he had once been an actor could be told at a glance, and that he had essayed great rôles was also apparent. but, alas! it was also evident that the time when this thespian trod the boards had departed forever, and with that time his glory had vanished. his ancient silk hat, although carefully brushed, was shabby and grotesque in appearance. his prince albert coat, buttoned tight at the waist, and left open at the bosom, was shabby and shining, although it also betokened that, with much effort, he had kept it clean. his trousers bagged at the knees, and there were signs of mannish sewing where two or three rents and breaks had been mended. the legs of the trousers were very small, setting tightly about his thin calves. his shoes were in the worst condition of all. although they had been carefully blackened and industriously polished, it was plain that they could not hold together much longer. the soles were almost completely worn away, and the uppers were breaking and ripping. the "linen" of this frayed gentleman seemed spotlessly white. his black silk necktie was knotted in a broad bow. the man's face was rather striking in appearance. the eyes had once been clear and piercing, the mouth firm and well formed; but there was that about the chin which belied the firmness of the mouth, for this feature showed weakness. the head was broad at the top, with a high, wide brow. the eyes were set so far back beneath the bushy, grayish eyebrows that they seemed like red coals glowing in dark caverns--for red they were and bloodshot. the man's long hair fell upon the collar of his coat. and on his face was set the betraying marks of the vice that had wrought his downfall. the bloodshot eyes alone did not reveal it, but the purplish, unhealthy flush of the entire face and neck plainly indicated that the demon drink had fastened its death clutch upon him and dragged him down from the path that led to the consummation of all his hopes and aspirations. he had been drinking now. his unsteady step told that. he needed the aid of his cane in order to keep on his feet. he slipped, his hat fell off, rolled over and over, dropped into the gutter, and lay there. the unfortunate man looked round for the hat, but it was some time before he found it. when he did, in attempting to pick it up, he fell over in the gutter and rolled upon it, soiling his clothes. at last, with a great effort, he gathered himself up, and rose unsteadily to his feet with his hat and cane. "what, ho!" he muttered, thickly. "it seems the world hath grown strangely unsteady, but, perchance, it may be my feet." some boys who had seen him fall shouted and laughed at him. he looked toward them sadly. "mock! mock! mock!" he cried. "some of you thoughtless brats may fall even lower than i have fallen!" "well, i like that--i don't think!" exclaimed one of the boys. "i don't 'low no jagged stiff to call me a brat!" then he threw a stone at the old actor, striking the man on the cheek and cutting him slightly. the unfortunate placed his crushed and soiled hat on his head, took out a handkerchief, and slowly wiped a little blood from his cheek, all the while swaying a bit, as if the ground beneath his feet were tossing like a ship. "'now let it work,'" he quoted. "'mischief, thou art afoot; take thou what course thou wilt. how now, fellow?'" the thoughtless young ruffians shouted with laughter. "looker the old duffer!" cried one. "ain't that a picture fer yer!" "look!" exclaimed the actor. "behold me with thy eyes! even lower than i have fallen may thou descend; but i have aspired to heights of which thy sordid soul may never dream. out upon you, dog!" with these words he reached the walk and turned down the street. "let's foller him!" cried one of the gang. "we can have heaps of fun with him." "come on! come on!" with a wild whoop, they rushed after the man. they reached him, danced around him, pulled his coat tails, jostled him, crushed his hat over his eyes. "give the old duffer fits!" cried the leader, who was a tough young thug of about eighteen. there were seven boys in the gang, and four or five others came up on the run, eager to have a hand in the "racket." the old actor pushed his hat back from his eyes, folded his arms over his out-thrown breast and gazed with his red, sunken eyes at the leader. as if declaiming on the stage he spoke: "'you have done that you should be sorry for. there is no terror, cassius, in your threats; for i am armed so strong in honesty that they pass me by as the idle wind, which i respect not.'" this caused the boys to shout with laughter. "git onter ther guy!" "what ails him?" "he's locoed." "loaded, you mean." "he's cracked in the nut." "and he needs another crack on the nut," shouted the leader, dancing up, and again knocking the hat over the old man's eyes. once more pushing it back, the aged actor spoke in his deep voice, made somewhat husky by drink: "be patient till the last. romans, countrymen and lovers! hear me for my cause; and be silent that you may hear; believe me for mine honor; and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe; censure me in your wisdom, and awaken your senses, that you may----" "oh, that's too much!" cried the ruffianly young leader. "we can't stand that kind of guy. what're yer givin' us, anyway?" "he's drunk!" shouted several. "alas and alack!" sighed the old man. "i fear thou speakest the truth. "'boundless intemperance in nature is a tyranny; it hath been the untimely emptying of the happy throne, and the fall of many kings.'" "that's what causes your fall," declared the ruffianly leader, as he tripped the actor, causing him to fall heavily. "what's this?" exclaimed frank merriwell, who, with hodge for a companion, just returned from twin star ranch, at this moment came into view round a corner. "what are those fellows doing to that poor man?" "raising hob with him," said bart, quickly. "the old fellow is drunk and they are abusing him." "well, i think it's time for us to take a hand in that!" "i should say so!" "come on!" frank sprang forward; bart followed. the old actor was just making an effort to get up. the young ruffian who led the gang kicked him over. the sight made frank's blood leap. "you cowardly young cur!" he cried, and he gave the fellow a crack on the ear that sent him spinning. hodge struck out right and left, quickly sending two of the largest fellows to the ground. "permit me to assist you, sir," said frank, stooping to aid the actor to rise. the leader of the gang had recovered. he uttered a mad howl. "at 'em fellers! knock the stuffin's outer them!" he screamed, rushing on frank. merry straightened up instantly. he whirled about and saw the biggest tough coming at him, with the rest of the gang at his back. then frank laughed. "walk right up, you young terriers!" he cried, in a clear, ringing voice. "we'll make it rather interesting for you! give it to them, hodge!" hodge did so. together the two friends met the onslaught of the gang. their hard fists cracked on the heads of the young ruffians, and it was astonishing how these fellows were bowled over. bart was aroused. his intense anger was betrayed by his knotted forehead, his flashing eyes, and his gleaming teeth. he did not speak a word, but he struck swift, strong and sure. if those chaps had expected an easy thing with the two well-dressed youths who had interfered with their sport, they met the disappointment of their lives. it actually seemed that, at one time, every one of the gang had been knocked sprawling, and not one was on his feet to face the fighting champions of the old actor. it was a terrible surprise for the toughs. one after another, they sprang up and took to their heels. "what have we struck?" gasped the leader, looking up at frank. "get up!" invited merry, standing over him--"get up, and i will give you another dose!" "excuse me!" gasped the fellow, as he scrambled away on his hands and knees, sprang up and followed the rest of the young thugs. it was over; the gang had been put to flight, and it had been accomplished in a very few moments. hodge stood there, panting, glaring about, looking surprised and disappointed, as well as angry. "that was too easy!" he exclaimed. "i thought we were in for a fight." "evidently they did not stand for our kind of fighting," smiled frank. "it surprised them so that they threw up the sponge before the fight was fairly begun." "i didn't get half enough of it," muttered bart. during the fight the old actor had risen to his feet. now frank picked up his hat and restored it to him, after brushing some dirt from it. the man received it with a profound bow. placing it on his head, he thrust his right hand into the bosom of his coat, struck a pose, and cried: "'are yet two romans living such as these? the last of all the romans!'" "we saw you were in trouble," said merry, "and we hastened to give you such assistance as we could." "it was a goodly deed, a deed well done. thy arms are strong, thy hearts are bold. methinks i see before me two noble youths, fit to have lived in the days of knighthood." "you are very complimentary," smiled frank, amused at the old man's quaint way. the actor took his hand from his bosom and made a deprecating gesture, saying: "'nay, do not think i flatter; for what advancement may i hope from thee?' i but speak the thoughts my heart bids me speak. i am old, the wreck of a once noble man; yet you did not hesitate to stand by me in my hour of need, even at peril to yourselves. i cannot reward you. i can but offer the thanks of one whose name it may be you have never heard--one whose name to-day, but for himself and his own weakness, might be on the tongues of the people of two continents. gentlemen, accept the thanks of william shakespeare burns." "mr. burns," said frank, "from your words, and your manner, i am led to believe that you are an actor." "nay, nay. once i trod the boards and interpreted the characters of the immortal bard, for whom i was named. that time is past. i am an actor no longer; i am a 'has been.' my day is past, my sun hath set, and night draweth on apace." "i thought i could not be mistaken," said frank. "we, too, are actors, although not shakespearian ones." "is this true?" exclaimed the old tragedian. "and i have been befriended by those who wouldst follow the noble art! brothers, i greet thee! but these are sad, sad days, for the drama hath fallen into a decline. the legitimate is scoffed at, the stage is defiled by the ribald jest, the clownish low-comedy star, the dancing and singing comedian, and vaudeville--ah, me! that we should have fallen into such evil ways. the indecencies now practiced in the name of art and the drama are enough to make the immortal william turn in his grave. oh, for the good old days! but they are gone--forever gone!" "it seems strange to meet an actor like you 'at liberty,' and so far from the rialto," declared merry. "i have been touring the country, giving readings," burns hastened to explain. "ah, it is sad, sad! once i might have packed the largest theater of the metropolis; to-day i am doing well if i bring out a round dozen to listen to my readings at some crossroad schoolhouse in the country. thus have the mighty fallen!" "i presume you are thinking of getting back to new york?" "nay, nay. what my eyes have beheld there and my ears have heard is enough. my heart is sick within me. i was there at the opening of the season. one broadway theater was given over to burlesque of the very lowest order, while another was but little better in character. a leading theater close to broadway was packed every night by well-dressed people who went there to behold a vile french farce, in which the leading lady disrobed upon the stage. ah, me! in truth, the world hath gone wrong! the ways of men are evil, and all their thoughts are vile. it is well that shakespeare cannot rise from his grave to look upon the horrors now perpetrated on the english-speaking stage. if he were to be restored to life and visit one of our theaters, i think his second funeral would take place the following day. he would die of heart failure." frank laughed heartily. "i believe you are right. it would give william a shock, that is certain. but there are good modern plays, you know." the actor shook his head. "i do not know," he declared. "i have not seen them. if there is not something nasty in the play of to-day, then it must of a certainty have its 'effect' in the way of some mechanical contrivance--a horse race, a steamboat explosion, a naval battle, or something of the sort. it seems that a piece cannot survive on its merits as a play, but must, perforce, be bolstered up by some wretched device called an 'effect.'" "truer words were never spoken," admitted frank. "and still there are a few plays written to-day that do not depend on such devices. in order to catch the popular fancy, however, i have found it necessary to introduce 'effects.'" "you speak as one experienced in the construction of plays." "i have had some experience. i am about to start on the road with my own company and my own play." of a sudden frank seemed struck by an idea. "by jove!" he exclaimed. "did you say you were at liberty?" "just at present, yes." "then, if i can get you, you are the very man i want." the old man shook his head. "your play can contain no part i would care to interpret," he said, with apparent regret. "but i think it is possible that you might be induced to play the part. i had a man for it, but i lost him. i was on my way to the orpheum, to see if i could not find another to fill his place." "what sort of a part is it?" asked burns, plainly endeavoring to conceal his eagerness. "it is comedy." "what!" cried the old actor, aghast and horrified. "wouldst offer me such a part? dost think i--i who have played _hamlet_, _brutus_, _lear_ and _othello_--would stoop so low? 'this is the most unkindest cut of all!'" "but there is money in it--good, sure money. i have several thousand dollars to back me, and i am going out with my piece to make or break. i shall keep it on the road several weeks, at any cost." the old actor shook his head. "it cannot be," he sadly said. "i am no comedian. i could not play the part." "if you will but dress as you are, if you will add a little that is fantastic to your natural acting, you can play the part. it is that of a would-be tragedian--a shakespearian actor." "worse and worse!" moaned the old man. "you would have me burlesque myself! out upon you!" "i will pay you thirty-five dollars a week and railroad expenses. how can you do better?" "thirty-fi----" the old actor gasped for breath. he seemed unable for some moments to speak. it was plain that the sum seemed like a small fortune to him. at last his dignity and his old nature reasserted itself. "young man," he said, "dost know what thou hast done? i--i am william shakespeare burns! a paltry thirty-five per week! bah! go to!" "well, i'll make it forty, and i can get a hundred good men for that at this time of the season." the aged thespian bowed his head. slowly he spoke, again quoting: "why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! you would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck to the heart of my mystery." "but the money, you seem to need that. money is a good thing to have." "'methinks there is much reason in his sayings.' it is true. ah! but how can i thus lower myself?" "as you have said, the good old days are past. it is useless to live for them. live for the present--and the future. money is base stuff, but we must have it. come, come; i know you can do the part. we'll get along splendidly." "'good reasons must, of force, give place to better.' as cassius saith, 'men at some time in their lives are masters of their fates;' but i think for me that time is past. but forty dollars--ye gods!" "it is better than reading to a scant dozen listeners at crossroads schoolhouses." "ah, well! you take advantage of my needs. i accept. but i must have a dollar at once, with which to purchase that which will drown the shame my heart doth feel." "you shall have the dollar," assured frank. "come along with us, and we will complete arrangements." so the old actor was borne away, outwardly sad, but inwardly congratulating himself on the greatest streak of luck he had come upon in many moons. chapter ix. welcome letters. frank merriwell was determined to give a performance of his revised play in denver for advertising purposes. he had the utmost confidence in "true blue," as he had rechristened the piece, but the report of his failure in puelbo had spread afar in dramatic circles, being carried broadcast by the eastern dramatic papers, and managers were shy of booking the revised version. some time before, after receiving the fortune from the carson city bank, merry had made a fair and equal division, sending checks for their share to browning, diamond and rattleton. toots' share he had been unable to forward, not knowing the address of the faithful darky, who had been forced to go forth into the world to win his way when frank met with the misfortune that caused him to leave yale. and now came three letters from three yale men. diamond's was brief. "dear old comrade: it is plain you are still a practical joker. your very valuable (?) check on the first national of denver received. i really do not know what to do with so much money! but i am afraid you are making a mistake by using a check on an existing bank. why didn't you draw one on 'the first sand bank of denver'? it would have served your purpose just as well. "can't write much now, as i am making preparations for vacation, which is only a month away. i'm afraid it will be a sorry vacation for me this year; not much like the last one. then we were all together, and what times we did have at fardale and in maine! i'm blue to-night, old friend, and do not feel like writing. i fancy it has made me feel bluer than ever to read in the _dramatic reflector_ of your unfortunate failure in puelbo and the disbanding of your company after your backer deserted you. hard luck, frank--hard luck! all the fellows have been hoping you would make money enough to come back here in the fall, but all that is over now. "what are you doing? can't you find time to write to us and let us know? we are very anxious about you. i will write you again when i am more in the mood. hoping your fortune may turn for the better, i remain, "always your friend, "jack diamond." frank read this aloud to hodge and gallup in his room at the metropole hotel. "waal, by ginger!" exploded ephraim. "what do yeou think of that?" "now you see what your reputation as a practical joker is doing for you, merry," said hodge. "well, i'll be hanged if i don't believe diamond considers it a joke!" laughed frank. "of course he does," nodded bart. "well, he is putting a joke on himself. he'll be somewhat surprised when he discovers that." ephraim began to grin. "that's so, by thutter!" he cried. "here is a letter from rattleton," said merry, picking up another from the mail he had just received. "i wonder how he takes it?" "read it and find aout," advised gallup. "a wise suggestion," bowed frank, with mock gravity, tearing it open. this is what he read: "dear merry: cheese it! what do you take us for--a lot of chumps? we're onto you! eight thousand fiddlesticks! i'm going to have the check framed and hang it in my room. it will be a reminder of you. "say, that was tough about your fizzle in puelbo! it came just when we were hoping, you know. the fellows have been gathering at the fence and talking about you and your return to college since browning came back and told us how you were making a barrel of money with your play. now the report of your disaster is spread broadcast, and we know you cannot come back. it's tough. "diamond is in a blue funk. he hasn't been half the man he was since you went away. hasn't seemed to care much of anything about studying or doing anything else, and, as a result, it is pretty certain he'll be dropped a class. "but diamond is not the only one. you know browning was dropped once. he is too lazy to study, but, in order to keep in your class, he might have pulled through had you been here. now it is known for an almost certain thing that he will not be able to pass exams, and you know what that means. "i'm not going to say anything about myself. it's dull here. none of your friends took any interest in the college theatricals last winter, and the show was on the bum. the whole shooting match made a lot of guys of themselves. "baseball has been dead slow, so far this season. we are down in the mud, with princeton crowing. it takes you, merry, to twist the tiger's tail! what was the matter? everything. all the pitchers could do for us was to toss 'em up and get batted out of the box. the new men were not in it. they had glass arms, and the old reliables had dead wings. it was pitiful! i can't write any more about it. "i'd like to see you, frank! would i? ask me! oh, say! don't you think you can arrange it so you can come east this summer? come and see me. say, come and stay all summer with me at my home! we won't do a thing but have a great time. write to me and give me your promise you will come. don't you refuse me, old man. "yours till death, "rattles. "here's another!" cried frank. "if that doesn't beat! why, they all think those checks fakes!" "as i said before," said hodge, "you see what your reputation as a practical joker is doing for you." "i see," nodded frank. "it is giving me a chance to get a big joke on those fellows. they will drop dead when they learn those checks actually are good." "waal, i should say yes!" nodded ephraim. "jest naow they're kainder thinkin' yeou are an object fer charity." "here's browning's letter." "mr. frank merriwell, millionaire and philanthropist. "dear sir: i seize my pen in my hand, being unable to seize it with my foot, and hasten to acknowledge the receipt of your princely gift. with my usual energy and haste, i dash off these few lines at the rate of ten thousand words a minute, only stopping to rest after each word. after cashing your check with the pawnbroker, i shall use the few dollars remaining to settle in part with my tailor, who has insisted in a most ungentlemanly manner on the payment of his little bill, which has been running but a short time--less than two years, i think. the sordid greed and annoying persistence of this man has much embarrassed me, and i would pay him off entirely, if it were not that i wish to get my personal property out of my 'uncle's' safe-deposit vault, where it has been resting for some time. "it is evident to me that you have money to burn in an open grate. that is great, as griswold would say. and it was so kind of you to remember your old friends. the little hint accompanying each check that thus you divided the spoils of our great trip across the continent was not sufficient to deceive anyone into the belief that this was other than a generous act on your part and a free gift. "there is not much news to write, save that everybody is in the dumps and everything has turned blue. i suppose some of the others will tell you all about things, so that will save me the task, which you know i would intensely enjoy, as i do love to work. it is the joy of my life to labor. i spend as much time as possible each day working on a comfortable couch in my room; but i will confess that i might not work quite so hard if it was not necessary to draw at the pipe in order to smoke up. "when are you coming east? aren't you getting tired of the west? why can't you make a visit to yale before vacation time? you would be received with great _éclat_. excuse my french. i have to fling it around occasionally, when i can't think of any latin or greek. why do you suppose latin and greek were invented? why didn't those old duffers use english, and save us poor devils no end of grinding? "unfortunately, i have just upset the ink, and, having no more, i must quit. "yours energetically, "bruce browning." "well, it's simply marvelous that he stuck to it long enough to write all that!" laughed frank. "and he, like the others, thinks the check a fake." hodge got up and stood looking sullenly out of the window. "what's the matter, bart?" asked merry, detecting that there was something wrong. "nothing," muttered the dark-faced fellow. "oh, come! was there anything in those letters you did not like?" "no. it was something there was not in the letters." "what?" "not one of those fellows even mentioned me!" cried hodge, fiercely whirling about. "i didn't care a rap about diamond and rattleton, but browning would have showed a trace of decency if he had said a word about me. he made a bad blunder and was forced to confess it, but i'll bet he doesn't think a whit more of me now." "oh, you are too sensitive, old man. they did not even write anything in particular for news, and think how many of my friends at college they failed to mention." "oh, well; they knew i was with you, and one of them might have asked for me. i hope you may go back to yale, merry, but wild horses could not drag me back there! i hate them all!" "hate them, hodge?" "yes, hate them!" bart almost shouted. "they are a lot of cads! there is not a whole man among them!" then he strode out of the room, giving the door a bang behind him. of course frank made haste to reply to the letters of his college chums, assuring them that the checks were perfectly good, and adding that, although he had some reputation as a practical joker, he was not quite crazy enough to utter a worthless check on a well-known bank, as that would be a criminal act. frank mentioned hodge, and, without saying so in so many words, gave them to understand that bart felt the slight of not being spoken of in any of the letters from his former acquaintances. one thing frank did not tell them, and that was that he was on the point of starting out again with his play, having renamed it, and rewritten it, and added a sensational feature of the "spectacular" order in the view of a boat race between yale, harvard and cornell. even though he was venturing everything on the success of the piece, merry realized now better than ever before that no man was so infallible that he could always correctly foretell the fate of an untried play. it is a great speculation to put a play on the road at large expense. the oldest managers are sometimes deceived in the value of a dramatic piece of property, and it is not an infrequent thing that they lose thousands of dollars in staging and producing a play in which they have the greatest confidence, but which the theater-going public absolutely refuses to accept. frank had been very confident that his second play would be a winner in its original form, but disaster had befallen it at the very start. he might have kept it on the road as it stood, for, at the very moment when he seemed hopelessly stranded without a dollar in the world, fortune had smiled upon him by placing in his hands the wealth which he had found in the utah desert at the time of his bicycle tour across the continent. but merry had realized that, in the condition in which it then stood, it was more than probable that the play would prove an utter failure should he try to force it upon the public. this caused him to take prompt action. first he brought the company to denver, holding all of them, save the two men who had caused him no small amount of trouble, namely, lloyd fowler and charlie harper. calmly reviewing his play at twin star ranch, frank decided that the comedy element was not strong enough in the piece to make it a popular success on the road; accordingly he introduced two new characters. it would be necessary, in order to produce the effect that he desired, to employ a number of "supers" in each place where the play was given, as he did not believe he would be warranted in the expense of carrying nonspeaking characters with him. on his return to denver frank had hastened at once to look over the "mechanical effect" which had been constructed for him. it was not quite completed, but was coming on well, and, as far as frank could see, had been constructed perfectly according to directions and plans. of course, one man had not done the work alone. he had been assisted by carpenters and scene painters, and the work had been rushed. merry got his company together and began rehearsing the revised play. his paper from chicago came on, and examination showed that it was quite "up to the mark." in fact, havener, the stage manager, was delighted with it, declaring that it was the most attractive stuff he had seen in many years. but for the loss of one of the actors he had engaged to fill one of the comedy parts, merry would have been greatly pleased by the manner in which things moved along. now, however, he believed that in william shakespeare burns he had found a man who could fill the place left vacant. although hodge had been ready enough to defend burns from the young ruffians who were hectoring him on the street, he had little faith in the man as a comedian. hodge could see no comedy in the old actor. to tell the truth, it was seldom that hodge could see comedy in anything, and low comedy, sure to appeal to the masses, he regarded as foolish. for another reason hodge felt uncertain about burns. it was plain that the aged tragedian was inclined to look on the wine "when it was red," and bart feared he would prove troublesome and unreliable on that account. "i am done with the stuff!" hodge had declared over and over. "on that night in the ruffians' den at ace high i swore never to touch it again, for i saw what brutes it makes of men. i have little confidence in any man who will drink it." "oh, be a little more liberal," entreated frank. "you know there are men who drink moderately, and it never seems to harm them." "i know there are such men," admitted bart; "but it is not blood that runs in their veins. it's water." "not all men are so hot-blooded and impulsive as you and jack diamond." "don't speak of diamond! i don't think anything of that fellow. i am talking about this burns. he is a sot, that's plain. drink has dragged him down so far that all the powers in the world cannot lift him up. some night when everything depends on him, he will fail you, for he will be too drunk to play his part. then you will be sorry that you had anything to do with him." "all the powers in this world might not be able to lift him up," admittted frank; "but there are other powers that can do so. i pity the poor, old man. he realizes his condition and what he has missed in life." "but the chances are that the audience will throw things at him when he appears as a comedian." "instead of that, i believe he will convulse them with laughter." "well, you have some queer ideas. we'll see who's right." frank kept track of burns, dealing out but little money to him, and that in small portions, so that the old actor could not buy enough liquor to get intoxicated, if he wished to do so. the first rehearsal was called on the stage of the theater in denver. merry had engaged the theater for that purpose. the entire company assembled. frank addressed them and told them that he was glad to see them again. one and all, they shook hands with him. then burns was called forward and introduced as the new comedian. at this he drew himself up to his full height, folded his arms across his breast, and said: "ay! 'new' is the word for it, for never before, i swear, have i essayed a rôle so degraded or one that hath so troubled me by night and by day. comedy, comedy, what sins are committed in thy name!" granville garland nudged douglas dunton in the ribs, whispering in his ear: "behold your rival!" "methinks he intrudeth on my sacred territory," nodded dunton. "but he has to do it on the stage, and on the stage i am a villain. we shall not quarrel." burns proved to be something of a laughing-stock for the rest of the company. "he's a freak," declared billy wynne, known as "props." "all of that," agreed lester vance. "i don't understand why merriwell should pick up such a creature for us to associate with," sniffed agnes kirk. "but merriwell is forever doing something freakish. just think how he carried around that black tramp cat that came onto the stage to hoodoo us the first time we rehearsed this piece." "and there is the cat now!" exclaimed vance, as the same black cat came walking serenely onto the stage. "yes, here is the cat," said frank, who overheard the exclamation. "she was called a hoodoo before. i have determined that she shall be a mascot, and it is pretty hard to get me to give anything up when i am determined upon it." "well, i haven't a word to say!" declared agnes kirk, but she looked several words with her eyes. the rehearsal began and progressed finely till it was time for burns to enter. the old actor came on, but when he tried to say his lines the words seemed to stick in his throat and choke him. several times he started, but finally he broke down and turned to frank, appealingly, saying, huskily: "i can't! i can't! it is a mockery and an insult to the dead bard of avon! it's no use! i give it up. i need the money, but i cannot insult the memory of william shakespeare by making a burlesque of his immortal works!" then he staggered off the stage. chapter x. at the foot of the bed. late that evening, after the work and rehearsing of the day was over, frank, bart and ephraim gathered in the room of the first-mentioned and discussed matters. "i told you burns was no good," said hodge, triumphantly, "i knew how it would be, but he showed up sooner than i expected. i suppose you will get rid of him in a hurry now?" "i think not," answered merry, quietly. "what?" cried hodge, astounded. "you don't mean to say you will keep him after what has happened?" "i may." "well, frank, i'm beginning to believe the theatrical business has turned your head. you do not seem to possess the good sense you had once." "is that so?" laughed merry. "just so!" snapped hodge. "oh, i don't know! i rather think burns will turn out all right." "after making such a fizzle to-day? well, you're daffy!" "you do not seem to understand the man at all. i can appreciate his feelings." "i can't!" "i thought not. it must be rather hard for him, who has always considered himself a tragedian and a shakespeare scholar, to burlesque the parts he has studied and loved." "bah! that's nonsense! why, the man's a pitiful old drunkard! you give him credit for too fine feelings." "and you do not seem to give him credit for any feelings. even a drunkard may have fine feelings at times." "perhaps so." "perhaps so! i know it. it is drink that degrades and lowers the man. when he is sober, he may be kind, gentle and lovable." "well, i haven't much patience with a man who will keep himself filled with whisky." frank opened his lips to say something, but quickly changed his mind, knowing he must cut hodge deeply. he longed, however, to say that the ones most prone to err and fall in this life are often the harshest judges of others who go astray. "i ruther pity the pore critter," said ephraim; "but i don't b'lieve he'll ever make ennyboddy larf in the world. he looks too much like a funeral." "that is the very thing that should make them laugh, when he has his make-up on. i have seen the burlesque tragedian overdone on the stage, so that he was nauseating; but i believe burns can give the character just the right touch." "well, if you firmly believe that, it's no use to talk to you, for you'll never change your mind till you have to," broke out hodge. "i have seen a sample of that in the way you deal with your enemies. now, there was leslie lawrence----" "let him rest in peace," said frank. "he is gone forever." "an' it's a dinged good riddance!" said gallup. "the only thing i'm sorry fer is that the critter escaped lynchin'!" "yes, he should have been lynched!" flashed bart. "at the twin star ranch now the poor girl he deserted is lying on a bed of pain, shot down by his dastardly hand." "he did not intend the bullet for her," said frank, quickly. "no; but he intended it for you! it was a great case of luck that he didn't finish you. if you had pushed the villain to the wall before that, instead of dealing with him as if he had the least instinct of a gentleman in his worthless body, you would have saved the girl from so much suffering." "she loves him still," said frank. "her last words to me were a message to him, for she does not know he is dead beneath the quicksands of big sandy." "the quicksands saved him from the gallows." "an' they took another ungrateful rascal along with him, b'gee!" said ephraim, with satisfaction. "yes," nodded frank; "i think there is no doubt but lloyd fowler perished with lawrence, for i fancied i recognized fowler in the fellow who accompanied lawrence that fatal night." "and fowler was a drinking man, so i should think he would be a warning to you," said hodge. "i shouldn't think you'd care to take another sot into the company." "you must know that there is as little resemblance between fowler and burns as there is between night and day." "perhaps so, but burns can drink more whisky than fowler ever could." "and he is ashamed of himself for it. i have talked with him about it, and i know." "oh, he made you believe so. he is slick." "he was not trying to deceive me." "so you think. he knows where his money comes from to buy whisky. it's more than even chance that, when you are ready to start on the road, he will give you the slip." "he asked me to release him to-day." "and you refused?" "i did. i urged him to stay with us." hodge got up. "that settles it!" he exclaimed. "now i know theatricals have wrought your downfall! your glory is fast departing." "then let it depart!" laughed frank. "you have been forced to confess yourself mistaken on other occasions; you may on this." "good-night," said hodge, and he went out. ephraim grinned. "some fellows would say it'd be a gol-danged sensible thing fer yeou to git rid of that feller," he said, nodding toward the door. "he's gittin' to be the greatest croaker i ever knew." "hodge is getting worse," admitted frank, gravely. "i think the unfortunate end of his college course has had much to do with it. he broods over that a great deal, and it is making him sour and unpleasant. i can imagine about how he feels." "if he ever larfed he'd be more agreeable. danged if i like a feller that alwus looks so sollum an' ugly. sometimes he looks as ef he could snap a spike off at one bite an' not harf try." "wait," said frank. "if i am successful with this play, i hope to go back to yale in the fall and take hodge with me. i think he is getting an idea into his head that his life career has been ruined at the very start, and that is making him bitter. i'll take him back, run him into athletics, get his mind off such unpleasant thoughts, and make a new man of him." "waal, i hope ye do," said gallup, rising and preparing to go. "there's jest one thing abaout hodge that makes me keer a rap fer him." "what's that?" "it's ther way he sticks to yeou. be gosh! i be'lieve he'd wade through a red-hot furnace to reach yeou an' fight for yeou, if yeou was in danger!" "i haven't a doubt but he'd make the attempt," nodded frank. "an' he kin fight," the vermonter went on. "aout at ace high, when we was up against all them ruffians, he fought like a dozen tigers all rolled inter one. that's ernnther thing that makes me think a little somethin' of him." "yes," agreed merry, "bart is a good fighter. the only trouble with him is that he is too ready to fight. there are times when one should avoid a fight, if possible; but hodge never recognizes any of those times. i never knew him to try to avoid a fight." "waal," drawled ephraim, with a yawn, "i'm goin' to bed. good-night, frank." "good-night." merry closed the door after gallup and carefully locked and bolted it. then he sat down, took a letter from his pocket, and read it through from beginning to end. when he had finished, he pressed the missive to his lips, murmuring: "elsie! elsie! dear little sweetheart!" for some time he sat there, thinking, thinking. his face flushed and paled softened and glowed again; sometimes he looked sad, and sometimes he smiled. had a friend been there, he might have read frank's thoughts by the changing expressions on his face. at last merry put away the letter, after kissing it again, and, having wound up his watch, undressed and prepared for bed. his bed stood in a little alcove of the room, and he drew the curtains back, exposing it. donning pajamas, he soon was in bed. reaching out, he pressed a button, and--snap!--out went the gas, turned off by electricity. frank composed himself to sleep. the dull rumble of the not yet sleeping city came up from the streets and floated in at his open window. the sound turned after a time to a musical note that was like that which comes from an organ, and it lulled him to sleep. for some time merry seemed to sleep as peacefully as a child. gradually the roaring from the streets became less and less. frank breathed softly and regularly. and then, without starting or stirring, he opened his eyes. he lay quite still and listened, but heard no sound at first. for all of this, he was impressed by a feeling that something was there in that room with him! it was a strange, creepy, chilling sensation that ran over frank. he shivered the least bit. rustle-rustle! it was the lightest of sounds, but he was sure he heard it. some object was moving in the room! frank remembered that he had closed and locked the door. not only had he locked it, but he had bolted it, so that it could not be opened from the outside by the aid of a key alone. what was there in that room? how had anything gained admittance? frank attempted to convince himself that it was imagination, but he was a youth with steady nerves, and he knew he was not given to imagining such things without cause. rustle--rustle! there it was again! there was no doubt of it this time! something moved near the foot of the bed! still without stirring, merriwell turned his gaze in that direction. at the foot of the bed a dark shape seemed to tower! impressed by a sense of extreme peril, frank shot his hand out of the bed toward the electric button on the wall. by chance he struck the right button. snap!--up flared the gas. and there at the foot of the bed stood a man in black, his face hidden by a mask. the sudden up-flaring of the gas seemed to startle the unknown intruder and disconcert him for a moment. with a hiss, he started backward. bolt upright sat frank. merry's eyes looked straight into the eyes that peered through the twin holes in the mask. thus they gazed at each other some seconds. there was no weapon in the hands of the masked man, and merriwell guessed that the fellow was a burglar. that was frank's first thought. then came another. why had the man sought the bed? frank's clothes were lying on some chairs outside the alcove, and in order to go through them it had not been necessary to come near the bed. then merry remembered the feeling of danger that had come over him, and something told him this man had entered that room to do him harm. somehow, frank became convinced that the fellow had been creeping up to seize a pillow, fling himself on the bed, press the pillow over the sleeper's face, and commit a fearful crime. even then frank wondered how the man could have gained admittance to the room. up leaped the former yale athlete; backward sprang the masked man. over the foot of the bed merry recklessly flung himself, dodging a hand that shot out at him, and placing himself between the man and the door. as he bounded toward the door, merriwell saw, with a feeling of unutterable amazement, that it was tightly closed and that the bolt was shot in place, just as he had left it. he whirled about, with his back toward the door. "good-evening!" he said. "isn't this rather late for a call? i wasn't expecting you." the man was crouching before him, as if to spring toward him, but frank's cool words seemed to cause further hesitation. a muttering growl came from behind the mask, but no words did the unknown speak. "it is possible you dropped into the wrong room," said merry. "i trust you will be able to explain yourself, for you are in a rather awkward predicament. besides that, you have hidden your face, and that does not speak well for your honest intentions." without doubt, the intruder was astonished by merriwell's wonderful coolness. although startled from slumber in such a nerve-shocking manner, frank now seemed perfectly self-possessed. silence. "you don't seem to be a very sociable sort of caller," said merry, with something like a faint laugh. "won't you take off your mask and sit down a while." the youth asked the question as if he were inviting the stranger to take off his hat and make himself at home. the man's hand slipped into his bosom. frank fancied it sought a weapon. now it happened that merry had no weapon at hand, and he felt that he would be in a very unpleasant position if that other were to "get the drop" on him. frank made a rush at the stranger. the man tried to draw something from his bosom, but it seemed to catch and hang there, and merry was on him. the unknown tried to dodge, and he partly succeeded in avoiding frank's arms. however, he did not get fully away, and, a second later, they grappled. the man, however, had the advantage; for all that frank had rushed upon him, he had risen partly behind merry, after dodging. he clutched frank about the waist and attempted to hurl him to the floor with crushing force. frank merriwell was an expert wrestler, and, although taken thus at a disadvantage, he squirmed about and broke his fall, simply being forced to one knee. "now i have ye!" panted the man, hoarsely. "have you?" came from frank's lips. "oh, i don't know!" there was a sudden upward heaving, and the ex-yale athlete shot up to his feet. but the man was on his back, and a hand came round and fastened on merry's throat with a terrible, crushing grip. frank realized that he was dealing with a desperate wretch, who would not hesitate at anything. and merriwell's life was the stake over which they were struggling! frank got hold of the man's wrist and tore those fingers from his throat, although it seemed that they nearly tore out his windpipe in coming away. on his back the fellow was panting, hoarsely, and merry found it no easy thing to dislodge him. round and round they whirled. frank might have shouted for aid, but he realized that his door was bolted on the inside, and no assistance could reach him without breaking it down. besides that, merry's pride held him in check. there was but one intruder, and he did not feel like shouting and thus seeming to confess himself outmatched and frightened. they were at a corner of the alcove. the partition projected sharply there, and, of a sudden, with all his strength, merry flung himself backward, dashing the man on his back against that projecting corner. there was a grunt, a groan, and a curse. it seemed that, for an instant, the shock had hurt and dazed the man, and, in that instant, merry wrenched himself free. "now this thing will be somehow more even," he whispered, from his crushed and aching throat. he whirled to grapple with the fellow, but again the slippery rascal dodged him, leaping away. frank followed. the man caught up a chair, swung it and struck at merriwell's head with force enough to crush frank's skull. merry could not dodge, but he caught the chair and saved his head, although he was sent reeling backward by the blow. had the fellow followed him swiftly then it is barely possible he might have overcome frank before merry could steady himself. a moment of hesitation, however, was taken advantage of by the youth. the chair was tossed aside, and merry darted after the fellow, who was astounded and dismayed by his persistence. round to the opposite side of the table darted the intruder, and across the table they stared at each other. "well," said frank, in grim confession, "you are making a right good fight of it, and i will say that you are very slippery. i haven't been able to get a hold of you yet, though. you'll come down on the run when i do." the man was standing directly beneath the gas jet which merry had lighted by pressing the electric button. of a sudden he reached up and turned off the gas, plunging the room in darkness. then, as frank sprang toward the jet, something swooped down on him, covering his head and shoulders in a smothering manner! chapter xi. a mystery to solve. frank realized that some of the clothing from the bed had been torn off and flung over his head. he attempted to cast it aside, but it became tangled so he could not accomplish his purpose as readily as he wished, although he was not long in doing so. retreating, he was prepared for an assault, for it seemed that the masked unknown would follow up the advantage he had gained. no assault came. frank paused and listened, and, to his amazement, he could hear no sound in the room. still, he felt that the man must be there, awaiting for an opportunity to carry out the deadly purpose which had brought him into his apartment at that hour. it was not pleasant to stand there in the darkness, half expecting to feel a knife buried between his shoulders at any instant. gradually frank's eyes became accustomed to the semi-gloom of the room. still, he could see nothing that lived and moved. beyond him was the window, standing open as he had left it, the light wind gently moving the draperies. "well," thought merry, "i wonder how long the fellow will keep still. he'll have to make a move sometime." he backed up against the door and stood there, facing the window. placing a hand behind him, he took hold of the knob of the door, which he found was still locked securely. this assured him that the intruder had not escaped in that direction. merry felt certain that the man was close at hand. he knew he could unlock and unbolt the door and leap out quickly. he could slam the door behind him and lock it, thus penning the man in there. then he could descend to the office and inform the clerk that he had captured a burglar. somehow, he did not feel like doing that; that seemed too much as if he were running away. he did not fancy doing anything that seemed in the least cowardly, even though it might be discreet. further than that, however, it was by no means certain that, even though he locked and secured the door behind him after leaping out of the room, he could hold the intruder captive. in some manner the man had entered that room without disturbing the lock or bolt on the door. how had he entered? frank looked toward the open window, but he knew it opened upon the face of the hotel, four stories from the level of the street, and that settled in his mind all doubts about the window, for he instantly decided that it had not been possible for the masked unknown to get into the room that way. had he been in some old colonial house he would have fancied the fellow had gained admittance by means of a panel in the wall and a secret passage; but he was in a modern hotel, and it was beyond the range of probability that there were secret passages or moving wall panels in the structure. these thoughts flitted through his mind swiftly as he stood there, trying to hear some sound that would tell him where the intruder was in the room. all was still. below in the street a cab rattled and rumbled along. the silence was even more nerve-racking than the unexpected appearance of the masked man had been. the mystery of the whole affair was beginning to impress merry, and a mystery always aroused his curiosity to the highest pitch. "take your time, sir," he thought, as he leaned against the door and waited. "i believe i can stand it as long as you can." near at hand the door of another room swiftly opened and closed. the sound of hurried footsteps passed the door of merriwell's room. frank was tempted to fling open his door and call to the man, but he hesitated about that till it was too late. "let him go," he thought. "perhaps he would have been frightened to death had i called him in here." the push button by which he could call assistance from the office was in the alcove. at this time of night it was not likely there would be anything but a tardy answer to his call should he make it. but the electric button which turned on and ignited the gas was also in the alcove. frank longed to reach that button. he longed to light the gas in order to look around for the intruder. of course he could have lighted it with a match; but he realized that such a thing might be just what the unknown hoped for and expected. the man might be waiting for him to strike a match. the minutes fled. "something must be done," merry at last decided. then he resolved to leave the door, move slowly along the wall, reach the button and light the gas--if possible. with the silence of a creeping cat, he inched along. every sense was on the alert. it took him a long time to come to the foot of the bed at the opening of the alcove, but he reached it at last. was the masked man waiting for him in the darkness of the alcove? it seemed certain that he could be nowhere else in the room. frank hesitated, nerving himself for what might come. surely it required courage to enter that alcove. he listened, wondering if he could hear the breathing of the man crouching in the alcove. he heard nothing. then every nerve and muscle seemed to grow taut in merriwell's body, and, with one panther-like spring, he landed on the bed. in the twinkling of an eye he was at the head of the bed, and his fingers found the push button. snap!--the gas came on, with a flare. it showed him standing straight up on the bed, his hands clinched, ready for anything that might follow. nothing followed. frank began to feel puzzled. "why in the name of everything peculiar doesn't he get into gear and do something--if he's going to do anything at all?" thought the youth on the bed. again a bound carried him over the footboard and out into the middle of the room, where he whirled to face the alcove, his eyes flashing round the place. the bed covering which had been flung over his head lay in the middle of the floor, where he had cast it aside. nothing stirred in the room. on a chair near at hand frank could hear his watch ticking in his pocket. then the intruder had not taken the watch, which was valuable. frank glanced toward his clothes. he had carefully placed them in a certain position when he undressed, and there they lay, as if they had not been touched or disturbed in the least. "queer burglar," meditated merry. "should have thought he'd gone through my clothes first thing." but where was the fellow? there seemed but one place for him, and frank stopped to look beneath the bed. there was no one under the bed. the wardrobe door stood slightly ajar. "ah!" thought frank. "at last! he must be in there, for there is no other place in this room where he could hide." without hesitation, frank flung open the door of the wardrobe, saying: "come out, sir!" but the wardrobe was empty, save of such clothing and things as frank had placed there with his own hands. merriwell fell back, beginning to feel very queer. he looked all around the room, walking over to a sofa across a corner and looking behind that. in the middle of the floor he stopped. "this beats anything i ever came against!" he exclaimed. "was it a spook?" then the pain in his throat, where those iron hands had threatened to crush his windpipe, told him that it was no "spook." "and it could not have been a dream," he decided. "i know there was a living man in this room. how did he escape? that is one question. when it is answered, i shall know how he obtained admittance. and why did he come here?" frank examined his clothes to make sure that nothing had been taken. he soon discovered that his watch, money and such valuables as he carried about with him every day, were there, not a thing having been disturbed. that settled one point in frank's mind. the man had not entered that room for the purpose of robbery. if not for robbery, what then? it must have been for the purpose of wreaking some injury on merriwell as he slept. "i was warned by my feelings," frank decided. "i was in deadly peril; there is no doubt of that." frank went to the window and looked out. it seemed a foolish thing to do, for he had looked out and seen that there was not even a fire escape to aid a person in gaining admittance to his room. the fire escape, he had been told, was at the end of the corridor. it was a night without a moon, but the electric lights shone in the street below. something caused merry to turn his head and look to his left. what was that? close against the face of the outer wall something dangled. a sudden eagerness seized him. he leaned far out of the window, doing so at no small risk, and reached along the wall toward the object. with the tip of his fingers he grasped it and drew it toward him. it was a rope! "the mystery is solved!" muttered frank, with satisfaction. "this explains how the fellow entered my room." he shook the rope and looked upward. he could see that it ran over the sill of a window two stories above. "did he come down from there? should have thought he would have selected a window directly over this. and did he climb back up this swaying, loosely dangling rope?" frank wondered not a little. and then, as he was leaning out of his window, the light of the street lamps showed him that a window beyond the dangling rope, on a level with his, was standing open. the sight gave merry a new idea. "i believe i understand how the trick was worked," he muttered. "that must explain how the fellow was able to vanish so swiftly while my head was covered by the bedclothes. with the aid of this rope, he swung out from his window and into mine. he could do it easily and noiselessly. while my head was covered, he plunged out of the window, caught the rope, and swung back. that's it!" frank drew his head in quickly, but he still clung to the end of the rope. this he drew in and lay over the sill. "yes," he decided, "that is the way the fellow escaped. he had the rope right here, so that he could catch it in a moment, and, grasping it, he plunged outward through the window. his momentum carried him right across and into the other window. it was a reckless thing to do, but perfectly practical." then he remembered how he had heard, while standing with his back against his own door, the door of an adjoining room open and close, followed by the sound of swift footsteps passing outside. "that was when he left his room," merry decided. it did not take frank long to resolve to explore that room--to seek for some clew to the identity of the masked intruder. with the aid of the rope, he could swing into the open window; with its aid he could swing back to his own room. he would do it. of course, merry realized what a rash thing he was about to do. of course he understood that he might be rushing to the waiting arms of his late antagonist. still he was not deterred. all his curiosity was aroused, and he was bent on discovering the identity of the man, if such a thing were possible. he grasped the rope and climbed upon the window sill. looking out, he carefully calculated the distance to the next window and the momentum he would require to take him there. having decided this, he prepared to make the swing. and then, just at the very instant that he swung off from the window sill, he heard a hoarse, triumphant laugh above. he looked up. out of the window from which ran the rope, a man was leaning. in his hand was something on which the light from the street lamps glinted. it was a knife! with that knife the wretch, whose face was covered by a mask, gave a slash at the rope, just as merry swung off from the sill. with a twang, the rope parted! it was sixty feet to the street below. frank fell. chapter xii. the name on the register. not far, however, for he released the rope and shot out his arms. he had swung across so that he was opposite the open window when the rope was cut. merriwell knew all his peril at the instant when he swung from the sill of his own window, but it was too late for him to keep himself from being carried out by the rope. in a twinkling, his one thought was to reach the other window quickly, knowing he would be dashed to death on the paving below if he did not. he flung himself toward that window, just as the rope parted. his arms shot in over the sill, and there he dangled. down past his head shot the rope, twisting and writhing in the air, like a snake. he heard it strike on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. an exclamation of rage broke from the lips of the man in the window above, for he realized that frank had not fallen with the rope. he leaned far out, lifted his arm, made a quick motion, and something went gleaming and darting through the air. he had flung the knife at frank. it missed merriwell, shot downward, and struck with a ringing clang on the stones below. "missed!" snarled the man. "well, i'll get you yet!" then merriwell drew himself in at the window, and the peril was past. no wonder he felt weak and limp. no wonder that he was jarred and somewhat bewildered. it was a marvel that he was not lying dead in the street below. frank understood the full extent of the peril through which he had passed, and a prayer welled from his lips. "thank god!" he was grateful in his heart, and he felt that he had been spared through the kindness of an all-wise providence. it was some moments before he could stir. he lay on the floor, panting, and regaining his strength. he heard no sound in the room, for all the noise he had made in coming in, and more than ever he became convinced that the room had been occupied by his desperate enemy who had sought to destroy him that night. there was now no longer a doubt concerning the purpose of the man who had gained admission to frank's room. the fellow had not come there for plunder, but for the purpose of harming merriwell. frank rose and sought the gas jet, which he lighted. then he looked around. somehow, it seemed that the room had been occupied that night, although the bed was undisturbed, showing that no person had slept in it. frank fancied that his enemy had sat by the window, waiting, waiting till he felt sure merry was sound asleep. and frank had been sleeping soundly. he realized that, and he knew something had caused him to awaken, just in time. what was it? was it some good spirit that hovered near to protect him? he looked all round the room, but could find nothing that served as a clew to the identity of the man who had occupied the apartment. but the register would tell to whom the room had been let. having decided to go down and look the register over, frank wondered how he was to get back into his own room, for the door was locked and bolted on the inside. he went to the window and looked out. there was no way for him to reach his window now that the rope had been cut. "and i should not be surprised if i am locked in this room," thought merry. investigation showed, however, that the door was unlocked, and he was able to step out into the corridor. but there he was, shut out from his own room by lock and bolt, and dressed in nothing but a suit of pajamas. the adventure had assumed a ludicrous aspect. frank wondered what he could do. it was certain that they would not break into his room at that hour of the night, for the sound of bursting the bolt would disturb other sleepers. the watchman came down the corridor. he saw frank and came onward with haste, plainly wondering what merry was doing there. "look here," said frank, "i want to know the name of the man who occupies no. , this room next to mine." "what is the matter?" asked the watchman. "this person has disturbed me," said frank, truthfully. "i am not going to raise a kick about it to-night, but i shall report it to the clerk in the morning." "does he snore loudly?" inquired the watchman. "i didn't think you could hear through those partitions." "here," said frank, who had seen the watchman before, "you know me. my name is merriwell. i haven't a cent in these pajamas, but i'll give you two dollars in the morning if you will go down to the office, look on the register, find out who occupies no. , and come back here and tell me." now it happened that frank had given the watchman fifty cents the night before to do something for him, and so the man was persuaded to go down to the office, although it is quite probable that he did not expect to see the promised two dollars in the morning. frank waited. the watchman came back after a time. "well," asked merry, "did you look on the register and find out the name of the man who was given no. ?" "i did," nodded the watchman. "what is his name?" "william shakespeare burns," was the astonishing answer. frank staggered. he told the watchman he had made a mistake, but the man insisted that he had not. that was enough to excite merry more than anything that had happened to date. could it be that burns, the old actor, whom he had befriended, had sought his life? it did not seem possible. if it were true, then, beyond a doubt, the man had been bribed to do the deed by some person who remained in the background. it did not take frank long to tell the watchman what had happened. the man could scarcely believe it. he seemed to regard merriwell as somewhat deranged. "if you do not think i am telling the truth," said merry, "get your keys and try my door. if you are able to open it, i shall be greatly pleased." the watchman did so, but he could not open the door of the room. "now," said merry, "to make yourself doubly sure, go down to the sidewalk in front of the hotel and you will find the rope there." the man went down and found the rope. he came back greatly agitated. "this is a most astonishing occurrence," he said. "never knew anything like it to happen here before." "keep your eyes open for the man who had no. ," said merry. "i am going to take that room and sleep there the rest of the night. in the morning the door of my room must be opened for me." he went into that room, closed the door, locked it and bolted it, closed and fastened the window, and went to bed. of course he did not go to sleep right away, but he forced himself to do so, after a time, and he slept peacefully till morning. in the morning frank found the door of his room had been forced, so he was able to go in immediately on rising. he had been unable to obtain a room with a private bath connected, but there was a bathroom directly across the corridor, and he took his morning "dip," coming out as bright as a new dollar. but the mystery of the midnight intruder weighed heavily on merry. he felt that he would give anything to solve it, and it must be solved in some manner. bart came around before breakfast, and he found merriwell standing in the middle of his room, scowling at the carpet. frank was so unlike his accustomed self that hodge was astounded. "what's happened?" asked bart. "one of the most singular adventures of my life," answered frank, and he proceeded to tell bart everything. "singular!" cried hodge. "i should say so! you are dead in luck to be alive!" "i consider myself so," confessed merry; "but i would give any sum to know who entered my room last night. of course the name on the register was false." "are you certain?" "certain! great scott! you do not fancy for an instant that burns was the man, do you?" "i don't know." "well, i do!" "you mean you think you do." "no; i mean that i know. burns was not the man." "how do you know?" "why, hang it, hodge! why should that unfortunate old fellow wish to harm me, who has been his friend?" "somebody may have hired him to do it." "oh, you're daffy on that point! reason will teach you that. if it had been burns, he would not have registered under his own name. but i absolutely know it was not burns i encountered. besides being ridiculous that a man of his years and habits should venture to enter my room in such a manner, the man whom i encountered was supple, strong, and quick as a flash. burns could not have fought like that; he could not have escaped in such an astonishing manner." "oh, well, perhaps not," admitted hodge, who seemed reluctant to give up. "but i have warned you against burns all along, and----" "oh, drop him now! somebody else is trying to injure the poor fellow. i want to know who did the job last night, and w. s. burns will not be able to tell me anything." bart had no more to say, and they went down to breakfast together. of course the hotel people promised to do everything possible to discover who had made the assault, but frank had little confidence in their ability to accomplish anything. in fact, he believed the time had passed to do anything, for it seemed that his enemy had escaped from the hotel without leaving a trace behind him. frank thought over the list of enemies who had sought to injure him since he entered theatricals, and he was startled. three of his enemies were dead. arthur sargent had been drowned; percy lockwell was lynched, and leslie lawrence met his death in the quicksands of big sandy river. of his living enemies, who might be desperate enough to enter his room and seek to harm him philip scudder stood alone. where was scudder? was he in denver? if so---- "if so, he is the man!" decided frank. merry resolved to be on his guard, for something told him another attempt would be made against him. chapter xiii. the race. all that forenoon he worked in the theater setting up the new mechanical arrangement, which had been completed, and preparing for the rehearsal that afternoon. rehearsal time came, and the members of the company assembled. all but burns. he was missing. "what do you think about it now?" asked bart, grimly. "the same as i thought before," declared frank. "burns was almost broken-hearted at rehearsal yesterday. it is possible he may not come to-day, for you know he wished to be released." "ah," said a sad voice, as the person in question appeared; "it is necessity that brings me. i fain would have remained away, but i need the money, and i must do that which my heart revolts against." "i believed you would come," said frank, greeting the old tragedian. "you will get used to the part after a while. it is better to make people laugh than to make them weep." "but it is too late for me to turn myself into a clown." "where did you stay last night?" asked merry. "at my humble lodgings," was the answer. "a man by your name registered at the hotel where i stop, and had the room next to mine. is it possible there are two william shakespeare burns in the city of denver?" the old man drew himself up, thrusting his hand into the bosom of his coat, with his familiar movement of dignity. "there is but one," he said--"but one real william shakespeare burns in the whole world! i am he!" "but you were not at the hotel last night?" "of a certainty i was not. to that i will pledge mine honor. if another was there under my name, he is an impostor." frank was satisfied, but bart was not; or, if hodge was satisfied, he would not confess it. the rehearsal began. frank had engaged some people to work the mechanical arrangement used in the third act, and they had been drilled and instructed by havener. the first act went off well, the storm at the conclusion being worked up in first-class style. scarcely a word of that act had frank altered, so there was very little trouble over it. the second act was likewise a success, havener finding it necessary to interrupt and give instructions but twice. then came the third act, which merry had almost entirely rewritten. in that act the burlesque tragedian was given an opportunity, and burns showed that he had his lines very well, although he ran over them after the style of the old-time professional who disdains to do much more than repeat the words till the dress rehearsal comes. the third act was divided into three scenes, the second scene being an exterior, showing the river in the distance, lined by a moving, swaying mass of people. along the river raced the three boats representing yale, harvard and cornell. keeping pace with them on the shore was the observation train, black with a mass of spectators. as the boats first came on, harvard had a slight lead, but yale spurted on appearing, and when they passed from view yale was leading slightly. all this was a mechanical arrangement made to represent boats, a train, the river, and the great crowd of spectators. the rowers in the boats were inanimate objects, but they worked with such skill that it was hard to believe they were not living and breathing human beings. even the different strokes of the three crews had been imitated. this arrangement was an invention of merriwell's own. in fact, it was more of an optical illusion than anything else, but it was most remarkable in its results, for, from the front of the house, a perfect representation of the college boat race appeared to be taking place in the distance on the stage. havener was a man who said very little, but he showed excitement and enthusiasm as this scene was being worked out. when the boats had disappeared, the stage grew dark, and there was a quick "shift" to the interior of the yale boathouse. the entire front of the house, toward the river, had been flung wide open. behind the scenes the actors who were not on the stage at the moment and the supers hurrahed much like the cheering of a vast multitude. whistles shrieked, and then the three boats shot into view, with yale still in the lead. the characters on the stage proper, in the boathouse, had made it known that the finish was directly opposite the boathouse, and so, when the boats flew across with yale in advance, it was settled that the blue had won. then frank merriwell, who had escaped from scheming enemies, and rowed in the race for all the attempts to drug him, was brought on by his admirers, and with the yale cheer of victory, the curtain came down. roscoe havener came rushing onto the stage and caught frank merriwell by the hand, crying: "merriwell, you are a genius! i want to say right here that i have doubted the practicability of this invention of yours, but now i confess that it is the greatest thing i ever saw. your sawmill invention in 'john smith' was great, but this lays way over it! you should make your fortune with this, but you must protect it." "i shall apply for a patent on the mechanism," said frank. "i am having a working model made for that purpose." "that's right. you have your chance to make a fortune, and i believe you can make it with this piece." "it is a chance," agreed frank, gravely; "but i shall take it for better or worse. i am going into this thing to make or break. i've got some money, and i'll sink every dollar i'm worth in the attempt to float this piece." frank spoke with quiet determination. hodge stood near and nodded his approval and satisfaction. "it's great, merry," he said, in approval. "it's something new, too. you will not have any trouble over this, the way you did about the sawmill scene." "i hope not." cassie lee, the little soubrette, who was engaged to havener, found an opportunity to get hold of frank's hand. she gave it a warm pressure. "i'm so glad!" she whispered, looking into his eyes. "if ross says it will go, you can bet it will! he knows his business. i've been waiting for him to express himself about it, and, now that he has, i feel better. you are right in it, frank! i think you are a dandy!" "thank you, cassie," smiled frank, looking down at her. and even though he liked cassie, who had always been his friend, he was thinking at that moment of another little girl who was far away, but whom he had once hoped would create the part in "true blue" that had been given to cassie. in the fourth act frank had skillfully handled the "fall" of the play, keeping all in suspense as he worked out the problem, one of the chief arts of successful play constructing. too often a play falls to pieces at once after the grand climax is reached, and the final act is obviously tacked on to lengthen it out. this one fault frank had worked hard to avoid, and he had succeeded with masterly skill, even introducing a new element of suspense into the final act. merry had noticed that, in these modern days, the audience sniffs the "and-lived-happy-forever-after" conclusion of a play from afar, and there was always a rustling to get hats and coats and cloaks some moments before the end of most plays. to avoid this, he determined to end his play suddenly and in an original manner. this he succeeded in doing in a comedy scene, but not until the last speech was delivered was the suspense entirely relieved. havener, who could not write a play to save his life, but who understood thoroughly the construction of a piece, and was a discriminating critic, was nearly as well pleased by the end of the piece as by the mechanical effect in the third act. "if this play does not make a big hit i shall call myself a chump," he declared. "i was afraid of it in its original form, but the changes have added to it the elements it needed to become immensely popular." when the rehearsal was over cassie lee found burns seated on a property stump behind the scenes, his face bowed on his hands, his attitude that of one in deep sorrow. "now, what's the matter with you?" she asked, not unkindly. "are you sick?" the old tragedian raised his sad face and spoke: "'join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, to make my end too sudden; learn good soul, to think our former state a happy dream; from which awaked, the truth of what we are shews to us but this: i am sworn brother, sweet, to grim necessity; and he and i will keep a league till death.'" there was something strangely impressive in the old man's words and manner, and the laugh she tried to force died on cassie's lips. "i s'pose that's shakespeare you are giving me," she said. "i don't go much on shake. he was all right in his day, but his day is past, and he won't go down with people in general now. the public wants something up to date, like this new play of merriwell's, for instance." "ah, yes," sighed burns; "i think you speak the truth. in these degenerate days the vulgar rabble must be fed with what it can understand. the rabble's meager intellects do not fathom the depths of the immortal poet's thoughts, but its eyes can behold a mechanical arrangement that represents a boat race, and i doubt not that the groundlings will whoop themselves hoarse over it." "that's the stuff!" nodded cassie. "that's what we want, for i rather reckon mr. merriwell is out for the dust." "the dust! ah, sordid mortals! all the world, to-day, seems 'out for the dust.'" "well, i rather think that's right. what do you want, anyway? if you have plenty to eat and drink and wear you're in luck." "'what is a man if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.'" "that's all right; but just think of the ones who can't get all they want to eat, and who are driven to work like dogs, day after day, without ever getting enough sleep to rest them." "ah, but few of them have hopes or aspirations. they are worms of the earth." "oh, i don't know! i reckon some of them are as good as anybody, but they're down on their luck. the world has gone against them." "but they have never climbed to the heights, only to slip back to the depths. then is when the world turns dark." the old tragedian bowed his head again, and, feeling that she could say nothing to cheer him up, cassie left him there. frank came in later, and had a talk with burns. the old man acknowledged that he believed the play would be a success, but he bemoaned his fate to be forced to play a part so repulsive to him. merry assured him that he would get over that in time, and succeeded in putting some spirit into the old fellow. chapter xiv. frank's new comedian. the day came for the great dress rehearsal of "true blue," to which the theatrical people of denver, the newspaper men, and a great number of prominent people had been invited. frank had determined on this course at great expense, but he believed he would be repaid for the outlay. his chief object was to secure good newspaper notices and recommendations from the theater managers in the city. it was to be an afternoon performance, so that it would not interfere with any of the regular theatrical attractions to play in town that night. early in the day hodge advised frank to keep a sharp watch on burns. "don't let him have any money, merry. he fancies he will have to go through a terrible ordeal this afternoon, and he wishes to brace up for it. if he gets all he wants to drink, he will be loaded to the muzzle when the time comes to play." frank feared this, and so, when burns appealed to him for money, he refused the old man, telling him he could have some after the performance. then merry set gallup to watch the tragedian. frank was at work in the theater, where various members of the company were practicing specialties, and the stage hands were arranging everything so that there would be no hitch about the performance. within thirty minutes after gallup was set to watch the old actor, he came to frank in a hurry, saying: "if you want to keep mr. burns sober, i advise yeou to come with me an' git him aout of a grog shop daown the street, merry." "what's that?" exclaimed frank. "why, he hasn't the money to buy liquor, even if he has gone into a saloon." "he won't hev to buy it, i guess." "why not?" "well, i saw two men pick him up an' take him inter the gin mill. they axed him would he come in an' have somethin' with them." "did he know them?" "didn't seem ter. he looked kainder s'prised, but he accepted the invite in a hurry." "then it is time that we looked after him," nodded merry, grimly. "show me where he has gone, ephraim." hodge followed them. they left the theater and hurried along the street to a saloon. "he went in here," said ephraim. without a word, frank entered. the moment merry was within the place he saw burns standing near the bar, while a crowd had gathered around him. the old man had placed his hat on the bar, tossed back his long, black hair, which was streaked with gray, struck a pose, and was just beginning to declaim from shakespeare. "go it, old chap!" cried a half-intoxicated man. "we'll put up the red eye for you as long as you will spout." the old man's voice rang out clear and strong. his pronunciation was perfect, and his enunciation clear and distinct. involuntarily merry paused a moment to listen. at that moment it came to frank that burns might, beyond a doubt, have been an actor of no small merit had he eschewed drink and followed his ambition with unswerving purpose. for the first time merry fully appreciated the outraged feelings of the old fellow who was compelled to burlesque the tragedian on the stage. frank strode forward into the crowd, followed by his friends. "burns," he said, quietly, interrupting the old man, "i want you to come with me." the aged actor stopped speaking, all the dignity seemed to melt from him in a moment, and he reached for his hat, murmuring: "i merely came in for one small bracer. i needed it, and the gentlemen were good enough to invite me." "here!" coarsely cried a man. "what's this mean? who's this that's comin' here to spoil our fun?" "throw the feller out!" cried another. growls of anger came from the others gathered about, and they crowded nearer. "look out for trouble!" whispered hodge, in frank's ear. "get out of here," ordered the first speaker, confronting merry. "we're bein' entertained." "i beg your pardon--gentlemen," said merry, smoothly, hesitating slightly before the final word. "there are reasons why i come here to take mr. burns with me. i am sorry to spoil your entertainment, but it is necessary." "is the old fellow bound out to you?" sneeringly, asked one. "do you own him?" "no man owns me!" cried the tragedian, drawing himself up and staring round. "i am my own master." "i'll bet you don't dare take another drink," said the man, quickly thrusting a brimming glass of whisky toward burns. "you're afraid of the young gent." "i'm afraid of nobody," declared burns, eagerly reaching for the glass. "i have drunk all i could get, and i always shall, for all of anybody." "that's the talk!" "down with it!" "take your medicine!" "you're the boy!" the crowd shouted its approval. burns lifted the glass. frank's hand fell gently on his arm. "mr. burns," he said, swiftly, "i ask you as a particular favor not to drink that liquor. i ask you as a gentleman not to do it." merry knew how to appeal to the old man in a manner that would touch the right spot. burns looked straight into frank's eyes an instant, and then he placed the glass on the bar. "if you ask me that way," he said, "ten thousand fiends cannot force me to touch the stuff!" there was a groan from the crowd. "the old duffer caves!" sneered one man. "he hasn't any backbone." "oh, say!" sibilated hodge, in merry's ear; "get him out of here in a hurry! i can't stand much of this! i feel like thumping a few of these ruffians." "steady!" cautioned frank. "we do not want to get into a barroom brawl if we can avoid it." "they're a purty darn tough-lookin' craowd," muttered ephraim. "why wouldn't it be a purty good thing fer ther young chaps all ter take a drink?" suggested somebody. "that's right!" cried the leader. "i'll stand for them all, and the actor shall drink with them." "don't let them git out, gents, till they've taken their bitters." the rough men hemmed them in. "i fear you are in an unfortunate predicament," said burns. "you will have to drink with them." "i never drink," said merry, quietly. "yer can't refuse here," declared the man who had offered to buy the drinks. "it's a mortal insult ter refuse ter drink hyar." "i never took a drink in my life, gentlemen," said merriwell, speaking calmly, and distinctly, "and i shall not begin now. you will have to excuse me." he started to force his way through the crowd. a hand reached out to clutch him, and he wheeled like a flash toward the man, at whom he pointed squarely, crying: "take off that false beard! if you are a man, show your face! you are in disguise! i believe you are a criminal who does not dare show his face!" his ringing words drew the attention of the crowd to the man whom he accused. merry improved the opportunity and hurried his friends and burns toward the door. before the gang was aware of it, they were out of the saloon, and frank breathed his relief. not till they had reached the theater did a thought come to frank that made him regret his hasty departure from the saloon. "heavens!" he exclaimed. "i believe the man who wore the false beard was the same one who entered my room at the hotel by means of the rope!" he dashed back to the saloon, followed by hodge and gallup; but when he reached the place nearly all the crowd had left, the man he sought having departed with the others. frank was disappointed. he learned at the saloon that the accused man had not removed the beard, but had sneaked out in a hurry after frank was gone. returning to the theater, merry was informed that burns was behaving strangely. "he seems to be doped," declared hodge. "i think he has been drugged." burns was in a dressing room, and havener was working to keep the man awake, although the old actor was begging to be allowed to sleep. as soon as frank saw him he dispatched one of the supers for a physician. the doctor came and gave burns a powerful emetic, following that with a dose of medicine that seemed to brace the man up. thus burns was pulled into shape for the afternoon performance, although frank realized that he had very nearly wrecked everything. burns remained in the theater, and lunch was brought him there. "mr. merriwell," he said, "i will surprise you by the manner in which i'll play my part this afternoon. it shall be burlesque of a kind that'll satisfy you." the performance was to begin at two o'clock. some time before that people began to arrive, and they came fast. at two o'clock there were nearly five hundred persons in the auditorium. the company was all made up and waiting behind the scenes. cassie lee started to find frank to ask him how he liked her make-up. in a corner behind the scenes she saw a man stopping near a mass of piled-up scenery. something about the man's appearance and his actions attracted her attention. she saw him pick up a can and pour some of the contents on the scenery. then he crouched down there, taking a match safe from his pocket. in a moment it dawned on cassie that the fellow was up to deviltry. he had saturated the scenery with oil, and he was about to set it on fire! cassie screamed, and frank merriwell, who was near at hand, heard her. he came bounding to the spot, just as the startled man lighted his match. "quick, frank!" cried cassie. "he's setting the scenery afire!" frank saw the fellow and leaped at him. the scenery flared up where the match had touched it. then the fire bug turned to run. merriwell was on him, had him, hurled him down. "no, you don't, you dog!" grated frank. "you shall pay for this dastardly trick!" cassie, with rare presence of mind, caught up a rug, which happened to be near, and beat out the fire before it had gained much headway. a terrible struggle was going on between frank and the man he had captured. the fellow was fighting with all his strength to hurry off and escape. "no, you don't!" came through merriwell's teeth. "i know you! you are the chap who entered my room! you it was who attempted to drug burns so that this performance would be ruined! and now you have made a fatal mistake by attempting to fire the theater. i have you, and i shall hold you. you will be safely lodged behind prison bars for this trick." "curse you!" panted the man. "that does not hurt me," said merry. "now, be quiet." he pinned the fellow to the floor and held him till others came up. then the man's hands were tied. "now, we'll have a look at him," said merry, rolling the captive over on his back and pulling the old hat from his head. then he gave a cry of amazement, staggering back. hodge was there, and he was no less astounded. gallup was speechless with astonishment and incredulity. "the dead alive!" cried frank. the man he had captured was the one he believed beneath the quicksands of big sandy river, leslie lawrence! "i'm not dead yet!" grated lawrence. "fowler went down in the quicksands, but i managed to float away. i hid under the river's bank, and there i stayed, like a hunted wolf, till you gave up looking for me. i swore to settle the score with you, but----" "you tried hard enough. you were the one who entered my room at the hotel." "was i? prove it." "i don't have to. the job you tried to do here is enough. that will put you safely away. somebody call an officer." an officer was called, and lawrence was taken away. the audience in front had heard some of the commotion behind the scenes and had grown rather restless, but they were soon calmed. an orchestra was on hand to play, and everything was carried out as if it had been a regular performance. the first act went off well, and it received mild applause. the second act seemed to take full better, but still, the audience had not been aroused to any great show of enthusiasm. then came the third act. the first surprise was burns. he literally convulsed the audience by the manner in which he burlesqued the shakespearian tragedian. he astonished frank, for merry had not dreamed the old actor could be so intensely funny. even hodge was seen to smile once! when burns came off after doing an exceptionally clever piece of work, which caused the audience to applaud most heartily, frank met him and grasped his hand, saying: "my dear mr. burns, you have made the comedy hit of the piece! your salary shall be fifty dollars a week, instead of forty." but william shakespeare burns burst into tears, sobbing brokenly: "the comedy hit of the piece! and i have broken my own heart!" it was impossible to cheer him up. the boat race followed swiftly, and it wrought the audience up to a high pitch of enthusiasm and excitement. when the curtain came down, there was a perfect shout of applause, such as an enthusiastic western audience alone can give. "frank merriwell! frank merriwell!" was the cry that went up from all parts of the house. frank was obliged to come before the curtain and make a speech, which he did gracefully and modestly. when he was behind the curtain again, havener had him by the hand, saying: "you will get some rousing press notices to-morrow, merriwell! this play will be the hit of your life!" a manager of one of the local theaters came behind the scenes and offered frank three thousand dollars for the piece. when frank declined, the man promptly made it five thousand, but even that sum was not accepted. then came the fourth act, in which burns again appeared as the burlesque tragedian. in this he was to repeat a parody on _hamlet's_ soliloquy, but, apparently, before he was aware of it, he began to give the soliloquy itself. in a moment the man had flung off the air of the clown. he straightened to his full height, his eyes gleamed with a strange fire, his chest heaved, and his voice sounded clear as the ring of steel. he electrified every person who heard him. with all the dramatic fire of a booth, he swung into the soliloquy, and a hush fell over the audience. he held them spellbound, he swayed them at his will, he thrilled them as never had they been thrilled. at that moment william shakespeare burns was the tragedian sublime, and it is probable that he reached such heights as he had never before attained. he finished. it was over, and then, realizing what he had done, he tottered off the stage. then the audience applauded long and loud, trying to call him back again; but behind the scenes he had fallen into frank merriwell's arms, faintly murmuring: "it is finished!" frank bore the man to a dressing room. the play went on to the end without a break, but it was not necessary for burns to enter again. when the curtain fell on the final act, havener came hurrying to merry: "burns wants to see you in the dressing room," he said. "you had better come at once." frank went there. the moment he saw the old actor, who was reclining on some rugs, his face ashen, his eyes looking dim and sunken still deeper into his head, frank said: "somebody go for a doctor at once!" he knelt beside the man, and the old actor murmured: "it is useless to go for a doctor. i heard you tell them, but it is--no use. i told you--my heart--was broken. i spoke the--truth. it broke my heart when i--had to--burlesque----" his words died out in his throat. "he's going!" somebody whispered, for the company was gathered around. there was a brief silence, and then the old man seemed to draw himself up with pride, as they had seen him do in life. "yes, sir," he said, distinctly, "my name is burns--william shakespeare burns--tragedian--at liberty." the old eyes closed, a faint sigh escaped his bloodless lips, and the old actor was "at liberty." chapter xv. a newspaper notice. "yesterday afternoon, through the courtesy of manager frank merriwell, an invited audience of at least five hundred persons witnessed the first performance of mr. merriwell's revised and rewritten play at the orpheum theater, and the verdict of that audience, which represented the highest and most cultured element of denver society, was that the sprightly, sensational, four-act comedy drama was a success in every way. the play, which is now named 'true blue,' was originally christened 'for old eli,' and, after a single performance, mr. merriwell withdrew it for the purpose of rewriting it, correcting certain faults he had discovered, and strengthening one or two weak points. as he wrote the piece, he was able to do this work of reconstruction quickly and thoroughly, and the result is a play of which he, as author, manager and star performer, may well be proud. the following is the cast: dick trueheart frank merriwell barry hattleman douglas dunton spruce downing rufus small crack hyerman bartley hodge reuben grass ephraim gallup manny sizzwell william wynne prof. gash roscoe havener edwin treadwell william shakespeare burns carius dubad granville garland spike dubad lester vance millie blossom miss cassie lee inez dalton miss stella stanley nancy noodle miss agnes kirk "college life is the principal theme of 'true blue,' and mr. merriwell, having studied at yale, is quite capable of catching the air and spirit of old eli, and reproducing it on the stage. this he has done with a deftness and fidelity that makes the play remarkable in its class, or, possibly with greater accuracy, lifts it out of its class, for, up to the production of this piece, all college plays have been feeble attempts to catch the spirit of the life they represent, or have descended into the realm of farce or burlesque. "while the author of 'true blue' has written a play to suit the popular fancy, he has not considered it necessary to write down to the general public, and, for all of the college slang, which of a necessity is used by several of the characters, there is nothing offensive in the entire piece--nothing to shock the sensibilties of the most refined. the comedy in places is a trifle boisterous, but that was to be expected, and it does not descend to mere buffoonery. it is the kind of comedy at which the spectator must laugh, even though he may resolve that he will not, and, when it is all over, he feels better for his laughter, instead of feeling foolish, as he does in many cases after witnessing other 'popular plays.' "the pathos strikes the right chord, and the strongest situations and climaxes are stirring enough to thrill the most sluggish blood. in some respects the story of the play is rather conventional, but it is handled in a manner that makes it seem almost new. through the four acts _dick trueheart_, the hero, is pursued by his enemies, _carius dubad_, and his, worthy son, _spike_, and on various occasions they succeed in making things extremely unpleasant for the popular young athlete. "through two acts the villains pursue the hero, keeping the audience on the _qui vive_. "the climax of the third act was the great sensational feature of the play. in this act _dick_ escapes from his enemies and all sorts of crafty snares, and is barely in time to take his place in the yale boat, which is to race against harvard and cornell. _carius dubad_ has appeared on the scene, and, at the last moment, in order to break _dick's_ spirit, he reveals that _dick's_ guardian has squandered his fortune, so that the hero is penniless and will be forced to leave college. for all of this revelation, _trueheart_ enters the boat and aids in winning the race against harvard and cornell, greatly to the discomfiture of the villainous father and son, who have bet heavily against yale. of course, mr. merriwell made yale win in his play. the mechanism that showed the boat race on the distant river, the moving observation train, the swaying crowds with waving flags, hats, and handkerchiefs, was truly a most wonderful arrangement, and it filled the spectators with admiration and astonishment. a quick 'dark shift' followed, and then the boats actually appeared, with yale the winner, and _trueheart_ was brought onto the stage in the arms of his admiring fellow collegians, while the curtain descended amid a burst of genuine enthusiastic applause such as is seldom heard in any theater. mr. merriwell was called before the curtain, and he made a brief speech, which seemed modest and characteristic of this young actor and playwright, who is certain to follow a brilliant career on the american stage. "in the final act the hero was in straitened circumstances, but all ends well, with the discomfiture of old _dubad_ and his worthy son, and the final settlement of all jealousies between the other characters. "not only as author of the play, but as the star does frank merriwell merit a full meed of credit and praise. although he is young and impulsive, and his acting might not meet the approval of certain critics, there was a breeziness and freshness about him that captivated and carried the audience. it is said that he has never attended a school of acting, and this may readily be believed, for there is nothing affected, nothing stiff, nothing stilted and mechanical about his work on the stage. in his case, at least, it has been greatly to his advantage not to attend a dramatic school. he is a born actor, and he must work out his own methods without being hampered by convention and instruction from those who believe in doing everything by rule. he is a handsome young man, and his stage presence is both striking and effective. worthy of note was it that he enunciated every word distinctly and pronounced it correctly, in great contrast to many other stars, who sometimes mangle speech in a most distressing manner. he has a voice that seems in perfect keeping with his splendid figure, being clear as a mellow bell, full of force, and delightful to hear. "the work of douglas dunton as _barry hattleman_ was good. mr. small, who is a very large man, faithfully portrayed _spruce downing_, the lazy student. _crack hyerman_, the hot-blooded southerner, as represented by bartley hodge, who made the southerner a thorough fire-eater, who would fight for his 'honor' at the drop of the hat. as _reuben grass_, ephraim gallup literally convulsed the audience. without doubt his delineation of the down-east yankee was the best ever seen in denver. "miss cassie lee played the sweet and winsome _millie blossom_, and her singing and dancing met approval. the _inez dalton_ of miss stanley was handled with great skill, and she was jealous, passionate, resentful, and loving in turn, and in a manner that seemed true to life. as _nancy noodle_, an old maid in love with _prof. gash_, miss agnes kirk was acceptable. "and now comes the duty of mentioning a man who was the surprise of the evening. his name was given on the program as william shakespeare burns, and, as he represented a burlesque tragedian, it was supposed that the name was assumed. it has been learned, however, that this is the name by which he was known in real life. mr. burns first appeared in the second act, and as _edwin treadwell_, the frayed, back-number tragedian, he literally caused many of the audience to choke in the effort to repress their uncontrollable laughter. at the close of the third act, a local theatrical man declared that w. s. burns far excelled as a comedian anybody he had ever seen essay a similar part. but the sensation came in the fourth act, when the actor started to parody _hamlet's_ soliloquy, but seemed to forget himself and the parody together, and swung into the original william shakespeare. the laughter died out, the audience sat spellbound, scarcely breathing. the eyes of every person were fixed on the actor, who went through the soliloquy to the end, giving it with all the power of a forrest or a booth. as the actor retired, the audience awoke, realized it had seen and heard a man who was no clown, but a real tragedian, and the applause was long and loud. "william shakespeare burns did not appear again on the stage of that theater; he will not appear again on any stage. he is dead! but few particulars have been learned about him, but it seems that this was his first attempt to play comedy--and his last. he regarded himself as the equal of any interpreter of shakespeare, living or dead, but misfortune and his own weakness had never permitted him to rise to the heights to which he aspired. grim necessity had compelled him to accept mr. merriwell's offer to play in 'true blue' the part of the burlesque tragedian. his heart and soul had rebelled against doing so, and often at rehearsals he had wept with mortification after going through with his part. his body was weakened by privation. he declared last night that his heart was broken. a few minutes after leaving the stage the last time he expired in one of the dressing rooms of the theater. thus ended a life that might have been a grand success but for the failings of weak human nature. "mr. merriwell will go on the road at once with 'true blue.' he has engaged a competent man to fill the place made vacant by the death of mr. burns. his route for some little time is booked, and he leaves denver to-day for puelbo, where he opens to-morrow. the play, the star, and the company merit success, and we hope mr. merriwell will find it convenient to play a regular engagement in this city before long. it is certain, if he does, he will be greeted by packed houses."--_denver herald and advertiser._ * * * * * all the denver papers contained notices of the performance, but the one quoted was the longest and the most elaborate. not one of the notices was unfavorable. they were enough to make the heart of any manager glad, and it was not strange that frank felt well satisfied. but he was inexpressibly saddened by the sudden and tragic death of william burns, for he had recognized the genius in the old actor, who had been dragged down from a highroad to prosperity and fame by the hands of the relentless demon that has destroyed so many men of genius, drink. on account of his bookings, frank could not remain in denver to attend the funeral of the veteran tragedian, but he resolved that burns should be buried with all honors, and he made arrangements for a suitable funeral. of course, the papers announced the funeral, and, the story of burns' remarkable death having become familiar to all, the church was packed to the doors. the man whose wretched life had promised a wretched death and a nameless grave was buried without pomp, but with such honors as might have been given to one well known and highly esteemed. above his grave a modest marble was placed, and chiseled on it was a single line from the "immortal bard," whom he loved and understood and interpreted with the faithfulness and fire of genius: "after life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." and every expense frank merriwell provided for. nothing was neglected; everything was done that good taste and a good heart demanded. chapter xvi. the veiled woman. as may be understood, the members of frank's company were individually and collectively delighted with the apparent success of the play and their efforts. perhaps agnes kirk was the only one who complained. she was not at all pleased by the notices she obtained. frank immediately secured a supply of denver papers and, marking the notices, mailed them to the managers of theaters and the editors of papers along the route "true blue" was to follow. then he had typewritten copies made of extracts from these notices, which he added to his collection of press notices already manufactured for advertising purposes, and sent them on to his advance agent, who had been out on the road several days. frank knew how to work every point to the best advantage, and he did not lose anything. he was tireless in his efforts, and it was wonderful what an immense amount of work he accomplished. no one knows how much he can do till he makes the test. hodge aided him as far as possible, and frank found bart a valuable assistant. hodge was fully as eager as merriwell for the play to be a great success. frank had opened with the piece under its original name in puelbo, and it had met disaster there. he vowed that he would return to that place with the play and make a success of his engagement. he engaged the leading theater in the city for three nights, being obliged to pay in advance for it, as the manager had no confidence in the revised play. frank had been working the papers of the city. one of them was edited by a remarkably genial gentleman by the name of osgood, and this editor had seen in the original play material for a strong piece. he admired merry's pluck in opening the second time in that city, and he literally opened the columns of his paper to frank, who telegraphed down extracts from the denver papers as soon as the notices appeared. the house in puelbo was to be well "papered" the first night, but was to depend entirely on the drawing qualities of the play for the audience on the following two nights. frank was making a great hustle to get away from denver, and he was returning from the theater to his hotel, after seeing the last of the special scenery moved to the railroad station, when a heavily veiled woman stopped directly in his path. as he was walking hastily, he nearly ran against her. "i beg your pardon, madam!" exclaimed frank, lifting his hat. "very awkward of me." "not at all," she said, in a low voice, that was not unpleasant nor unmusical. "you were hurrying, and i stopped directly in your way. i am the one who should beg to be excused." "not at all," he hastened to say. "i assure you that it was entirely on account of my awkwardness." he was about to pass on, but her gloved hand fell on his arm, and she said: "i wish to speak with you, mr. merriwell." "you know me?" exclaimed frank, surprised. "indeed, i do. why should i not? all denver knows you to-day." "am i so famous as that?" smiled merry. "i fear you flatter, madam." "it is not flattery. you must not doubt my sincerity." "very well, i will not; but you must speak hastily, for i have a train to catch in an hour and thirty minutes, and i haven't too much time to attend to all i have to do." "but you must give me a little of your time--you really must," she said, persuasively, putting her hand on his arm again. "if you will come with me--please do!" "where?" "oh, i know a nice, quiet place, where we can talk." somehow frank did not like her words or manner. a feeling that there was something wrong about her came over him. "really, you must excuse me," he said. "i have not the time to go anywhere to talk. if you have anything to say to me, you can say it here." "now, don't be obstinate. you'll not regret it if you come." "but i do not even know who you are. that veil----" "if you come, i may remove the veil," she murmured. frank drew back, so that her hand fell from his arm. "madam," he said, "you have placed me in a very awkward position. i do not like to appear rude to a lady, but----" "of course you do not, and so you will grant my request. it is a small matter." "but not to me, for my time is valuable just now. i am ready to hear anything you have to say, but you must say it here." "would you keep a lady standing on the street?" she exclaimed, with a slight show of resentment. "i cannot say all i have to tell you in a minute." "and i have explained that i cannot spare time to talk over anything for more than a few moments. i think you will have to excuse me. good-day." he lifted his hat and started to pass on, but again she placed herself squarely in front of him, to his great annoyance. "mr. merriwell," she said, "i have seen you on the stage, and i admire you greatly. you will not be rude to one of your admirers, i know. you are far too gallant for that." it was plain she sought to cajole him by flattery, and that was the surest way to repulse him. "is it possible she is one of those foolish women who fall in love with actors?" frank asked himself. somehow she did not seem like that. there was nothing of the giddy, gushing girl about her. he could not see her face, but her figure was that of a matured woman, and he judged that she must be twenty-five years old, at least. it seemed, too, that there was a purpose in her words and movements. but frank resolved on action, for he had found that it was useless to waste words talking to her. he made a quick move to one side and passed her, intending to hasten away. barely had he done so when she flung her arms about his neck and screamed loudly! frank was astounded by this unexpected move of the veiled woman. "she's crazy!" that was the thought that flashed through merry's mind. he realized that he was in an awkward predicament, and he attempted to whirl about. the woman was very strong, and, having taken him by surprise, she nearly threw him down. to save himself, he caught hold of her. "help!" she cried. some men came running up. "madam," said frank, hurriedly, "are you demented? what is the meaning of this?" "you wretch!" she blazed. "oh, you cowardly scoundrel, to assault a lady on the public street in broad daylight!" "surely you are----" "i saw him do it!" declared a little man, with red whiskers. "i saw him assault you, madam." "call an officer!" palpitated the woman. "quick, before he gets away!" "he shall not get away," declared a big man with a crooked eye, glowering at frank. "if he tries it, i'll attend to him!" "looks like a would-be masher," piped a slim man, with a very long neck, ducking and nodding his head in an odd manner. "he should be taught a lesson." one or two others expressed themselves in a similar manner. frank had thought of making a break and hastening away, but now he saw it would not do, for he would have a howling mob at his heels the instant he attempted such a move. he realized it would seem cowardly to run away in such a manner, and would look like a confession of guilt, which caused him to decide to stay and face it out, even though the predicament was most embarrassing. "gentlemen," he said, looking squarely at them, and seeming to pay very little attention to the mysterious woman, even though he was perfectly on his guard, not knowing what move she might make next, "i trust you will give me a chance to explain what has happened." "explain it in the police court," growled the big man with a crooked eye. "that's the proper place for you to make your explanations." "the judge will listen to you," cried the slim man, his head bobbing on his long neck, like the head of a crane that is walking along the edge of a marsh. "don't attempt to escape by means of falsehoods, you rascal!" almost shouted the little man with the red whiskers, bristling up in a savage manner, but dodging back the moment frank turned on him. "gentlemen, i have been insulted by this fellow!" came from behind the baffling veil worn by the woman. "he is a low wretch, who attacked me in a most brutal manner." "we will see that you are protected, madam," assured the little man, his red whiskers seeming to bristle like porcupine quills, as he dodged round frank and placed himself on the opposite side of the veiled unknown. "madam," he repeated, "i will see that you are protected--i will!" "you are very kind," she fluttered; "but where is the officer? the reaction--the shock--the weakness!" "permit me to offer you any assistance possible," gallantly spoke a man in a sack coat and a silk hat, stepping forward and raising the latter piece of wearing apparel, thereby disclosing a shining bald spot on the top of his head, which he covered as quickly as possible, evidently hoping it had escaped the woman's notice. "you are in a city, my dear lady, where insults to the fair sex never go unpunished." he attempted to smile on her in a pleasant manner, but there was a sort of leer in his eyes and around his sensual mouth that betrayed his true character plainly enough. the woman did not accept his arm which was half tendered, but she made a great show of agitation and distress, which affected the various witnesses. "it's a shame!" piped the man with the long neck and the bobbing head. "it's an outrage!" blustered the little man with the bristling whiskers and savage manner. "it's most unfortunate!" murmured the gallant man with the silk hat and sack coat. "it's a bad break for mr. masher!" ejaculated the big man with the crooked eye and glowering look. frank smiled; he could not help it, for he was impressed by the comedy of the affair, despite the unpleasantness of the situation he was in at that moment. "this would be good stuff for a scene in a play," he thought, and he made a mental note of it. then he turned to the woman. "madam," he said, "what have i ever done to you that you should attempt to injure me in this manner?" "don't let him speak to me, the scoundrel!" she entreated, appealing to the men. "but it is no more than fair that you should answer me," persisted merry. "i do not know you; i have not even seen your face. will you not lift your veil and permit me to see your face, so that i may know who has brought me into this unpleasant position?" "he adds to his insults by requesting me to expose my identity on the street after such an affair as this!" she almost sobbed. "he would disgrace me! he would have my name in all the newspapers!" "reprehensible!" purred the gallant man. "terrible!" cackled the man with the bobbing head. "dastardly!" exploded the individual with the red whiskers. "criminal!" grated the giant with the crooked eye. and they all glared at frank--at least all of them but the one with the crooked eye. it is possible that he, also, glared at the supposed offender, but he seemed to be glaring at a white horse on the opposite side of the street. repressing his laughter with difficulty, merry said: "i assure you, gentlemen, i never saw this lady, to my knowledge, before a few minutes ago, when she stopped me on the street, and----" again the woman screamed. "will you listen to his base falsehoods?" she cried, with a show of the greatest indignation and distress. "he is trying to disgrace me still further by asserting that i stopped him on the street--stopped him! as if a lady would do such a thing!" "the idea!" squawked the man with the long neck, his head seeming to bob faster than ever, as if it sought to express by its excited movements the indignant emotions his tongue could not utter. "my dear lady, i would not remain here to be thus insulted," declared the gallant man, bending toward her, and endeavoring to summon a look of concern to his treacherous countenance. "he should be placed in irons!" blurted the fierce-appearing little man, his red whiskers seeming to work and squirm with intense excitement and anger. "he ought to have his head broken!" roared the big man, his crooked eye still seeming to glare at the white horse in a most terrible and awesome manner. others of the assembled crowd murmured to themselves in a most indignant manner, all seeming to regard frank as the offender. frank took out his watch and looked at it. "gracious!" he mentally exclaimed, "time is flying. if this keeps up much longer, i'll not reach puelbo to-day." "now he shows his anxiety and concern," said a voice in the crowd. "he's beginning to be frightened," said another voice. "he's anxious to get away," said a third. "but he can't get away," said a fourth. "this is all very interesting," thought frank; "but it is decidedly unpleasant." "waal, whut in time's sake is goin' on here, i'd like ter know?" cried a voice that was familiar to frank, and a tall, lank, countrified-appearing youth came up to the outskirts of the crowd, stood on his tiptoes, and peered over. it was ephraim gallup, and he saw frank. "waal, darned if it ain't----" merry made a swift movement, clapping a finger to his lips, and gallup, usually rather slow to tumble to anything, understood him at once, relapsing into silence. "let me git in here where i kin see the fun," he said, and he elbowed the people aside as he forced his way through the crowd. it did not take him long to reach the center of the throng, although a number of persons were indignant at his manner of thrusting them aside or stepping on their feet. "whut's up?" he asked. "ef there's anything goin' on, i kainder want to see it." "this young masher has insulted this lady!" explained the man with the bobbing head. "sho!" exclaimed gallup. "yeou don't say so, mister! waal, i am s'prised!" "he has treated her in an outrageous manner!" added the man with the agitated and fiery whiskers. "i do declare!" ejaculated ephraim. "i'd never thought it of him, by thutter!" "the lady requires protection," declared the gallant man with the mismated wearing apparel. "yeou don't tell me!" gasped the vermonter, his surprise seeming to increase. "ain't it awful!" "but the fellow needs a lesson!" rasped the man with the eye that persisted in looking in the wrong direction. "i think i'll hit him once or twice." "my gracious!" fluttered gallup. "hev ye gotter hit him real hard? don't yeou s'pose he might hit back?" "let him try it!" came fiercely from the giant. "be yeou goin' to hit where ye're lookin'?" asked the country youth. "cause ef yeou be, i'd advise that man with the wart on his nose to move." at this the man who owned the wart dodged with a suddenness that provoked a titter of laughter from several witnesses. ephraim was adding to the comedy of the affair, and frank bit his lips to keep from laughing outright, despite his annoyance over being thus detained. the big man with the crooked eye flourished his fists in the air in a most belligerent fashion, and instantly merriwell gazed at him sternly, saying: "be careful, sir! you are imperiling the lives of everyone near you, and you may strain yourself." "that's right, by gum!" nodded gallup, whimsically. "yeou may warp one of them air arms, flingin' it araound so gol-darn permiscuous like." "here comes an officer!" somebody uttered the cry. "it is high time!" exclaimed the little man, trying to soothe his agitated whiskers by pulling at them. "it surely is," croaked the lank individual, his head bobbing with renewed excitement. "madam, the law will give you redress," bowed the gallant man, again taking off his silk hat and again clapping it on suddenly, as if a breath of cool air on his shining pate had warned him of the exposure he was making. "oh, why didn't the officer stay away a minute longer, so i might have thumped him!" regretfully grunted the fighting man with the misdirected eye. the policeman came up and forced his way through the crowd, demanding: "what does this mean? what is happening here?" "a lady is in trouble," the bobbing man hastened to explain. "in serious trouble," chirped the bewhiskered man. "she has been insulted," declared the gallant man. "by a masher," finished the man with the errant eye. "where is the lady?" asked the officer. "there!" all bowed politely toward the masked woman. "where is the masher?" was the next question. "there!" their scornful fingers were leveled straight at frank merriwell. chapter xvii. arrested. "oh, sir!" exclaimed the woman, "i beg you to protect me from his insults!" the officer was a gallant fellow. he touched his hat and bowed with extreme politeness. then he frowned on merry, and that frown was terrible to behold. he gripped frank by the collar, gruffly saying: "you'll have to come with me." merry knew it was useless to attempt to explain under such circumstances. every one of the assembled crowd would be a witness against him. "very well," he said, quietly. "i am quite willing to do so. please do not twist my necktie off." "don't worry about your necktie!" advised the policeman, giving it a still harder twist. "i know how to deal with chaps of your caliber." now of a sudden ephraim gallup began to grow angry. he did not fancy seeing his idol treated in such a manner, and his fists were clenched, while he glared at the officer as if contemplating hitting that worthy. "it's a gol-dern shame!" he grated. "this jest makes my blood bile!" "i don't wonder a bit," piped the long-necked man, misunderstanding the vermonter; "but the officer will take care of him now. he'll get what he deserves." "oh, will he!" exploded gallup. "waal, ef i was yeou, i'd hire myself aout to some dime museum as the human bobber. yeou teeter jest like a certun bird that i won't name." "wh--a--at?" squealed the individual addressed, in great excitement. "this to me! why, i'll----" "i wish ter great goshfrey yeou would!" hissed ephraim, glaring at him. "i'd jest like to hev yeou try it! i'd give yeou a jolt that'd knock yeou clean inter the middle of next week!" "why, who is this fellow that seeks to create a disturbance?" blustered the little man, his fiery whiskers beginning to bristle and squirm again. "he should be sat upon." the country youth turned on him. "i wish yeou'd tackle the job, yeou condemned little red-whiskered runt;" he shot at the blusterer with such suddenness that the little man staggered back and put up his hands, as if he had been struck. "yeou are another meddler! i'd eat yeou, an' i'd never know i'd hed a bite!" "this is very unfortunate, madam," purred the gallant man at the veiled woman's side. "i am extremely sorry that you have had such an unpleasant experience. now, if that creature----" he designated ephraim by the final word, and gallup cut him short right there. "yeou're the cheapest one of the hull lot, old oil-smirk!" he flung at the speaker. "such fellers as yeou are more dangerous to real ladies than all the young mashers goin', fer yeou are a hypocrite who pretends to be virtuous." the man gasped and tried to say something, but seemed stricken speechless. now the cock-eyed man was aroused once more. he seemed on the point of making a swing at somebody or something. he pushed his face up close to ephraim, but still his rebellious eye seemed looking in quite another direction. "if you want any trouble here," he said, hoarsely, "i'll attend to you. i can do that very well." ephraim looked at him, began to smile, broke into a grin, and burst into a shout of laughter. "haw! haw! haw!" he roared. "i couldn't fight with yeou ef i wanted to, fer i'd think yeou didn't mean me all the time, but that yeou really ought to be fightin' with some other feller yeou was lookin' at. yeou're the funniest toad in the hull puddle!" "i'll arrest the whole lot of you!" threatened the policeman. "quit that business! come along to the police station if you want to make any complaints." then he turned to the woman, saying: "madam, i presume you will make a complaint against this fellow," indicating frank. "i certainly shall," she promptly answered; "for it is my duty to teach him a lesson." "will you come to the station?" "yes." "permit me to accompany you," urged the gallant man. "you are very kind," she said; "but i think i can get along. i will follow at a distance." "all right," nodded the officer, once more gripping merriwell's collar savagely. "march, sir!" and then they started toward the station. the bobbing man, the little man, the cock-eyed man, and the gallant man formed behind. then the crowd fell in, and away they went, with the mysterious veiled woman following at a distance. ephraim placed himself at frank's side. "this is a gol-darn outrage!" fumed the vermonter, speaking to merry. "whut be yeou goin' to do abaout it?" "i shall have to do the best i can," answered the unfortunate youth, quietly. "but yeou won't be able to start for puelbo with the rest of the people." "it doesn't look that way now." "that's tough!" "it is decidedly unfortunate, but i hope to get off in time to join the company before the first performance to-morrow night." "haow did it happen?" "i hardly know. the woman stopped me and insisted that i should go somewhere to talk with her. i explained that my time was limited, but that seemed to make no impression on her. when i tried to get away she flung her arms around me and screamed. that brought a crowd together, and then she declared i had assaulted her." the policeman on the other side of frank laughed in ridicule. although he said nothing, it was plain he took no stock in frank's story. "larf!" grated gallup, under his breath. "yeou think yeou know so gol-darned much that----" "hush!" warned frank. "i do not wish you to get into trouble. you must inform the others what has happened to me." "it's purty gol-darn hard to keep still," declared ephraim. "i never see sich a set of natteral born fools in all my life! how many of the craowd saw what happened 'tween yeou an' the woman?" "no one, i think." "an' i'll bet a squash they'll all go up an' swear to any kind of a story she'll tell. who is she?" "i don't know." "that's queer. wut was her little game?" "don't know that." "by gum! it's some kind of a put-up job!" "i have a fancy there is something more than appears on the surface. it is an attempt to make trouble for me." "that's right." "i hope to see the woman's face at the police station." "yeou won't!" "why not?" "she won't show it." "perhaps the judge will request her to lift her veil." "not by a gol-darned sight! men are too big fools over women. they'll take any old thing she'll say abaout yeou, an' lock yeou up fer it. she'll give some kind of name and address, an' they'll let her go at that." "well, unless i can get bail right away i shall be in a bad fix. if kent carson were in town he would pull me out of it, as he did before." the officer pricked up his ears. "ha!" he exclaimed. "then you have been arrested in denver before? this is a second offense! i rather think you'll not get off as easy as you did the first time." "oh, yeou are enough to----" "ephraim!" with that word frank cut gallup short. in a short time they approached the police station. "i have been here before," said merry, quietly. "this is the station to which i was taken when leslie lawrence made his false charge against me." entering, he was taken before the desk of the sergeant, the bobbing man, the little man, the cock-eyed man, and the gallant man following closely, while others also came in. the sergeant looked up. "ah, brandon," he said to the officer, "another one?" "yes, sir," answered the policeman. "what is the charge?" "insulting a lady on the street." "who was the lady?" "she is coming. she will be here directly to make the complaint against him." then the sergeant took a good look at the accused. he started, bent forward, and looked closer. "mr. merriwell!" he exclaimed; "is it you?" "yes, sergeant," bowed frank, with a smile. "it seems to be my luck to cause you trouble once more." "trouble!" ejaculated the man behind the desk. "why, this is very surprising! and you are accused of insulting a lady?" "i am," was the quiet answer. "well! well! well! it hardly seems possible. i fail to understand why you should do such a thing. it was very kind of you to send me tickets for your performance yesterday, and i was fortunate to be able to attend. i was greatly pleased, both with your play and yourself, to say nothing of your supporting company. i see the papers have given you a great send-off, but it is no better than you merit." "thank you, sir," said frank, simply. the policeman began to look disturbed, while the bobbing man, the little man, the gallant man, and the cock-eyed man all stared at frank and the sergeant in surprise. "you seem to recognize the offender, sir," said the officer who had arrested frank. "i recognize the gentleman, brandon," said the sergeant, putting particular emphasis on the word "gentleman." "he said he had been arrested before." "he was, on a trumped-up charge, and he was promptly dismissed by me." the officer looked still more disturbed. "but this is no trumped-up charge," he declared. "i have witnesses." "where are they?" "here." he motioned toward the men, who had followed closely on entering the station, whereupon the little man drew himself up stiffly, as if he imagined he must be six feet tall, at least; the bobbing man bobbed in a reckless manner, as if he had quite lost control of himself; the gallant man lifted his hat and mopped the shiny spot on the top of his head with a silk handkerchief, attempting to appear perfectly at ease; and the cock-eyed man made a desperate attempt to look the sergeant straight in the eye, but came no nearer than the upper corner of the station window, which was several yards away to the left. "and where is the lady who makes the charge?" demanded the man behind the desk. where, indeed! it was time for her to appear, but all looked for her in vain. "she must be here directly," said the sergeant, "if she is coming at all." "oh, she is coming!" hastily answered the officer. "she may be waiting outside, hesitating about coming in," said the sergeant. "you may go out and bring her in, brandon." the policeman hesitated an instant, as if he feared to leave frank. "it is all right," asserted the sergeant. "i will guarantee that mr. merriwell is quite safe." then brandon hurried out. "i believe you are going on the road with your play, mr. merriwell?" said the sergeant, in a most friendly and affable manner. "i am," answered frank, "if i succeed in getting started." "how is that?" "well," smiled merry, "i was due to take a train in one hour and thirty minutes when i was accosted by the unknown woman whom it is said i insulted. i hardly think i shall be able to catch that train now." the sergeant looked at his watch. "how much time have you now?" he asked. frank consulted his timepiece. "just forty-one minutes," he said. "will you kindly tell me what occurred on the street?" invited the sergeant. "but wait--first i wish to know who witnessed this assault." there was some hesitation as the official behind the desk looked the assembled crowd over. "come," he cried, sharply. "who knows anything about this affair?" "i do," asserted the man with the cock-eye, summoning courage to step forward a bit. "and here are others." "which ones?" "him, and him, and him," answered the crooked-eyed man, jabbing a pudgy and none too clean forefinger at the gallant man, the little man, and the bobbing man, although he seemed to look at three entirely different persons from those he named. the gallant man was perspiring, and looked as if he longed to escape. he also seemed anxious over the non-appearance of the veiled lady. the bobbing man took a step backward, but somebody pushed him from behind, and he bobbed himself nearly double. the little man tugged at his fluttering whiskers, looking to the right and left, as if thinking of dodging and attempting to escape in a hurry. "and these are the witnesses?" said the sergeant, his eyes seeming to pierce them through and through. "their testimony against you shall be carefully heard, mr. merriwell, and it will be well for them to be careful about giving it." "if i understand what is proper," said the cock-eyed man, who seemed the only one who dared speak outright, "this is not the court, and you are not the judge." but he subsided before the piercing eyes of the sergeant, so that his final words were scarcely more than a gurgle in his throat. "now, mr. merriwell," said the sergeant, "i will listen to your story. officer at the door, take care that none of the witnesses depart until they are given permission." frank told his story briefly, concisely, and convincingly. barely had he finished when the officer who made the arrest came in, looking crestfallen and disgusted. "where is the lady, brandon?" asked the sergeant. "i can't find her, sir," confessed the policeman. "she is nowhere in the vicinity." "then it seems you have been very careless in permitting her to slip away. now there is no one to make a charge against the prisoner." "the witnesses--perhaps some of them will do so." the sergeant turned sharply on the little man, to whom he fired the question: "did you witness this assault on the unknown lady, sir?" the little man jumped. "no, sus-sus-sir," he stammered; "but i----" "that will do!" came sternly from the man behind the desk. "step aside." the little man did so with alacrity, plainly relieved. then the sergeant came at the gallant man with the same question: "did you witness the assault on the lady, sir?" "i was not present when it took place, but i----" "that will do! step aside." the gallant man closed up and stepped. next the bobbing man was questioned: "did you witness the assault on the lady, sir?" "i arrived just after it was committed, but i can tell you----" "nothing! that will do! step aside." the cock-eyed man folded his arms across his breast and glared fiercely at the window, which seemed to offend him. "you are next." said the sergeant. "what did you see?" "i saw quite enough to convince me that the assault had been committed before i reached the spot, but----" "another 'but.' 'but me no buts.' there seems to be no one present who witnessed the assault, and so no one can prefer a charge against mr. merriwell. mr. merriwell, you have now exactly thirty minutes in which to catch your train. don't stop to say a word, but git up and git. you are at liberty." and frank took the sergeant's advice, followed closely by ephraim. chapter xviii. at the last moment. frank merriwell's company had gathered at the railway station to take the train for puelbo. all but merriwell and gallup were on hand. havener had purchased the tickets. hodge restlessly paced up and down the platform, his face dark and disturbed. there were inquiries for frank. stella stanley came to havener and asked: "where is mr. merriwell?" "i do not know," confessed the stage manager, who had been deputized for the occasion by frank to look out for tickets, and make necessary arrangements. "he hasn't come?" "no; but he'll be here before the train pulls out. you know he has a way of always appearing on time." hodge stopped in his walk, and stared at havener. "i'd like to know when he left the hotel," said bart. "i called for him several times before coming here, but each time i found he was not in his room, and no one knew anything about him. his bill was not settled, either." "but his baggage came down with the others," said havener. "because the hotel people permitted it, as he was vouched for by mr. carson, who seems to be well known to everybody in this city." "you don't suppose anything has happened to detain him, do you?" anxiously asked the actress. "i do hope we shall not make another bad start, same as we did before. agnes kirk says she knows something will happen, for mr. merriwell gave away the cat mascot." "agnes kirk is forever prophesying something dismal," said hodge. "she's a regular croaker. if she didn't have something to croak about, she wouldn't know what to do. she declared the cat a hoodoo in the first place, but now she says we'll have bad luck because frank let it go. she makes me a trifle weary!" hodge was not in a pleasant humor. granville garland and lester vance came up. "it's almost train time," said garland. "where is our energetic young manager?" "he will be along," havener again asserted. "i hope so," said vance. "i sincerely hope this second venture will not prove such a miserable fizzle as the first one. everything depends on frank merriwell." "something depends on you!" flashed hodge, who seemed easily nettled. "frank merriwell's company did all it could to make the first venture a fizzle. now they should do all they can to make this one a success." "hello, thundercloud is lowering!" exclaimed garland. "save your epithets!" exclaimed bart. "my name is hodge." "my dear hodge," said garland, with mock politeness, "you must know it is but natural that we should feel a bit anxious." "i may feel as anxious as any of you, but i do not go round croaking about it." "but our first failure----" "there it is again! i'm tired of hearing about that! you and vance are dead lucky to be in this second company, for you both joined in the attempted assault on merriwell when folansbee skipped, and the company seemed to be stranded in puelbo. if i'd been frank merriwell i'd sent you flying, and you can bet i would not have taken you back." "then it's fortunate for us that you were not frank merriwell," garland sneered. "it is," agreed hodge. "some people do not know when they are treated well." "that will do!" came sharply from havener. "this is no time to quarrel. by jove! it's time for that train, and merriwell's not here." "perhaps he's backed out at the last minute and decided not to take the play out," said vance. "it may be that his courage has failed him." "now that kind of talk makes me sick!" exploded hodge. "if you had any sense you wouldn't make it!" "i like that!" snapped vance, his face flushing. "i'm glad you do!" flung back bart. "didn't think you would. hoped you wouldn't. only a fool would suppose that, after all this trouble and expense, any man with an ounce of brains in his head would back out without giving a single performance of the play." "well, where is merriwell?" again havener declared: "he'll be here." "but here comes the train!" the train was coming. there was activity and bustle at the station. the platform was alive with moving human beings. agnes kirk and cassie lee came out of the ladies' waiting room. the male members of the company got together quickly. "he has not come!" exclaimed agnes kirk, her keen eyes failing to discover frank. "i feared it! i knew it!" hodge half turned away, grumbling something deep in his throat. the actors looked at each other in doubt and dismay. with a rush and a roar the train came in, and drew up at the station. passengers began to get off. a heavily veiled woman in black came out of the ladies' room, and started for the train. as she passed the group of actors some of their conversation seemed to attract her notice. she paused an instant and looked them over, and then she turned toward the steps of a car. "excuse me, madam," said hodge, quickly. "you have dropped your handkerchief." he picked it up and passed it to her. as he did so, he noticed the letters "l. f." on one corner. "thank you," she said, in a low voice. at that moment, for the last time, havener was reiterating: "i believe frank merriwell will be here. all get onto the train. he never gets left." then the woman tossed her head a bit and laughed. it was a scornful laugh, and it attracted the attention of several of the group. she turned quickly, and stepped into the nearest car. "something tells me he will not arrive," declared agnes kirk. "the hoodoo is still on. this company will meet the same fate the other did." "don't talk so much about it," advised havener, rather rudely. "get onto the train--everybody!" hodge was staring after the veiled woman. "wonder what made her laugh like that?" he muttered. "seems to me i've heard that laugh before. it seemed full of scornful triumph. i wonder----" he did not express his second wonder. "come, hodge," said havener, "get aboard. follow the others." "i'll be the last one," said hodge. "i'm waiting for frank. "i'm afraid," confessed havener, beginning to weaken. "afraid of what?" hodge almost hissed. "it begins to look bad," admitted the stage manager. "i'm afraid something has happened to frank. if he doesn't come----" "i don't go," declared bart. "i shall stay and find out what has happened to him. you must go. you must sit on those croakers. your place is with the company; mine is with frank merriwell." "all aboard!" the conductor gave the warning. "what's this?" rattle-te-bang, on the dead jump, a cab was coming along the street. the cabman was putting the whip to his foaming horses. "he's coming," said hodge, with cool triumph, putting his hands into his trousers pockets, and waiting the approach of the cab. something made him feel certain of it. up to the platform dashed the cab, the driver flinging the horses back, and flinging himself to the platform to fling open the door. dong dong! the train was starting. out of the cab leaped frank merriwell, grip in hand. at his heels ephraim gallup came sprawling. bart was satisfied, havener was delighted. both of them sprang on board the train. across the platform dashed frank and the vermont youth, and they also boarded the moving cars. "well," laughed merry, easily, "that was what i call a close call. ten dollars to the cabby did it, and he earned his sawbuck." "i congratulate you!" cried havener. "i confess i had given you up. but what happened to detain you?" "nothing but a little adventure," answered merry, coolly. "i'll tell you about it." they followed him into the car. several members of the company had been looking from the car window, and the arrival of frank had been witnessed. they gave a shout as he entered the car, and all were on their feet. "welcome!" cried douglas dunton, dramatically--"welcome, most noble one! methinks thou couldst not do it better in a play. it was great stuff--flying cab, foaming horses, moving train, and all that. make a note of it." "i believe he did it on purpose," declared agnes kirk, speaking to vance, with whom she had taken a seat. "very likely," admitted lester. "wanted to do something to attract attention." "i think it was mean! he fooled us." but several members of the company shook hands with frank, and congratulated him. "i told you he would not get left," said havener, with triumph. at the rear end of the car was a veiled woman, who seemed to sink down behind those in front of her, as if she sought to avoid detection. somehow, although her face could not be seen, there was in her appearance something that betokened disappointment and chagrin. of course frank was pressed for explanations, but he told them that business had detained him. he did not say what kind of business. at length, however, with hodge, havener and gallup for listeners, all seated on two facing seats, he told the story of his adventure with the veiled woman, and his arrest, which ended in a discharge that barely permitted him to leap into a cab, race to the hotel, get his grip, pay his bill, and dash to the station in time to catch the train. as the story progressed hodge showed signs of increasing excitement. when merry finished, bart exclaimed: "how did the woman look?" "i did not see her face." "how was she dressed? describe her." "don't know as i can." "do the best you can." frank did so, and bart cried: "i've seen her!" "what?" merry was astonished. "i am sure of it," asserted bart. "i have seen that very same woman!" "when?" "to-day." "how long ago?" "a very short time." "where?" "at the station while we were waiting for you to appear." "is it possible. how do you know it was her?" then bart told of the strange woman who had dropped her handkerchief, of the initials he had seen when he picked it up, and of her singularly scornful laugh when she heard havener declare that merriwell never got left. all this interested frank very much. bart concluded by saying: "that woman is on this very train!" "waal, may i be tickled to death by grasshoppers!" ejaculated the youth from vermont. "whut in thunder do yeou s'pose she's up to?" "it may be the same one," said frank. "it would be remarkable if it should prove to be the same one. two women might look so much alike that the description of one would exactly fit the other--especially if both were heavily veiled." bart shook his head. "something tells me it is the same woman," he persisted. "but why should she be on this train?" "who can answer that? why did she try such a trick on the street?" "don't know," admitted merry. "once i thought it might be that she was mashed on me, but it didn't prove that way." "oh, i dunno," drawled gallup, with a queer grin. "yeou turned her daown, an' that made her sore. ef she'd bin mashed on ye, perhaps she'd done jest as she did to git revenge fer bein' turned daown." "no, something tells me this was more than a simple case of mash," said frank. "what do you make of it?" asked havener. "an attempt to bother me." "for what?" "who knows? haven't i had enough troubles?" "i should say so! but i thought your troubles of this sort were over when you got rid of lawrence. you left two of the assistants who saw him try to fire the theater to appear as witnesses against him." "oh, i hardly think lawrence was in this affair in any way or manner. i confess i do not know just what to make of it. heretofore my enemies have been men, but now there seems to be a woman in the case." "if this woman follows you, what will you do?" "i shall endeavor to find out who she is, and bring her to time, so she will drop the game." "see that you do," advised hodge. "and don't be soft with her because she is a woman." "go look through the train and see if you can find the woman you saw," directed frank. "if you find her, come back here and tell me where she is." "i'll do it!" exclaimed bart, getting up at once. "that fellow is faithful to you," said havener, when bart had walked down the aisle; "but he is awfully disagreeable at times. it's nothing but his loyalty that makes me take any stock in him." "his heart is in the right place," asserted merry. "nothing makes him doubt you. why, i believe he wanted to fight the whole company when you failed to appear." "an' he's a fighter, b'gosh! when he gits started," declared gallup. "i've seen him plunk some critters an' he plunked them in great style." hodge was gone some little time, but there was a grim look of triumph when he returned. "find her?" asked merry. "sure," nodded bart. "where?" "last car. she did not get onto this one, but i rather think she moved after you came on board. that makes me all the more certain that it is the woman. she's near the rear end of the car, on the left side, as you go down the aisle." "well," said frank, rising, "i think i'll go take a look at her. is she alone?" "yes." "that's good. and she cannot escape from the train till it stops, if it should happen to be the right woman, which i hope it is." bart wished to accompany frank to point the woman out, but merry objected. "no," he said, "let me go alone." "i can show her to you." "if the woman i am looking for is in the car i'll find her." merry passed slowly through the train, scanning each passenger as he went along. he entered the last car. in a few moments he would know if the mysterious veiled woman really were on that train. if he found her, he would be certain the strange encounter on the street had a meaning that had not appeared on the surface. the train was flying along swiftly, taking curves without seeming to slacken speed in the least. frank's progress through the car was rather slow, as the swaying motion made it difficult for him to get along. but when he had reached the rear of the car he was filled with disappointment. not a sign of a veiled woman had he seen in the car. more than that, there was no woman in black who resembled the woman who had stopped him on the street in denver. could it be hodge had been mistaken? no! something told him bart had made no mistake in the matter of seeing a woman who answered the description given by frank. he had said she was in the last car. she was not there when frank passed through the car. then she had moved. why? was the woman aware that she was being watched? had she moved to escape observation? frank stopped by the door at the rear end of the car. he looked out through the glass in the door. some one was on the platform at one side of the door. frank opened the door and looked out. the person on the platform was a woman in black, and she wore a veil! chapter xix. on the rear platform. a feeling of exultant satisfaction flashed over merriwell, and he quickly stepped out onto the platform, closing the door behind him. the woman turned and looked toward him. the train was racing along, the track seeming to fly away from beneath the last car. it was a strange place for a woman to be, out there on the rear platform, and merry's first thought had been that it must be the woman he sought, for had she not come out there to escape him? she had fancied he would look through the car, fail to find her, and decide that she was not on the train. it must be that she had seen hodge come in, and had realized at once why he had entered the car. when he departed to carry the information to frank, the desperate woman had fled to the rear platform. immediately on stepping out onto the platform, however, frank decided that his reasoning was at fault. it was a veiled woman, and she was in black, but it was not the woman he sought. it was not the woman who had caused his arrest in denver! merry was disappointed. the unknown looked at him, and said nothing. he looked at her and wondered. the veil was thick and baffling. "madam," he said, "this is a dangerous place." she said nothing. "you are liable to become dizzy out here and meet with an accident," he pursued. "if you should fall--well, you know what that would mean. it is remarkable that you should come out here." "the air," she murmured, in a hoarse, husky voice. "the car was stifling, and i needed the air. i felt ill in there." "all the more reason why you should not come out here," declared frank, solicitously. "you could have had a window opened, and that would have given you air." "the window stuck." "it must be some of them would open. if you will return, i'll endeavor to find you a seat by an open window." "very kind of you," she said, in the same peculiar, husky voice. "think i'll stay out here. don't mind me." "then i trust you will permit me to remain, and see that you do not meet with any misfortune?" "no. go! leave me! i had rather remain alone." she seemed like a middle-aged lady. he observed that her clothes fitted her ill, and her hands were large and awkward. she attempted to hide them. all at once, with a suddenness that staggered him, the truth burst on frank. the woman was no woman at all! it was a man in disguise! merry literally gasped for a single instant, but he recovered at once. through his head flashed a thought: "this must be some criminal who is seeking to escape justice!" immediately frank resolved to remain on the platform at any hazard. he would talk to the disguised unknown. "the motion of the train is rather trying to one who is not accustomed to it," he said. "some people feel it quite as much as if they were on a vessel. car sickness and seasickness are practically the same thing." she looked at him through the concealing veil, but did not speak. "i have traveled considerable," he pursued, "but, fortunately, i have been troubled very little with sickness, either on sea or land." "will you be kind enough to leave me!" came from behind the veil, in accents of mingled imploration and anger. "i could not think of such a thing, madam!" he bowed, as gallantly as possible. "it is my duty to remain and see that you come to no harm." "i shall come to no harm. you are altogether too kind! your kindness is offensive!" "i am very sorry you regard it thus, but i know my duty." "if you knew half as much as you think, you would go." "i beg your pardon; it is because i do know as much as i think that i do not go." the unknown was losing patience. "go!" he commanded, and now his voice was masculine enough to betray him, if frank had not dropped to the trick before. "no," smiled merry, really beginning to enjoy it, "not till you go in yourself, madam." the train lurched round a curve, causing the disguised unknown to swing against the iron gate. frank sprang forward, as if to catch and save the person from going over, but his real object was to apparently make a mistake and snatch off the veil. the man seemed to understand all this, for he warded off frank's clutch, crying: "i shall call for aid! i shall seek protection!" "it would not be the first time to-day that a veiled woman has done such a thing," laughed frank, the disguised man stared at him again. merry fairly itched to snatch away the veil. "if you are seeking air, madam," he suggested, "you had better remove your veil. it must be very smothering, for it seems to be quite thick." "you are far too anxious about me!" snapped the disguised man. "i would advise you to mind your own business!" this amused merry still more. the situation was remarkably agreeable to him. "in some instances," he said, politely, "your advice would be worth taking, but an insane person should be carefully watched, and that is why i am minding your business just now." "an insane person?" "exactly." "do you mean that i am insane?" "well, i trust you will excuse me, but from your appearance and your remarkable behavior, it seems to me that you should be closely guarded." that seemed to make the unknown still more angry, but it was plain he found difficulty in commanding words to express himself. "you're a fool!" he finally snapped. "thank you!" smiled frank. "you're an idiot!" "thank you again." "you are the one who is crazy!" "still more thanks." "how have i acted to make you fancy me demented?" "you are out here, and you may be contemplating self-destruction by throwing yourself from this train." "don't worry about that. i am contemplating nothing of the sort." "but there are other evidences of your insanity." "oh, there are?" "yes." as the disguised unknown did not speak, merry went on: "the strongest evidence of your unbalanced state of mind is the ill-chosen attire you are wearing." "what do you mean?" "why are you not dressed in the garments of your sex?" "sir?" "you are not a woman," declared frank, coolly; "but a man in the garments of a woman. your disguise is altogether too thin. it would not deceive anybody who looked you over closely. you are----" frank got no further. with a cry of anger, the disguised unknown sprang at him, grappled with him, panted in his ear: "you are altogether too sharp, frank merriwell! this time you have overshot yourself! this ends you!" then he tried to fling merry from the swiftly moving train. frank instantly realized that it was to be a struggle for life, and he met the assault as quickly and stiffly as he could; but the disguised man seemed, of a truth, to have the strength of an insane person. in his quick move, the fellow had forced frank back against the gate, and over this, he tried to lift and hurl him. "no you don't!" came from merry's lips. "curse you!" panted the fellow. "i will do it!" "yes, you will--i don't think!" in the desperate struggle, both seemed to hang over the gate for a moment. then frank slid back, securing a firm grip, and felt safe. just then, however, the door of the car flew open, and out sprang hodge. bart saw what was happening in a moment, and he leaped to merry's aid. out on a high trestle that spanned a roaring, torrent-like river rumbled the train. bart clutched frank, gave the disguised man a shove, and---- just how it happened, neither of them could tell afterward, but over the gate whirled the man, and down toward the seething torrent he shot! up from that falling figure came a wild cry of horror that was heard above the fumbling roar of the train on the trestle bridge. over and over the figure turned, the skirts fluttering, and then headlong it plunged into the white foam of the torrent, disappearing from view. on the rear platform of the last car two white-faced, horrified young men had watched the terrible fall. they stared down at the swirling river, looking for the unfortunate wretch to reappear. off the bridge flew the train, and no longer were they able to see the river. "he's gone!" came hoarsely from bart. "then you saw--you knew it was a man?" cried frank. "yes, i saw his trousers beneath the skirts as i came out the door." "this is terrible!" muttered frank. "he was trying to throw you over?" "yes; attempted to take me off my guard and hurl me from the train." "then the wretch has met a just fate," declared bart. but now it seemed that the struggle on the platform had been noticed by some one within the car. there were excited faces at the glass in the door, and a trainman came out, demanding: "what is all this? why are you out here? they tell me a woman came out. where is she?" with unusual readiness, bart quickly answered: "she's gone--jumped from the train." "jumped?" "yes. we both tried to save her. just as i reached the door i saw my friend struggling to hold her, but she was determined to fling herself over." "well, this is a fine piece of business!" came angrily from the trainman. "what ailed her?" "she must have been insane," asserted bart. "she attacked my friend here, and then tried to jump off. he could not hold her. i did not get hold of her in time." "what was he doing out here?" "watching her. you will admit it was rather queer for a woman to come out here on the platform and stand. he thought so, and so he came out to watch her." "well, you can both come in off this platform!" growled the trainman, in anything but a civil manner. they did so. the passengers swarmed round them when they entered the car, literally flinging questions at them. "who was the woman?" "what ailed her?" "why did she go out there?" "what did she do?" "tell us about it!" again bart made the explanation, and then there arose a babel. "i noticed her," declared one. "i saw she looked queer." "i noticed her," asserted another. "i saw she acted queer." "i saw her when she went out," put in a third, "and i thought it was a crazy thing to do." "without doubt the woman was insane," declared a pompous fat man. "she must have been instantly killed." "she jumped into the river." "then, she was drowned." "who knows her?" "she was all alone." frank had been thinking swiftly all the while. he regretted that bart had been so hasty in making his explanation, and now he resolved to tell as near the truth as possible without contradicting hodge. "gentlemen and ladies," he said, "i have every reason for believing that the person was a man." then there were cries of astonishment and incredulity. "a man?" "impossible!" "never!" "ridiculous!" but an elderly lady, who wore gold-bowed spectacles, calmly said: "the young gentleman is correct, i am quite sure. the person in question sat directly in front of me, and i discovered there was something wrong. i felt almost certain it was a man before he got up and went out on the platform." then there was excitement in the car. a perfect torrent of questions was poured on frank. merry explained that he had thought it rather remarkable that a woman should be standing all alone on the rear platform, and, after going out and speaking to the person, he became convinced that it was a man in disguise. then he told how the man, on being accused, had attacked him furiously, and finally had seemed to fling himself over the iron gate. it was a great sensation, but no one accused either merry or bart of throwing the unknown over, not a little to frank's relief. at last, they got away and went forward into the car where the company was gathered. havener and gallup had been holding the double seat, and frank and bart sat down there. "well, i fancy you failed to find the lady you were looking for," said havener. "but what's the matter? you look as if something has happened." "something has," said frank, grimly. "gol-darned ef i don't b'lieve it!" exclaimed ephraim. "both yeou an' hodge show it. tell us abaout it." frank did so in a very few words, astonishing both ephraim and the stage manager. "waal," said the vermonter, "the gal who tackled yeou in denver warn't no man." "not much," said frank, "and it is remarkable that hodge should have mistaken a man for such a woman as i described." "didn't," said bart. "but you have acknowledged that you believed this was a man." "yes, but this man was not the veiled woman i saw." "wasn't?" "not much!" "by jove!" exclaimed frank. "the mystery deepens!" "did you mistake this person for the veiled woman i meant?" "sure thing." "and did not find another?" "not a sign of one. i do not believe there is another on the train." "well, this is a mystery!" confessed hodge. "i saw nothing of the one i meant when i went to look for you." "it must be you saw no one but that man in the first place." bart shook his head, flushing somewhat. "do you think i would take that man for a woman with a perfect figure, such as you described? what in the world do you fancy is the matter with my eyes?" "by gum!" drawled gallup. "this air business is gittin' too thick fer me. i don't like so much mystery a bit." "if that man was not the one you meant, hodge," said merry, "then the mysterious woman is still on this train." "that's so," nodded bart. "find her," urged frank. "i want to get my eyes on her more than ever. surely you should be able to find her." "i'll do it!" cried bart, jumping up. away he went. frank remained with havener and gallup, talking over the exciting and thrilling adventure and the mystery of it all till hodge returned. at a glance merry saw that his college friend had not been successful. "well," he said, "did you find her?" "no," confessed bart, looking crestfallen. "i went through the entire train, and i looked every passenger over. the woman i meant is not on this train." "then, it must be that your woman was the man who met his death in the river. there is no other explanation of her disappearance. you must give up now, hodge." but hodge would not give up, although he could offer no explanation, and the mystery remained unsolved. there were numerous stops between denver and puelbo, and it was nightfall before the train brought them to their destination. the sun had dropped behind the distant rockies, and the soft shades of a perfect spring evening were gathering when they drew up at the station in puelbo. lights were beginning to twinkle in windows, and the streets were lighted. "props" had gone to look after the baggage, and the company was gathered on the platform. cabmen were seeking to attract fares. of a sudden, a cry broke from the lips of bart hodge: "there she is!" all were startled by his sudden cry. they saw him start from the others, pointing toward a woman who was speaking to a cabman. that woman had left the train and crossed the platform, and she was dressed in black and heavily veiled. frank saw her--recognized her. "by heavens! it is the woman," he exclaimed. chapter xx. man or woman. into the cab sprang the woman. slam! the door closed behind her. crack!--the whip of the driver fell on the horses, and away went the cab. "stop!" shouted hodge. cabby did not heed the command. frank made a rush for another cab. "follow!" he cried, pointing toward the disappearing vehicle. "i will give you five dollars--ten dollars--if you do not lose sight of that cab!" "in!" shouted the driver. "i'll earn that ten!" in frank plunged, jerking the door to behind him. the cab whirled from the platform with a jerk. away it flew. "it will be worth twenty dollars to get a peep beneath that veil!" muttered frank merriwell. the windows were open. he looked out on one side. he could see nothing of the cab they were pursuing. back he dodged, and out he popped his head on the other side. "there it is!" he felt that he was not mistaken. the fugitive cab was turning a corner at that moment. they were after it closely. frank wondered where the woman could have been hidden on the train so that she had escaped observation. he decided that she must have been in one of the toilet rooms. but what about the veiled man who was disguised as a woman? that man had known frank--had spoken his name. it was a double mystery. the pursuit of the cab continued some distance. at last the cab in advance drew up in front of a hotel, and a man got out! merriwell had leaped to the ground, and cabby was down quite as swiftly, saying: "there, sir, i followed 'em. ten plunks, please." the door of the other cab had been closed, and the man was paying the driver. he wore no overcoat, and carried no baggage. "fooled!" exclaimed frank, in disappointment. "you have followed the wrong cab, driver!" "i followed the one you told me to follow," declared the driver. "no; you made a mistake." "now, don't try that game on me!" growled the man. "it's your way of attempting to get out of paying the tenner you promised." "no; i shall pay you, for you did the best you could. it was not your fault that you made a mistake in the mass of carriages at the depot." "didn't make no mistake," asserted the cabby, sullenly. "well, it's useless to argue over it," said merry, as he gave the man the promised ten dollars. "i am sure you made a mistake." "think i couldn't follow bill dover and his spotted nigh hawse?" exploded the driver. "i couldn't have missed that hawse if i'd tried." frank saw one of the horses attached to the other cab was spotted. he had noticed that peculiarity about one of the horses attached to the cab the mysterious woman had entered. "it's the same horse!" exclaimed merry. "'course it is," nodded the driver. the man had paid his fare and was carelessly sauntering into the hotel. as he disappeared through the door-way, frank sprang to the door of the other cab, flung it wide open, and looked in, more than half expecting to discover the woman still inside. no woman was there! frank caught his breath in astonishment, and stood there, staring into the empty cab. "hi, there! wot cher doin'?" called the man on the box. frank did not answer. he reached into the cab and felt on the floor. he found something, brought it forth, looked at it amazed. it was a woman's dress! but where was the woman? garment after garment frank lifted, discovering that all a woman's outer wearing apparel lay on the floor of that cab. "vanished!" he muttered. "disappeared--gone? what does it mean?" then he thought of the man who had left the cab and entered the hotel, and he almost reeled. "that was the woman!" he had seen one woman change into a man on the train, and here was another and no less startling metamorphosis. "driver," he cried, "didn't you take a person on in woman's clothes at the station and let one off in man's clothes just now?" "none of yer business!" came the coarse reply. "i knows enough not ter answer questions when i'm paid ter keep still." that was quite enough; the driver might as well have answered, for he had satisfied merriwell. frank was astonished by the remarkable change that the woman had made while within the cab, but now he believed he understood why she had not been detected while on the train. she had been able to make a change of disguises in the toilet room, and had passed herself off as a man. hodge had looked for a veiled woman, and he had looked for a veiled woman; it was not strange that both of them had failed to notice a person in masculine attire who must have looked like a woman. up the hotel steps frank leaped. he entered the office, he searched and inquired. at last, he found out that a beardless man had entered by the front door, but had simply passed through and left by a side door. "given me the slip," decided frank. he realized that he had encountered a remarkably clever woman. and the mystery was deeper than ever. frank went to the hotel at which the company was to stop, and found all save wynne had arrived. hodge was on the watch for merry, and eagerly inquired concerning his success in following the woman. frank explained how he had been tricked. "well, it's plain this unknown female is mighty slippery," said bart. "you have not seen the last of her." "i am afraid there are some things about this double mystery which will never be solved," admitted frank. "for instance, the identity of the man who fell into the river." "we'll be dead lucky if we do not have trouble over that affair," said hodge. "how do you mean?" "some fool is liable to swear out a warrant charging us with throwing the unknown overboard." "i thought of that," nodded frank, "and that is why i took occasion on the train to straighten out your story somewhat. it is always best, bart, to stick to the straight truth." hodge flushed and looked resentful, but plainly sought to repress his feelings, as he said: "i am not the only person in the world who believes the truth should not be spoken at all times." "if one cannot speak the truth," said merry, quietly, "he had better remain silent and say nothing at all, particularly in a case like this. there is an old saying that 'the truth can afford to travel slowly, but a lie must be on the jump all the time, or it will get caught.'" "well, i don't think this is any time to moralize," came a bit sharply from bart. "if we were to go into an argument, i rather think i could show logically that a white lie is sometimes more commendable than the truth." "in shielding another, possibly," admitted merry; "but never in shielding the one who tells it. the more a person lies, the more he has to lie, for it becomes necessary to tell one falsehood to cover up another, and, after a while, the unfortunate individual finds himself so ensnared in a network of fabrications that it is impossible for him to clear himself. then disaster comes." "oh, don't preach!" snapped bart. "let's go to your room and talk this matter of the veiled woman over. there is trouble brewing for you, and you must be prepared to meet it. havener has registered for the company, and all you have to do is call for your key." so frank and bart went to the room of the former. puelbo had been well "papered." the work was done thoroughly, and every board, every dead wall, and every available window flaunted the paper of "true blue." the failure of "for old eli" was still fresh in the minds of the people of the city, but neither had they forgotten frank merriwell's plucky promise to bring the play back to that place and perform it successfully there. the newspapers of the place had given him their support, but frank was determined that extracts from the notices in the denver papers should reach the eyes of those who did not read the puelbo papers closely. with this end in view, he had the extracts printed on flyers, as small bills are called, and the flyers were headed in startling type: "five hundred dollars fine!" to this he added: "each and every person who reads the following clippings from denver newspapers will be fined five hundred dollars!" it is needless to say that nearly every one who could read was careful to read the clippings through to the end. this manner of attracting attention was effective, even though it may seem rather boyish in its conception. his printing was done on the very night that he arrived in puelbo, and the flyers were scattered broadcast the following day. he obtained the names of a large number of prominent citizens, to whom he sent complimentary tickets, good for the first night's performance. frank was determined to have a house, even if it was made up principally of deadheads. on the occasion of his former visit to puelbo he had received some free advertising through leslie lawrence, who had circulated printed accusations against him. he scarcely expected anything of the sort on this occasion, and he was rather startled when, on the morning following his arrival, he discovered that a circular had been scattered broadcast, which seemed to be even more malicious than the former attempt upon him. in this circular he was plainly charged with the murder of an unknown woman shortly after leaving denver, and it was said he had been aided in the crime by bartley hodge. frank was calmly reading this bold accusation when hodge came bursting into the room in a manner that reminded merry of his entrance under similar circumstances on the former occasion. seeing the paper in merry's hand, bart hoarsely cried: "so you've got it! then you know about it! well, now, sir, what do you think of that?" "sit down, hodge," said frank, calmly. "you seem all out of breath. you are excited." "excited!" shouted the dark-faced youth. "well, isn't that enough to excite a man of stone!" "do you mean this?" "yes, that! what in the name of creation do you suppose i meant?" "i wasn't certain." "wasn't cert---- oh, say; that's too much! what do you think? what are you made of, anyway?" "now, my dear fellow, you must stop going on like this. you'll bring on heart disease if you keep it up." hodge dropped down on a chair and stared at merry. "well--i'll--be--blowed!" he gasped. "you are nearly blowed now," said frank. "you seem quite out of breath." "is it possible you have read that paper you hold in your hand?" asked bart, with forced calmness. "yes, i have read it." "well, i do not understand you yet! i thought i did, but i'm willing to confess that i don't." then he jumped up, almost shouting: "why, man alive, don't you understand that we are charged with murder--with murder?" "yes," said frank, still unruffled, "it seems so by this." "and you take it like that!" "what is the use to take it differently?" "use? use? sometimes i think you haven't a drop of good, hot blood in your body." "if a person has plenty of good, hot blood, it is a good thing for him to cool it off with good, cool brains. hot blood is all right, but it should be controlled; it should not control the man." "i don't see how you can talk that way, under such circumstances. why, we may be arrested for murder any moment!" "we shall not." "shall not?" "no." "why not?" "because our unknown enemy does not dare come out into the open and make the charge against us." "what makes you think so?" "this." frank held up the accusing paper. "that?" "yes." "why should that make you think so?" "if our enemy had intended to come out and make the charge against us openly, this would not have appeared. it is simply an attempt to hurt us from under cover, or to arouse others against us--against me, in particular." bart could see there was logic in merry's reasoning, but still he was fearful of what might happen. "well, even you must acknowledge that the unknown enemy may succeed in his purpose," said hodge. "there were a number of persons who saw something of the struggle on the train. this may arouse some of them, or one of them, at least, to do something." "it may." "you confess that?" "yes." "didn't think you would." "i don't believe it will. hodge, i have a fancy that, in this case, same as in the other, my enemy will overshoot the mark." "how?" "something tells me that this warning, intended to turn suspicion against me, will serve as an advertisement. of course, it will be a most unpleasant notoriety to have, but it may serve to bring people out to see me." bart looked thoughtful. "i never thought of that," he confessed, hesitatingly. "i had far rather not had the notoriety," admitted frank; "but that can't be helped now. let the people turn out to see 'true blue.' perhaps i'll get a chance at my enemy later." "the veiled woman----" "is in it, i fancy. i believe there was some connection between the veiled woman and the veiled man--the one who plunged from the train into the river." "i have thought of that, but i've been unable to figure out what the connection could be. why was the man veiled and disguised thus?" "so that i would not recognize him." "then, it must be that you would know him if you saw him face to face." "as he knew me. he called me by name as he sprang upon me." "well, he's done for, but i believe the woman will prove the most dangerous. something tells me she was the real mover in this business." "i fancy you are right, hodge. at first, in denver, i thought she had been piqued by the manner in which i replied to her, but since all these strange things have happened, i know it was more than a case of pique." "when you make a woman your enemy, she is far more dangerous than a man, for women are more reckless--less fearful of consequences." "that's right," nodded frank. "women know they will not be punished to the full extent of the law, no matter what they do. juries are easily hypnotized by pretty women. where a woman and a man are connected in committing a crime, and the woman is shown to be the prime mover, a jury will let the woman off as easily as possible. a jury always hesitates about condemning a woman to death, no matter if she has committed a most fiendish murder. in the east, women adventuresses ply their nefarious arts and work upon the sympathies of the juries so that, when called to the bar, they are almost always acquitted. it is remarkable that men should be so soft. it is not gallantry; it is softness. the very man who would cry the loudest if he had been hit by an adventuress is the most eager to acquit the woman in case he happens to be on the jury to pronounce the verdict in her case." "well," said hodge, "you are sound and level in that statement, frank. it's plain you do not think true chivalry consists of acquitting female blackmailers and assassins." "don't let this little attempt to injure us frighten you, hodge," advised frank, rising. "i think it will miscarry entirely. we've got plenty of work for to-day, and to-night i believe i shall be able to tell beyond a doubt whether 'true blue' is a success or a failure. i think the test will come right here in puelbo, where we met disaster before." chapter xxi. gallup meets the mysterious woman. the mechanical arrangements and special scenery had arrived and were moved into the theater. supers had been engaged to attend rehearsal in the afternoon, so that they might know their business when evening came. frank attended to the details of much of the work of making ready, although he had full confidence in havener and hodge, who assisted him. he saw that the mechanical effect representing the boat race was put up and tested, making sure it worked perfectly. he was anxious about this, for any hitch in that scene was certain to ruin the whole play. gallup proved valuable. he worked about the stage, and he was of great assistance to havener, who wished merriwell to appoint him assistant stage manager. of course, everybody was anxious about the result, but the majority of the company had confidence in merriwell and his play. cassie lee, perhaps, was the only one who was never assailed by a doubt concerning the outcome. "i shall do my best to-night--at any cost," she told frank. at that moment he did not pause to consider the real meaning of her words. afterward he knew what she meant. she still carried a tiny needle syringe and a phial that contained a certain dangerous drug that had so nearly wrought her ruin. the various members of the company drifted into the theater by the stage entrance, looked over their dressing rooms and the stage and drifted out again. they had been engaged to act, and they did not propose to work when it was not necessary. gallup whistled as he hustled about the work havener directed him to do. he made his long legs carry him about swiftly, although he sometimes tripped over his own feet. ephraim was arranging a mass of scenery so that every piece would be handy for use that night when the time came to use it. while doing this, he was surprised to see one of the dressing-room doors cautiously open and a person peer out. "gosh!" exclaimed the vermonter, stepping back out of sight. "who's that?" again the person peered out of the dressing room, as if to make sure the coast was clear. "i must be dreamin'!" thought the vermont youth, rubbing his eyes. "i've got 'em jest from hearin' frank and hodge talk so much about her." a moment later he changed his mind. "no, by ginger!" he hissed, as the person slipped out of the dressing room. "it's her!" it was "her," and that means that it was the mysterious veiled woman! recovering instantly from the shock of his surprise, gallup sprang out from behind the scenery and made a rush for the unknown. "hold on!" he cried. "b'gosh! yeou've gotter give a 'count of yerself, an' don't yeou fergit it!" she started, turned on him, dodged. he flung out his hand and clutched at her, catching hold of the chain that encircled her neck and suspended her purse. "i want yeou!" palpitated the yankee youth. "yeou're jest the----" flirt!--the woman made a quick motion toward him. something struck ephraim in his eyes, burning like fire. he was nearly knocked down by the shock, and a yell of pain escaped his lips. "i'm blinded!" he groaned. it was true; he could not see. with something like a scornful laugh, the woman flitted away and disappeared, leaving poor ephraim bellowing with pain and clawing at his eyes, as if he would dig them out of his head. "murder!" he howled. "oh, i'm dyin'! somebody come quick! my eyes hev been put aout! oh, wow-wow! oh, i wisht i'd staid to hum on the farm!" down on the floor he fell, and over and over he rolled in the greatest agony. havener and some of the regular theater hands heard his wild cries and came rushing to the spot. they found him on the floor, kicking and thrashing about. "what's the matter?" demanded the stage manager. gallup did not hear him. "i'm dyin'!" he blubbered. "oh, it's an awful way ter die! my eyes are gone! ow-yow!" "what is the matter?" havener again cried, getting hold of the thrashing youth. "what has happened?" "stop her!" roared ephraim, realizing that some person had come and thinking instantly that the woman must be detained. "don't let her git erway!" "don't let who get away?" "the woman! ow-wow! bring a pail of warter an' let me git my head inter it! i must do somethin' ter put aout the fire! oh, my eyes! my eyes!" "what is the matter with your eyes?" "she threw somethin' inter 'em." "she?" "yes." "who?" "the woman." "what woman?" "the veiled woman--the one that has made all the trouble fer merry! oh, this is jest awful!" "what are you talking about?" demanded havener, impatiently. "there is no veiled woman here! have you lost your senses?" then, realizing that they were doing nothing to prevent her from making her escape, gallup sat up and howled: "she was here! i saw her comin' aout of a dressin' room. oh, dear! yow! i tried to ketch her! oh, my eyes! she flung somethin' inter my face an' put both my eyes out!" "something has been thrown into his eyes!" exclaimed havener. "it's red pepper! he is telling the truth! somebody get some water! somebody run to a drug store and get something for him to use on his eyes!" "darn it all!" shouted gallup. "let me die, ef i've gotter! but don't let that infarnal woman git erway!" "i will try to see to that," said havener, rushing away. he dashed down to the stage door, but he was too late, for the doorkeeper told him the veiled woman had gone out. "why in the world did you let her in?" angrily demanded the irate stage manager. "she said she belonged to the company." "she lied! she has half killed one of the company!" "i heard the shouts," said the doorkeeper, "and i thought somebody was hurt. but it wasn't my fault." "if she tries to come in here again, seize and hold her. i'll give you five dollars if you hold her till i can reach her! she is a female tiger!" then havener rushed back to see what could be done for gallup. groaning and crying, gallup was washing the pepper from his eyes, which were fearfully inflamed and swollen. he could not see havener, but heard his voice, and eagerly asked: "did ye ketch the dratted critter?" "no; she got out before i reached the door." "darn her!" grated ephraim. "i say darn her! never said ennything as bad as that about a female woman before, but i jest can't help it this time! i won't be able to see fer a week!" "oh, yes, you will," assured havener. "but i rather think your eyes will look bad for some time to come." "here is something he had in his hand," said one of the supers. "it's her purse, i reckon; but there ain't no money in it." havener took it. "are you sure there wasn't any money in it when you examined it?" he asked, sharply. the super seemed to feel insulted, and he angrily protested that he would not have touched a cent if there had been five hundred dollars in it. "but i notice you had curiosity enough to examine the contents of it," came dryly from the stage manager. "i'll just keep this. it may prove to be a valuable clew to the woman's identity." everything possible was done for ephraim's eyes, but it was a long time before he was much relieved from the agony he was suffering. then he was taken to the hotel, with a bandage over his eyes, and a doctor came to attend him. the physician said he would do everything possible to get ephraim into shape to play that evening, but he did not give a positive assurance that he would be able to do so. as soon as frank heard of the misfortune which had befallen the vermont youth, he hastened to the hotel and to the room where ephraim was lying on the bed. gallup heard his step and recognized it when he entered. "i'm slappin' glad yeou've come, frank!" he exclaimed. "and i am terribly sorry you have met with such a misfortune, ephraim," declared merry. "so be i, frank--so be i! but i'm goin' ter play my part ter-night ur bu'st my galluses tryin'! i ain't goin' to knock aout the show ef i kin help it." "that was not what i meant. i was sorry because of the pain you must have suffered." "waal, it was ruther tough," the faithful country lad confessed. "by gum! it was jest as ef somebody'd chucked a hull lot of coals right inter my lookers. it jest knocked me silly, same ez if i'd bin hit with a club." "how did it happen? tell me all about it." ephraim told the story of his adventure, finishing with: "i kainder guess that red pepper warn't meant fer me, frank. that was meant fer yeou. that woman was in there ter fix yeou so yeou couldn't play ter-night." "it's quite likely you may be right, ephraim; but she had to give it to you in order to escape. but where is this purse you snatched from her?" "on the stand, there. havener tuck possession of it, but i got him to leave it here, so yeou might see it right away when yeou came." frank found the purse and opened it. from it he drew forth a crumpled and torn telegram. smoothing this out, he saw it was dated at castle rock the previous day. it read as follows: "mrs. hayward grace, puelbo, colo. "all right. close call. fell from train into river. came near drowning, but managed to swim out. will be along on first train to-morrow. keep track of the game. "p. f." frank jumped when he read that. "by jove!" he cried. "whut is it?" ephraim eagerly asked. "i believe i understand this." "do ye?" "sure! this was from the man who fell from the train into the river--the man disguised as a woman, who attacked me on the rear platform!" "looks zif yeou might be right." "i am sure of it! the fellow escaped with his life! it is marvelous!" "i sh'u'd say so!" "he dispatched his accomplice, the woman, to let her know that he was living." "yeou've struck it, frank!" "and she was the one who got out the accusing flyers, charging me with the crime of murder!" "i bet!" "the man is in this city now, and they are working together again." "i dunno'd i see whut they're goin' to make aout of it, but mebbe yeou do." "not yet. they must be enemies i have made." "who's mrs. hayward grace?" "never heard the name before." "waal, he didn't sign his name hayward grace, so it seems he ain't her husband; don't it, frank?" "he signed 'p. f.' now, i wonder what one of my enemies can be fitted to those initials?" "i dunno." "nor do i. but this telegram has given me a feeling of relief, for i am glad to know the man was not drowned." "drownin's too good fer him! he oughter be hung!" "although my conscience was clear in the matter, i am glad to know that i was in no way connected with his death. hodge will not be so pleased, for he will not stop to reason that the chances of a charge of murder being brought against us are about blotted out. ephraim, i am very sorry you were hurt, but i'm extremely glad you snatched this purse and brought me this telegram. i shall take care of it. i shall use it to trace my enemies, if possible." "waal, i'm glad i done somethin', though i'd bin a 'tarnal sight gladder if i hed ketched that woman." frank carefully placed the purse and the telegram in his pocket, where he knew it would be safe. assuring ephraim that everything possible should be done for him, he hastened out. that afternoon the rehearsal took place, with another person reading ephraim's part. it was feared that gallup would not be able to see to play when it came night, but frank hoped that he could, and the vermont youth vowed he'd do it some way. the rehearsal passed off fairly well, although there were some hitches. havener looked satisfied. "i'd rather it would go off this way than to have it go perfectly smooth," he declared. "i've noticed it almost always happens that a good, smooth rehearsal just before a first performance means that the performance will go bad, and vice versa." frank had not been long in the business, but he, also, had observed that it often happened as havener had said. the theater orchestra rehearsed with them, getting all the "cue music" arranged, and having everything in readiness for the specialties. the night came at last, and the company gathered at the theater, wondering what the outcome would be. gallup was on hand, but he still had the bandage over his eyes. he was wearing it up to the last minute, so that he would give them as much rest as possible. "somebody'll hev ter make me up ter-night," he said. "i don't believe i kin see well enough ter do that." havener agreed to look after that. while the various members were putting the finishing touches on their toilet and make-up, word came that people were pouring into the theater in a most satisfactory manner. the orchestra tuned up for the overture. frank went round to see that everybody was prepared. he had fallen into that habit, not feeling like depending on some one else to do it. most of the men were entirely ready. a few were making the last touches. stella stanley and agnes kirk were all ready to go on. "where is cassie?" asked merry. "in the dressing room," said stella. "she told us not to wait for her. said she would be right out." frank went to the dressing room. the door was slightly open, and, through the opening, he saw cassie. she had thrust back the sleeve of her left arm, and he saw a tiny instrument in her right hand. he knew in a twinkling what she was about to do. with a leap, frank went into that room and caught her by the wrist. "cassie!" he cried, guardedly. "you told me you had given it up! you told me you'd never use morphine again!" "frank!" she whispered, looking abashed. "i know i told you so! i meant it, but i must use it just once more--just to-night. i am not feeling at my best. i'm dull and heavy. you know how much depends on me. if i don't do well i shall ruin everything. it won't hurt me to use it just this once. the success of 'true blue' may depend on it!" "if the success of 'true blue' depended on it beyond the shadow of a doubt, i would not let you use it, cassie! great heavens! girl, you are mad! if you fall again into the clutches of that fiend nothing can save you!" "but the play----" "do you think i would win success with my play at the price of your soul! no, cassie lee! if i knew it meant failure i would forbid you to use the stuff in that syringe. here, give it to me!" he took it from her and put it into his pocket. "now," he said, "it is out of your reach. you must play without it. there goes the overture. the curtain will go up in a few minutes. all i ask of you is to do your best, cassie, let it mean success or failure." chapter xxii. the end of the rope. the theater was packed. under no circumstances had frank anticipated such an audience on the opening night. he felt sure that the advertising given him through the effort of his enemies to injure him had done much to bring people out. another thing had brought them there. curiosity led many of them to the theater. they remembered merriwell's first appearance in puelbo and its outcome, and they had not forgotten how, in a speech from the stage, he had vowed that he would bring the play back there and give a successful performance. he had rewritten the piece, and it had been played in denver to an invited audience, every member of which went away highly pleased. the denver papers had pronounced in favor of it. puelbo people admired pluck and determination. they could not help feeling admiration for the dogged persistency of frank merriwell. and they really hoped he would make good his promise to give a successful performance. frank's first entrance was carefully worked up to in the play, and he was astounded when he came laughing and singing onto the stage, to be greeted by a perfect whirlwind of applause. nor did the applause cease till he had recognized it by bowing. then, as everything quieted down and the play was about to move on again, there came a terrible cry that rang through the house: "fire!" frank understood in a twinkling that it was a false alarm, given for the purpose of producing a stampede and raising the performance. after that cry for a moment everybody sat as if turned to stone. it was the calm before the panic. then frank's voice rang out clear as a bell: "there is no fire! keep your seats!" some had sprung up, but his clear voice reached every part of the house, and it checked the movement. "fire! fire!" shrill and piercing was the cry, in the voice of a woman. "arrest that woman!" cried frank. "she is trying to ruin this performance! she is the one who circulated a lying and malicious circular charging me with the crime of murder. it was a part of a plot to ruin me!" frank confessed afterward that he did not understand why the audience remained without stampeding after that second alarm. it must have been that there was a magic something in his voice and manner that convinced them and held them. at any rate, there was no rush for the doors. all at once there was a commotion in the first balcony, from which the cries had come. two policemen had seized a man and a woman, and the arrested pair were taken from the theater. quiet was restored, and frank made a few soothing remarks to the audience, after which the play proceeded. and now he had the sympathy of every person in the great audience. when an actor has once fairly won the sympathy of his audience, he is almost sure of success. the first act went off beautifully. the storm and shipwreck at the close of the act took with the spectators. there was hearty applause when the curtain fell. frank had arranged that things should be rushed in making ready for the second act. he wanted no long waits between acts, for long waits weary the patience of the best audiences. the second act seemed to go even better than the first, if such a thing were possible. the singing of the "yale quartet" proved a great hit, and they were obliged to respond to encore after encore. cassie's dancing and singing were well appreciated, and frank, who was watching her, decided that she could not have done better under any circumstances. he did not know how hard she was working for success. he did not know that she had actually prayed that she might do better than she had ever done before in all her life. the discomfiture of _spike dubad_ at the close of the second act was relished by all. at last the curtain rose on the third act, round which the whole plot of the play revolved. now, the interest of the audience was keyed up to the right pitch, and the anxiety of the actors was intense. the first scene went off all right, and then came the change to the scene where the boat race was shown on the river. everything worked perfectly, and there was a tumult in that theater when the stage suddenly grew dark, just as the yale boat was seen to forge into the lead. and then, in a few moments, the distant sounds of cheering and the screaming of steam whistles seemed to burst out close at hand, filling the theater with an uproar of sound. then up flashed the lights, and the open boathouse was shown, with the river beyond. the boats flashed in at the finish, the yale cheer drowned everything else, and frank merriwell was brought onto the stage in the arms of his college friends. the curtain came down, but the audience was standing and cheering like mad, as if it had just witnessed the success of its favorite in a real college race. the curtain went up for the tableau again and again, but that audience would not be satisfied till frank merriwell came out and said something. frank came at last, and such an ovation as he received it brought a happy mist to his eyes. "there he is!" somebody cried. "he said he would come back here with his play and do the trick!" "well, he has done it!" cried another. "and he is the real frank merriwell, who has shown us the kind of never-say-die pluck that has made yale famous the world over. three cheers for frank merriwell!" they were given. then all frank could say was a few choking words: "my friends, i thank you from the bottom of my heart! you cannot know how much was depending on the success or failure of this play. perhaps all my future career depended on it. i vowed i would win----" "and you have!" shouted a voice. "it seems so. again, i thank you. i am too happy to say more. words are idle now." he retired. * * * * * frank merriwell had won with his play; "true blue" was a success. in his happiness he forgot his enemies, he forgot that two persons had been arrested in the balcony. it was not till the next morning when he was invited by a detective to come to the jail to see the prisoners that he thought of them. the detective accompanied him. "i have been on this fellow's track for a long time," he explained. "spotted him in the theater last night, but was not going to arrest him till the show was over. the woman with him created the disturbance, and two policemen took them both in. i don't want her for anything, but i shall take the man back to chicago, to answer to the charge of forgery. i shall hold him here for requisition papers." the jail was reached, and first frank took a look at the woman. he felt that she would prove to be the mysterious woman of the veil, and he was right. she looked up at him, and laughed. "good-morning, mr. merriwell," she said. "pres and i have made things rather warm for you, you must confess. i reckon we made a mistake last night. we'd both been looking on the wine when it was red, or we'd not attempted to stampede the audience." "why, it is the woman who claimed to be havener's wife!" cried frank. "here is the man," said the detective. frank turned to another cell. he was face to face with philip scudder, his old-time enemy, who had reached the end of his rope at last! but, in the hour of victory, frank gave little heed to those who had made his path to this present success a hard and stormy one. he was successful! as a playwright and as an actor he had won the palm of victory, the future seemed to promise all the rewards his energy and enterprise deserved. he had started out from college with the determination to win wealth and fame. he had left the scenes of his early triumphs and first misfortunes, with the firm purpose to return honored and enriched by his own labors. now he was on the eve of accomplishing that purpose. and as he looked into the future, the lines of will power and determination that had always marked his handsome countenance grew firmer, as he murmured: "i will myself be 'true blue!' come what may, let my paths for the next few months be as untoward as they ever have been, difficulties shall but act as a spur to me in my purpose. for i shall be, soon, i hope, once more a son of 'old eli.'" the end. no. of the merriwell series, entitled "frank merriwell's prosperity," by burt l. standish, shows our hero as a successful playwright, and on a fair way to fame and fortune. buffalo bill king of the plains william cody, colonel u.s.a., is little known under his real name, but when you call him by the title conferred upon him by the hard-headed, harder-fisted western pioneers, why, the whole world knows him--buffalo bill! stories of his adventures would be most difficult to write for one who had not shared his camp-fire days; but colonel prentiss ingraham, who wrote the stories in buffalo bill's border stories, was his boon companion, sharing all of his marvelous adventures--even to being wounded with him. therefore, while apparently they are fiction, actually, these stories are based upon fact and written by a clever pen. if you like good western adventure, look up the buffalo bill border stories at your news dealer's. there are many different ones--you are bound to find them interesting and surprisingly good at the price. street & smith corporation seventh avenue--new york city nick carter captured the heart of the world twenty years ago, when nick carter first appeared upon the literary stage as a fiction character, he was looked upon as a curiosity--more to be smiled at than taken seriously. now, however, he is the favorite of countless millions of readers in every walk of life. stories of his adventures have been translated into nearly every foreign tongue; he appears on the screen in a series of most fascinating pictures produced by broadwell productions, inc. in short, nick carter's great triumph lies in the fact that he has captured the heart of the world. have you ever met him? if not, buy any of the following three books and prepare to be cheered up: new magnet library. "wildfire" "the secret of the marble mantel" "a spinner of death" street & smith corporation seventh avenue--new york city (http://www.freeliterature.org) from page images generously made available by hathitrust digital library (http://www.hathitrust.org/digital_library) note: images of the original pages are available through hathitrust digital library. see http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp. thorley weir by e f. benson author of "the image in the sand," "paul," etc. philadelphia & london j. b. lippincott company contents i ii iii iv v vi vii viii ix x chapter i. the hottest day of all days in the hottest june of all junes was beginning to abate its burning, and the inhabitants of close-packed cities and their perspiring congregations cherished the hope that before long some semblance of briskness might return into the ardent streets. providence, it would appear, justly resentful at the long-continued complaints that hot summers were altogether a thing of the past, had determined to show that something could still be done in that line, but this rejoinder, humorous at first, had long ago ceased to amuse. from morning till night for the last six weeks an unveiled sun had shed a terrific ray on to the baked pavements and reverberating house-walls, but to-day had beaten all previous records, and a solemn glee pervaded the meteorological offices, the reports of which seemed to claim a sort of proprietary credit in the readings of their incredible thermometers. under these conditions it was with a sigh of relief that arthur craddock subsided into the corner-seat of a first-class smoking carriage at paddington, finding that it was smoking, figuratively speaking, in less specialized a sense than that intended by the railway-company, for it had been standing for an hour or two in the sun outside the station. but he had clear notions about the risk of chill even on so hot a day, and when the train moved out from the dusky glass vault, he drew up the window beside which he sat, for it was impossible for him to take a seat with his back to the direction of progress, since the sight of receding landscape always made him feel slightly unwell. but, as he was alone in his carriage, there was no reason why he should not refresh his clay-coloured face with a mist of wall-flower scent which he squirted delicately over his forehead and closed eyes from a bottle in his silver-mounted dressing-case. then he pulled down all the blinds in his carriage and sitting quite still in this restorative gloom indulged in pleasant anticipations. he was a very large stout person, wearing his hair, which was beginning to grow thin, though no hint of greyness invaded its sleek blackness, conspicuously long. round his ears and the back of his head it was still thick, but it no longer felt capable of growth on the top of his high peaked head, and in consequence he brushed it from the territories on the left side of his head over the top of his bald skull, and mingled the extremities of these locks with those that grew on the territories on the right of his head. it might thus be hoped that short-sighted and unobservant persons would come to the gratifying conclusion that the thatch was complete. he wore a small reddish moustache which in the centre of his immense colourless face might remind a biblical beholder of the burning bush in the desert of sin, for he looked vaguely debauched (which he was not) and overfed (which was probable to the verge of certainty). his hands, of which he was exceedingly proud, were small and white and plump; they were carefully manicured and decorated with a couple of rings, each set with a large cabochon stone. when, as now, they were not otherwise occupied, he habitually used one of them to caress the side of this desert of sin, as if to make sure that no whisker was surreptitiously sprouting there. in dress, though he was certainly old enough to know better, he affected the contemporary style of a fashionable young man, and his brown flannel suit had evidently the benediction of the tailor fresh upon it. his tie, in which was pinned a remarkably fine pearl, was slightly more vivid than his suit, but of the same colour as his socks, a smooth two inches of which appeared below his turned-up trousers, and his shirt had a stripe of the same colour as his tie. no watch-chain glittered on the amplitude where it would naturally repose, but on his left wrist he wore a narrow band of gold braid with a lady's watch set in it. a white straw hat and brown shoes were the alpha and omega of his costume. though his face was singularly unwrinkled, except for rather heavy bags of loose skin below his eyes, it was quite evident that arthur craddock had left youth far behind him, but it would have been an imprudent man who would have wagered as to his ability to guess it within the limits of four or five years, for his corpulence was of the somewhat gross sort that may come early to an inactive man, in whose sedentary day dinner is something of an event. but it would not have required a very subtle physiognomist to conjecture for him an alert and athletic mind. his small grey eyes, which were unsurmounted by any hint of eyebrow, were, though a little red and moist, of a singular intensity in focus, and as active in poise and dart as a hovering dragon-fly, while even in repose they wore a notably watchful and observant look. his hands, too, which afforded him so constant a gratification, were undeniably the hands of an artist, long-fingered in proportion to the palms, and taper-nailed. artist he was, too, to the very tips of those pink and shining triumphs of the manicurist, and though he neither painted nor played nor set forth on adventures in romance or poetry, his judgment and perception in all such achievements on the part of others was a marvel of unerring instinct, and was solidly based on an unrivalled knowledge of the arts. not only, too, could he appreciate and condemn with faultless acumen, but side by side with that gift, and totally distinct from it, he had an astonishing _flair_ for perceiving what the public would appreciate, and just as he was seldom at fault in true artistic judgment, so also was he an accurate appraiser of the money-earning value of play or picture. he was, it may be stated, not unconnected with the artistic columns of the daily press, and the frequent articles he contributed to three leading papers on pictures, concerts and plays, were often masterpieces of criticism, while at other times and for other reasons he plentifully belauded work in which, though he might artistically despise it, he was financially interested. his critical powers and the practical use to which he put them in purchases and in these penetrating paragraphs had proved most remunerative to him during these last fifteen or twenty years, and he had already laid by a very comfortable provision for his declining days, which he sincerely hoped were as yet very far off. he was fond of money, and, very wisely, had not the least objection to spending it in works of art which gave him pleasure, especially when his judgment told him that they would go up in value. then, if a picture or a bronze could be sold again at a much higher price than that which he paid for it, he would part with it without any agony of reluctance. these transactions were conducted unobtrusively and it occurred to nobody to call him a dealer. if such a supposition ever occurred to himself, he put it from him with the utmost promptitude. but every quarter he paid the rent of thistleton's gallery in bond street, from which so many of the english masters set forth on their voyage to the united states. his immediate anticipations, as has been already remarked, were pleasurable, for the thames-side house at thorley where he was to dine and sleep would certainly be a refreshing exchange from the baking airlessness of town. it was true that there would be nothing special in the way of dinner to look forward to, for his host philip wroughton was a penurious dyspeptic of long but hypochondriacal standing, and arthur craddock, made wise by a previous experience, had directed his valet to take with him certain palatable and nutritious biscuits in case dinner proved to be not only plain in quality but deficient in quantity. but there were two attractions which he was sure of finding there, each of which more than compensated the certain short-comings of the table. these were philip wroughton's daughter and philip wroughton's reynolds: briefly, he hoped to possess himself of both. it was impossible to decide between the rival excellencies of these. the reynolds picture was exquisite: it represented his host's great-grandmother. but joyce wroughton his host's daughter might have sat in person for it, and the artist would have congratulated himself on having so supremely caught the frank charm and vigour of her beauty. more than most of the master's portraits it set forth a breezy and glorious vitality; it was as if diana and an amazon had been ancestresses to the sitter, in so swift and active a poise the slim white-clad figure paused with head turned and beckoning hand and smile before it passed up the glade of dark-foliaged trees behind it. how often had craddock seen joyce wroughton in just such a momentary attitude as she swung across the lawn from her punting on the river, and turned to call her collies lest they should enter the tent where her father sat and disturb him at his employment of doing nothing at all. craddock, sluggish of blood and corpulent of limb, found a charm of wonderful potency in the girl's lithe and athletic youth, and his own subtle intricate-weaving mind admired hardly less the serenity and simplicity of hers, which seemed as untroubled and unmorbid as that which he would conjecture for some white hellenic marble. it cannot be truthfully stated that in the common acceptance of the word he was in love with her, but he immensely admired her, and, being of the age when a man says to himself that if he intends to marry he must without delay put out from the harbour of his bachelorhood, he had decided to set his sails. she, only just twenty years of age, was more than a quarter of a century his junior, but this seemed to him a perfectly satisfactory chronology, since for full twenty years more her beauty would but ripen and develop. his desire to possess himself of the reynolds portrait was in a sense more altruistic, since he did not propose to keep it himself. he was prepared to offer to the present owner of it what would certainly appear to one not conversant with salesrooms a very generous price, and he was also prepared to take a far more generous price for it himself from an american friend who was victim to a trans-atlantic ambition to possess a dozen portraits by this master. he scarcely knew a picture from a statue, but he wanted pictures, and craddock in previous transactions with him had learned not to be shy of asking enormous sums for them, since mr. william p. ward's comment was invariable, laconic and satisfactory. "i'm sure i'm very much indebted to you," was all he said, and proceeded to discharge his indebtedness. craddock's precautions with regard to the sun that beat on the carriage windows were quite successful, and he felt cool and presentable when he was shown into this riverside house and out again onto the lawn that bordered the thames where tea was laid under the big plane tree that shaded a drowsy area of cool green. joyce, inimitable save for the foreshadowing sir joshua, rose to receive him, forgetting to turn off the water from the urn which was ministering to the teapot. upon which a thin hand came out of an encompassing chair, and a rather fretful voice said: "the tea will be drowned, joyce. oh, is that mr. craddock? charmed." having saved the tea from drowning, philip wroughton gave craddock a sufficiently cordial welcome. he did not rise from his basket chair, but extended a welcoming hand. he had a footstool to keep his feet from any risk of damp from the scorched and arid grass, and a thin plaid shawl was laid across his knees, as a preventative of miasmic humours reaching those joints. in person he was a wizen bird-eyed little man, fleshless and hollow-cheeked, and grey-haired, and by the side of his daughter he looked like a dried normandy pippin compared to a fresh apple, sun-tinted and vivid-skinned. beside him, chiefly concealed from view by the scarlet sunshade which cast a red glow on to her face, sat his mother, old lady crowborough, who was by far the most juvenile of any company in which she found herself. not being on speaking terms with her elder son (though she spoke about him a good deal) she stayed with philip whenever she found it convenient, and gave him a great deal of good advice, which he seldom acted upon. she delighted in her age, which she habitually exaggerated, and had now for several years said that she was ninety, though as a matter of fact she would not attain that agreeable age for several years yet. she was remarkable for her shrewdness, her memory and her health, and wore a rather girlish and simple costume with a flapping linen sun-bonnet. time, that inexorable accountant, seemed to have passed over her page, and her face was still marvellously soft and unwrinkled, and her sight and hearing were yet acute and undimmed. arthur craddock had not expected to find her here, and he was not sure that the discovery pleased him, for she always produced in him a sensation of being detected. philip wroughton continued his low-voiced and languid phrases of welcome. "charmed to see you," he said. "you know my mother, do you not? it is good of you to come down and see us in our retreat. i, with my wretched health, as you know, cannot leave home, and joyce really prefers the river and her dogs and perhaps the society of her poor old father to the distractions of town. eh, joyce?" joyce might or might not have endorsed the filial sentiments thus attributed to her, but her opportunity of doing so was snatched from her by her grandmother who endorsed none of these things. "it's all stuff and nonsense about your health, philip," she said. "you would be as strong as me if you only would put your medicine bottles into the grate, and eat good nourishing food, instead of the slops you stuff yourself with. and as for joyce preferring to spend her time with you, instead of dancing and flirting with all the agreeable young fellows in london, you know quite well that it's you who keep her mewed up here to carry your cushions and pour out your medicines and put up your umbrella." joyce interrupted this recital of menial duties with a laugh. "granny, darling," she said, "how many lumps of sugar?" "three if they're decent big ones," said lady crowborough with decision. "tell us what's going on in town, mr. craddock." arthur craddock habitually made himself agreeable when it was worth while, and here he had three persons whom he desired to stand well with--philip wroughton for the sake of the reynolds, joyce for her own sake, and lady crowborough for reasons of self-protection. "a burning fiery furnace is going on in town, my dear lady," he said. "the heat has been a torture, and i only hope i have been expiating some crime. the worst of it is that i have searched my memory without any success for something i have done to deserve these flames. but i seem to have been almost priggishly virtuous. what do you think i can have done, miss joyce?" joyce put the three decent lumps into her grandmother's tea, and laughed again. she always felt a certain slight physical repulsion for this stout white man, though she recognised his agreeable qualities. "ah, how can i tell?" she said. "you have not made me your confessor." mr. craddock remembered that he would probably not get very much dinner, and took a large soft bun with sugar on the top of it. "i instantly offer you the post," he said, "though i can still think of nothing to confess. you will have a sinecure. and yet after all it was one's own choice to stop in town, and certainly there have been pleasant things going on. i suppose, too, that at this moment the keenness of my pleasure in sitting on this delicious lawn in the shade and coolness of your beautiful plane tree is enhanced by the contrast with the furnace i have escaped from. and will you take me out again in your punt after tea, as you did when i was here last? all the way down i have had a prospective vision of you looking like a victory off some greek frieze with your punt-pole, and of myself reclining on the cushions like--like a middle-aged but unintoxicated silenus." this speech, since not addressed to lady crowborough, was too lengthy for her taste. "nasty uncomfortable things are punts," she observed, "going crawling along with one person poking and fuddling away among the mud and eels at the bottom of the river, and dribbling the water from the pole over the other. joyce made me go out with her yesterday, and one of her great dogs sat on my lap, and the other panted and slobbered over my frock, while the sun frizzled the marrow out of my bones. if i must go on the river, give me a motor-boat that takes you along instead of going backwards half the time." "i think i shall not find it too chilly in the punt to-night, joyce," said her father, "if i take the shawl that is next thickest to the one i have here. or perhaps it would be more prudent to take both. will you see to that, my dear, when you have finished tea, and tell them also to put dinner a quarter of an hour later. then i shall be able to rest for a little after we get in. let us start very soon. bring mr. craddock one of my shawls, too; he will be likely to find it chilly after the heat of town. a shetland wool shawl, mr. craddock, i find keeps one warm without any feeling of weight." lady crowborough's impatience at her son's hygienic precautions fizzed and spurted again at this. "and bring me my cough-drops, joyce," she said, "and my goloshes, and my little fur-cape, and a digestive pill, and my liver-mixture. and don't forget to take some cotton wool, to put in your ears, and the eye-lotion. lord save us, philip! you and your shetland shawls!" "i envy you your robustness, dear mother," said he. "i only wish you had bequeathed me more of it." lady crowborough had finished tea, and accompanied joyce on her errand of shetland shawls, thus leaving the two men together. "joyce will bring the punt around in ten minutes," said her father, "and in the interval i shall be glad to have a chat with you, mr. craddock. i have been considering the question of selling the reynolds, if you remember our talk when you were last here, and i have come to the conclusion that it is really my duty to do so. i feel that i ought to spend next winter in some warm and sunny climate, where i may have a chance of recovering some measure of my ruined health. but that of course would cost money, and my wretched poverty puts it out of the question for me, unless i can sell some such possession. joyce, too, poor girl, will enjoy a greater stir and gaiety than i can give her here. there is little enough of it in her life, though i know she finds compensation from its absence in the sedulous care with which she insists on looking after me. i dare say there will not be many more years of invalid-nursing before her. all i can do is to make them as little tedious as may be. indeed, it is chiefly for her sake that i contemplate the sale of this picture." he paused a moment and lit a curiously-smelling cigarette which counteracted a tendency to hay-fever. like many people he was strangely credulous about his own statements, and came to believe them almost as soon as they were made. indeed, on this occasion, before his cigarette was well alight, he fancied that in part at any rate his plans of wintering in some warm climate had been made for joyce's sake. "i think you mentioned some number of pounds you thought you could get me for my great-grandmother's picture," he said. "five thousand? was that the amount? i have no head for figures. yes. and an american, was it not? i hate the thought of my picture going to america but poor men like me must not mind being kicked and plundered by the golden west. probably it would be hung up in some _abattoir_, where oxen are driven in at one end, and tinned meat taken out at the other. and for once my mother agrees with my determination to sell it. she says that i cannot afford to have such a large cheque hanging framed in my study." arthur craddock did not find much difficulty in sorting the grain from the husk, in this very characteristic speech. but he wisely treated it all as grain. "i know well your solicitude for miss joyce's happiness," he said. "and i need not tell you how much it honours you. but with regard to the future home of your delightful picture i can assure you that there is no _abattoir_ awaiting it. mr. ward has half a dozen reynolds already, and some very notable examples among them. and, as i told you, i think there is no doubt he would give five thousand for it." he caressed the side of his face, and finding no disconcerting whisker there, wondered how much he would actually venture to charge mr. ward for the picture. "in fact i offer you five thousand for it here and now," he said. "ah, here is miss joyce in her punt coming for us." philip wroughton dismissed this insignificant interruption. "then call to her, mr. craddock," he said, "if you will be so good and tell her we shall be ready in five minutes. i cannot raise my voice above the ordinary tone of speech without excruciating pain. she will take a little turn in her punt, and come back for us. you will excuse me if i shut my ears when you shout; a loud noise tears my nerves to ribands." arthur craddock got up. "i will go and tell her," he said. "so good of you: i am ashamed to trouble you," said wroughton, not moving. he walked down to the edge of the lawn, where was the landing-stage. "we are talking business, miss joyce," he said, "so will you come back for us in five minutes. you have just stepped off some greek frieze of the best period, let me tell you. i long to recline like a teetotal silenus of the worst period on those cushions. in five minutes, then?" joyce leaned towards him on her punt-pole and spoke low. "oh, mr. craddock," she said. "are you talking about the reynolds? father told me he was thinking of selling it. do persuade him not to. i am so fond of it." she gave him a little friendly nod and smile. "do try," she said. "yes, i will come back in five minutes. there's a swans' nest among the reeds down there, and i will just go to see if the cygnets are hatched out yet." wroughton looked languidly at him on his return. "joyce has a ridiculous affection for that portrait," he said, "and i have a reasonable affection for it. i can't afford to look at it: i am far more in need of a suitable winter climate than of any work of art. yet sometimes i wish that these pactolus-people had left us alone." this was not a strictly logical attitude, for it was obviously possible to refuse the offer, and leave the pactolus-people alone. nothing more than an opportunity had been offered him, of which he was free to take advantage or not, just as he chose. as for craddock, he felt himself advantageously placed, for if he upheld joyce's wish, he would ingratiate himself with her, while if the sale took place, he would reap an extremely handsome profit himself. for the moment the spell of the riverside diana was the most potent. "i can understand miss joyce's feeling," he said, "and yours also, when you wish that the pactolus-people as you so rightly call them had left you alone. i respect those feelings, i share and endorse them. so let us discuss the question no further. i will tell my friend that i cannot induce you to part with your picture. no doubt he will find other owners not so sensitive and fine as you and miss joyce. of course he will be disappointed, but equally of course i gave him to understand that i could in no way promise success in the enterprise." even as he spoke the balance wavered. he could tell joyce that he had urged her father not to part with his picture, and her gratitude would be earned, and he knew that he wanted that more than he wanted to gratify her by his success. thus it was satisfactory to find that he had not disturbed the stability of wroughton's determination, and his profit was safe also. "ah, that is all very well for you," said wroughton, "with your robust health and your ignorance of what it means to be so poor that you cannot afford the alleviation which would make life tolerable. beggars cannot afford to be so fine. even joyce does not know what i suffer in this miserable swamp during the winter months. but i am convinced she cannot have her father and the picture with her, for i am sure i should never survive another winter here." his thin peaked face grew soft with self-pity, which was the most poignant emotion that ever penetrated to his mind. "she would bitterly reproach herself," he went on, "if after i am gone, she conjectured that i might have been spared to her a little longer if i had been able to spend the winter months in a climate less injurious to me. she does not really know how ill i am, for of course i do not speak to her about that. i want to spare her all the anxiety i can, and in speaking to her of my project of spending the winter in some sunny climate, in egypt or on the riviera, i have laid stress only on the pleasure that such a visit will give her. no, no, mr. craddock, my poor joyce and i must put our pride in our pocket; indeed there is nothing else there. i will close with your american friend's offer: my mind is made up. naturally i should want a good copy of the picture made for me without cost to myself. it might be possible for you in your great kindness to arrange that for me. you might perhaps make it part of the condition of sale: five thousand pounds and a good copy." craddock waved this aside. he had delicately disposed of another bun. "that is easily arranged," he said, wiping his fingers that were a little sticky with the sugar on his fine cambric handkerchief. "i feel sure i can guarantee his acceptance of your terms." philip wroughton coughed gently once or twice. he always said that questions concerning money were distasteful to him. it is quite true that they were so, when they concerned his parting with it. "and am i right in supposing that you would expect whatever the usual commission happens to be?" he asked. "if so, shall i pay it, or your friend?" craddock interrupted him with the promptitude born of horror at such a suggestion. "i beg you not to hurt my feelings by proposing anything of the kind," he said. philip wroughton instantly and with apologies withdrew his inhumanity. * * * * * by this time joyce had returned from her expedition to the swans' nest and was waiting for them. she had already put into the punt a selection of grey shetland shawls, with a quantity of cushions, and the task of making her father quite secure and comfortable next demanded all her patience and serenity. but she had to make one more expedition to the house to get his white umbrella, for the heat of the sun not yet set might easily penetrate the black one which he had brought with him. he needed also a fly-whisk in case the midges became troublesome, a binocular glass, and the very careful disposition of cushions so that no draught could conceivably come through the cane back against which he reclined. then, when he was quite settled, craddock got in, and joyce pushed out into the stream leaving two pairs of pathetic dogs' eyes wistfully regarding her from the bank. but it was impossible to take huz and buz, his brother, when her father was in the punt, for they fidgeted him on these hot days with their panting, and could not be relied on to keep perfectly and permanently motionless. joyce, as was usual with her, was bareheaded, and was clad in a very simple home-made skirt of butcher's blue much stained with water and bleached with sun, and a white flannel blouse the arms of which she had rolled up to above her elbows; but craddock, who was a skilled appreciator with regard to female apparel, would not have had her change her really elementary garments for the most sumptuous and glittering fabrics. in general, he entirely believed that a woman's beauty is enhanced by the splendour of her attire, and saw the value of satin and tiaras. but there was something so completely satisfying and suitable in this rough river-dress that he would not have added any embellishment to it, nor have expunged a single water-stain or sun-bleach. the girl's superb slim figure, divine in the elasticity of its adolescence, now bending to her stroke, now rigidly erect again as she trailed her pole back through the frilled water, stood out in the simplicity of attic relief with its plain white and blue against the reflected greens and browns which the trees and shady places cast onto the polished mirror of the water. her arms bare to above the elbow showed the full roundness and soft, slim strength of her beautiful limbs, and for the most part, except when she turned at the end of her stroke, her face was in profile to him, giving him the short, straight nose of the reynolds picture, the fine mouth with generous underlip a little drooping, and the firm oval of the curve from chin to ear. here in the stern, while she made these magnificent sweeps and curtsies with her punt-pole, were sitting her father and himself, and he had no need to glance at mr. wroughton, or to think consciously of himself with his obese and middle-aged figure in order to remind himself of the glorious contrast between the passengers and the splendour of their long-limbed conductress. she was thames, she was june, she was the enchanted incarnation of all that was immortally young and beautiful, and though naturally vain, he felt delighted to be part of her foil, to set her off more than any "silk and fine array" could have done. for the first time he hardly knew whether he did not admire the reynolds portrait so much because it was so like her. there was the same spirit of wind and woodland and sunshine and joyous serenity about it. the type was here incarnate, and he bathed his mind in it, washing off, temporarily at least, the merchandise and tittle-tattle of its normal environment. surely this admiration of his touched ecstasy, touched love. there soon came a turn in this sunny fluid reach of thorley, and mr. wroughton, without imprudence, furled his white umbrella, and adjusted his binoculars for a languid survey of the shadowed river. on one side a wood of tall virginal beeches clad the hill-side down to the edge of the towing-path, and the huge curves of aspiring tree-tops climbed unbroken to the summit of the hill. a fringe of hawthorn-trees, cascades of red and white, bordered this fairyland of forest, and below the towing-path a strip of river-fed grasses and herbs of the water-side were fresh and feathery. spires of meadow-sweet reared their stiff-stemmed umbrellas of cream-colour, and loosestrife pointed its mauve spires into the tranquil air. the dog-rose spread its maiden-hued face skywards, with defence of long-thorned shoots, and lovely sprays with half-opened chalices hung narcissus-like above the tranquil tide. below the water waved secret forests of river-weed, with darting fishes for birds in the drowned branches, that undulated in the stream, and here and there tall clumps of rushes with their dry brown blooms wagged and oscillated mysteriously to the twitchings of unseen currents. to the left the ground was low-lying in stretch of tree-bordered meadow, and from not far in front of them the sleepy murmur of thorley weir sounded with the cool melodious thunder of its outpoured and renewed waters. willows fringed the banks, and glimpses of meadow behind them, lying open to the level rays of the declining sun, shone with their rival sunlight of buttercup and luxuriant marsh marigold. birds were busy among the bushes with supper, and resonant with even-song, and jubilant thrushes were rich with their rapturous and repeated phrases. and arthur craddock with his swift artistic sense, not too sophisticated for simplicity, saw with an appreciation that was almost tremulous how all this benediction of evening and bird-song and running water was reflected and focussed in the tall bending figure of this beautiful girl, and in her vigour and in the serenity of her brown level eyes. she was in tune with it, beating to its indwelling rhythm, a perfect human instrument in this harmony and orchestra of living things, part of it, thrilling to it, singing with it.... and the fact that he saw this so strongly, appreciated it so justly, measured the myriad miles he was distant from loving her. an infinite hair-breadth placed him further from love than is the remotest star from the revolving earth. they glided up opposite a juncture of streams. to the right lay the main body of the river towards thorley lock, to the left a minor stream hurried from the low-thundering weir. joyce pushed strongly outwards on the right of the punt, and turned it with frill of protesting water into the narrower and swifter stream, willow-framed on both sides. here there was shallower and more rapid water, that gleamed over bright gravel-beds, and even as they turned a king-fisher ashine with sapphire and turquoise wheeled like a jewelled boomerang close in front of them, giving a final hint of the gleaming romance and glory that lies so close below the surface of the most routined and rutted life. they made a sharp angle round a corner, and close in front of them was the grey spouting weir, and the deep pool below it, lucid with ropes and necklaces of foam and iridescent bubble. a long spit of land jutted out into the river and on it was a grey canvas tent. joyce had been punting on the right of the boat with her back to this, but just as they came opposite to it, the shifting current of the stream thrown across it by this spit of land made it advantageous to change the sides of her poling, and from close at hand she saw the tent and the presumed inhabitants thereof, two young men, one perhaps eighteen years old, the other some four or five years his senior. they were as suitably clad as she and more scantily, for a shirt and a pair of trousers apiece, without further decoration of tie or shoe or sock, was all that could be claimed for either of them. the younger was utterly intent on some elementary cooking-business over a spirit-lamp; the elder with brush and palette in hand was frowningly absorbed in a picture that stood on an easel in front of him. so close to the river-bank was the easel set, that it was impossible not to apprehend the vivid presentment that stood on it: there was the weir and the nude figure of a boy on the header-board in the act of springing from it into the water. then at the moment when the punt was closest, the artist, hitherto so intent on his picture that the advent of the punt was as unnoticed by him as by the boy who bent over the spirit-lamp, looked away from his canvas and saw them. thereat he attended no more to his work, but merely stared (rudely, if it had not been instinctively) at joyce with young eager eyes, half-opened mouth, vivid, alert, and suitable to the romance of the river-side and the pulse of the beating world. it seemed right that he should be there; like joyce and the willow-trees, he belonged to the picture that would have been incomplete without him, young and smooth-faced, and barefooted and bright-haired. on the instant the cooking-boy spoke, high and querulously. "oh, charles," he said, "this damned omelette won't do anything. it's a sort of degraded glue." joyce laughed before she knew she had laughed, with her eyes still on charles. indeed she hardly knew she laughed at all, any more than a child knows, who laughs for a reason as primal as the beat of the heart. the blood flows.... then, still primally, she saw his responsive amusement, and as they laughed, a glance as fresh as the morning of the world passed between them. she had looked at him no longer than it took her to pull her punt-pole up to her side again, then turning her head, in obedience to the exigence of another stroke, she looked away from him. but it seemed to her that that one moment had been from everlasting. it was the only thing that concerned her, that meant anything.... and the strange fantastic moment was passed. craddock's voice terminated it. "your glasses for a second, mr. wroughton," he said, and without waiting for verbal permission he snatched them up with a quickness of movement that was rare with him, and had one fleeting look at charles' picture. the next stroke of the punt-pole took them round the spit of land into the bubble and foam of the bathing-pool below the weir. joyce skirted round this, keeping in shallow water and out of the current. a backwash of water made it unnecessary for her to exert herself further for a moment, and she turned full-face to the two men. something within her, some indwelling beat of harmony with the simple and serene things of the world, made a smile, as unconscious as her laugh had been, to uncurl her lips. "what a jolly time those two boys are having," she said. "i hope the omelette will cease to be degraded glue. and, mr. craddock, wasn't charles--the cook called him charles--wasn't charles painting rather nicely? did you see?" certainly craddock had seen, though he wanted to see again, but it was her father who answered. "i think we will turn and go home, joyce," he said. "it will be chilly at sunset. what have you done with my second shawl?" joyce laid down the dripping punt-pole. "here it is," she said. "will you have it over your shoulders or on your knees?" the bows of the punt were caught by the weir-stream, and the boat swung swiftly round. "take care, joyce," he cried. "you will have us swamped. and you should not put down your punt-pole in the boat. it has wetted me." joyce spread the second shawl over his knees, and tucked the edges of it round him. "no, dear, it hasn't touched you," she said, "and we aren't going to be swamped." she took up her pole again, and a couple of strokes sent them swiftly gliding down the rapid water. next moment they were again opposite the tent; one boy was still stirring the deferred omelette, the artist with brush still suspended had his eyes fixed on their punt. once again joyce's glance met his, and once again arthur craddock picked up wroughton's glasses, and got a longer look at the picture on the easel, before they floated out of range. he was even more impressed by this second glance; there was a vitality and a sureness about the work which was remarkable. for the moment the thought of the reynolds, and even joyce herself, blue and white with the background of feathery willow trees, was effaced from his mind. certainly the boy could paint, and he was for ever on the look-out for those who could paint, more particularly if they were young and unknown. he felt certain he had never seen work by this young man before, for he could not have forgotten such distinctive handling. as certainly he would see artist and canvas again before he left thorley. this was the sort of opportunity with which his quick unerring judgment was occasionally rewarded. there might be a bargain to be made here. philip wroughton was in amazingly genial humour that night, and read them extracts about the climate of egypt from a guide-book. he had quite an affecting and tender little scene with joyce, in the presence of arthur craddock on the subject of the sale of the picture, and had told her with a little tremble of his voice that it was for her to choose whether she would part with the portrait or himself, according to the formula he had already employed in discussing the matter with craddock. on this second repetition it had gained reality in his mind, and joyce with her sweet indulgence for all that concerned her father did him the justice of recognizing that to him this tissue of imagination was of solid quality. somehow the prospective loss of the picture, too, did not weigh heavily with her, for she was conscious of a sunlight of inward happiness which could not be clouded by any such event. she had no idea from whence it sprang, it seemed to be connected with no particular happening, but was like one of those hours of childhood which we remember all our lives when we were intensely and utterly happy for no definite reason. never, too, had she seen her father more alive and alert, and he went so far as to drink nearly a whole glass of the bottle of champagne which he had opened for his guest, to wish prosperity and a happy home for the portrait. but, in this established imperfection of human things, he had slight qualms on the wisdom of this daring proceeding, and bade himself remember to take a little digestive dose as soon as dinner was over. "with a good copy here in its old place," he said, "i have no doubt that we shall not really miss it. joyce, my dear, these beans are not sufficiently cooked. and, mr. craddock, i hope you will arrange that the transaction shall be quite private. we, joyce and i, do not want the fact that i have had to sell the picture publicly known." lady crowborough gave a little shrill laugh at this, without explanation of her amusement. "it shall not be spoken of at all," said craddock, "nor of course will the picture be seen in london. it shall go straight from your house to philadelphia. why, even your servants need not know. the copy will one morning take the place of the original, which i will arrange shall not be moved until the copy is ready. i will get a copyist to do the work here, if that is agreeable to you. mr. ward naturally will want to see his picture before the purchase is complete, but you need not see him. he will call at a time convenient to yourself. but should you care to see him, you will find him a very agreeable fellow." mr. wroughton held up his hand which was thin almost to transparency. "no, spare me the sight of my executioner," he said. "i don't know where you get all these fine feelings from," remarked his mother. "not from my side of the family. i'll see mr. ward for you, and see if i can't get him to buy some garnets of mine that i never wear. i shall like a month or two in egypt with you, philip." "too long a journey for you, mother, i am afraid," said philip hastily. "there! i knew you'd say something mean," said she, rising. "well, i've finished my dinner, and i shall get to my patience." the night had fallen hot and starry and still, and though it was not to be expected that mr. wroughton should risk himself in the air after dinner, craddock and joyce at his suggestion strolled down to the river's edge in the gathering dusk. the even-song of birds was over, and bats wheeled in the darkening air, and moths hovered over the drowsy fragrance of the flower-beds. from somewhere not far away sounded the tinkle of a guitar accompanying some boyish tenor, and joyce without thought, found herself wondering whether this was the voice of charles of the unknown surname, or the anonymous fashioner of the omelette. the tune was tawdry enough, a number from some musical comedy, and though the performer had no particular skill either of finger or throat, the effect was young and fresh, and not in discord with the midsummer stillness. something of the same impression was made on arthur craddock also, who listened with an indulgent smile on his big face that gleamed whitely in the faded day and dimness of stars. "he does not know how to play or sing very much," he said, "but it is somehow agreeable though a little heart-rending to my middle-age. he is clearly quite young, his voice is unformed yet, and i should guess he is thinking of her. enviable young wretch! for though, miss joyce, we miserable ones go a thinking of one or another her all our lives, they cease to think of us, just when we need them most." there was considerable adroitness in this speech as a prelude to greater directness, and he looked at her out of his little grey eyes with some intentness. she seemed more diana-like than ever in this grey glimmer of starlight: it really seemed possible that she would spring up from the earth to meet the tawny moon-disc that was even now just rising in the east, and charioteer it over the star-scattered fields of heaven. she seemed dressed for her part as mistress of the moon, all in white with a riband of silver in her bright hair. "but what of us?" she said lightly. "do not you men cease to think of us even before we are middle-aged?" suddenly it struck craddock that no more heaven-sent opportunity for carrying out the second of the purposes that had brought him down here, could possibly be desired. he was in luck to-day, too: the business of the portrait had been carried through so smoothly, so easily. but immediately he became aware that he was not, in vulgar parlance, quite up to it. he needed support, he needed her father's consent, but above all he needed the imperative call, the hunger of the soul. clearly, too, her words did not refer, however remotely, to herself and him, he felt that they were spoken quite impersonally. and immediately she changed the subject. "i have to thank you," she said, "for trying to dissuade my father from selling the portrait. he told me you had suggested that he should not. that was kind of you." he caressed the side of his face with the usual gratifying result. "i found his mind was made up," he said, "though in accordance with your request i suggested he should not sell it. always command me, miss joyce, and i will always fly on your quests. i am aware that i do not look particularly like a knight-errant, but there are motor-cars and railway-trains nowadays which transport us more swiftly and less hazardously than mettlesome chargers, especially if we can't ride." he had again made himself an opening, but again he found when he came close that it was barricaded to him. but this time some hint of his intentions, though he could not manage to carry them into effect, was communicated to her, and conscious of them, and uncomfortable at them, she again changed the subject. "oh, i am not going to ask you to take the train to-night," she said. "the most i shall ask of you is that you play bézique with my father by and by. i play so badly that it is no fun for him. hark, the singing is coming closer." they had come to the landing-stage at the far end of the lawn, and looking up the tranquil lane of the river joyce saw that the sound came from a canadian canoe which was drifting downstream towards them. the boat itself was barely visible in the shadow of the trees: it was conjectured rather than seen by the outline of shirt-sleeves that outlined it, and it was on the further side of the stream. by this time the moon had swung clear to the horizon, and though the boat was still shadowed, joyce and craddock standing on the lawn were in the full white light. at the moment the musical comedy song came to an end, and the voice of some imprudent person from the canoe, forgetting the distinctness with which sound traverses water, spoke in a voice that was perfectly audible to joyce, though not to craddock. "charles, there's the girl of the punt and her fat white man," it observed. charles was more circumspect. his answer was a murmur quite inaudible, and instantly he thrummed his guitar again. the melody was new to joyce, and though he might not have great skill in singing, he had a crisp enunciation, and the delicious old words were clearly audible: "see the chariot at hand here of love wherein my lady rideth." louder and more distinct every moment, as the canoe drifted closer came the beautiful lyric. the singer was not using more than half his voice, but as the distance between canoe and audience diminished, the light boyish tenor was sufficiently resonant to set the windless air a-quiver. just as the canoe emerged into the blaze of moonlight opposite came the final stave, and the white-shirted singer sang from a full and open throat: "or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar? or the nard in the fire? or have tasted the bag of the bee? o, so white, o, so soft, o, so sweet is she!" the silence of the night shut down like the lid of a jewel-box. then after a little while came the drip of a paddle, and the canoe grew small and dim in the distance down-stream. "those jolly boys again," said joyce. arthur craddock heaved a long sigh, horribly conscious of his years and riches, and joyce heard the creak of his shirt-front. "that young man has diplomatic gifts," he said. "it is clear that he intended to serenade you, and he chose the far side of the river, so as to make it seem that he had no intention of any kind. it is a reasonable supposition that if serenading was his object, and it certainly was, he might be supposed not to see you standing here. so he serenaded with the open throat. if i tried to do the same, which sorely tempts me, i should only convince you that i had not an open throat but a sore one. nobody has ever heard me sing, not even when i was as young as that white shirted youth in the canoe. he will paddle back to his tent before long, unless you stay here visible in the moonlight, and dream steadily about you till morning." joyce laughed. "oh, what nonsense, mr. craddock," she said, knowing in the very secret place of her girl's heart that it was not nonsense at all. "boats with guitars and singers go by every night, and often half the night. they can't all be serenading me." "i cannot imagine why not. a mormonism of serenading young men is not illegal. i would join them myself, miss joyce, if i could sing, and if i did not think that any canadian canoe in which i embarked would instantly sink." philip wroughton, in addition to the glass of champagne he had drunk at dinner permitted himself the further indulgence of sitting up for nearly an hour beyond his usual bedtime to talk to his guest and read more about the delectable climate of the upper nile. while craddock and joyce were out in the garden, a train of thoughts had been suggested to him by his very shrewd mother before she began her patience, which he was preparing to indicate ever so lightly to that gentleman after joyce had gone upstairs. "he's got your picture, philip," said that observant lady, "and now he's after your daughter. why don't you send joyce up to town for a month, and give the girl a chance? you're a selfish fellow you know, like all wroughtons." but she had not succeeded in provoking him to a retort, nor had she affected the independence of his own conclusions. it required no great perspicacity to see that craddock was considerably attracted by the girl, and it seemed to her father that she might easily marry less suitably for him. she had led a very solitary and sequestered life with him, and he did not propose to alter his habits in order that she might come more in contact with the world. true, in this projected egyptian winter she was likely to meet more young men than she had ever come across in her life before, but he could not imagine any one who would suit him (as if it was his own marriage that was in contemplation) better than craddock. philip found him quiet and deferential and agreeable, and since it was certainly necessary that joyce and her husband (if she was permitted to marry) should be with him a good deal, these were favourable points. he detested young men with their high spirits and loud laughs and automatic digestions, and he did not for a moment intend to have such a one about the house. furthermore craddock was certainly very well off (philip would have had a fit if he had known that he and his picture were in the act, so to speak, of enriching him more) and it was clearly desirable to have wealth about the house. possibly some one more eligible might discover himself, but philip had little difficulty in convincing himself that he would be failing in his duty towards his daughter if he did not let craddock know that his attentions to joyce were favourably regarded by her father. but if his meditations were stripped of the fabric of unrealities, until truth in bare austerity was laid open, it must be confessed that he planned joyce's possible marriage with a single eye for his own comfort. a game of bézique succeeded craddock's stroll with joyce and a cigarette with a whisky and soda consoled him for the withdrawal of the ladies. "and you have positively to go up to town again to-morrow," said philip. "cannot we by any means persuade you to stay another night? you in your modesty have no idea what a refreshment it is to us in our retirement to get a whiff of air from the busy bustling world. yes, i may say 'us,' for my dear little joyce was so pleased at your coming. would you not be more prudent to close that window? i am sure you are sitting in a draught." this, of course, meant that philip was, and craddock did not misunderstand. "i was saying that joyce was so pleased," repeated her father. "i ask nothing better than to please miss joyce," said craddock. "you do please her: i am sure of it. dear joyce! i know it cannot be long that i shall be able to give her a home. her future continually occupies my thoughts. i daresay she will meet someone when we winter in egypt who will attract her. she is not ill-looking, is she? i think there must be many suitable men whom she would be disposed to regard not unfavourably. yes, yes." it was all spoken very softly and tunefully: the calm sunset of declining day seemed to brood over it. the effect was that arthur craddock got up and paced the room once or twice in silence. "will you give me your permission to ask miss joyce if she will make me the happiest of men?" he asked. "my dear friend!" said philip, with hand outstretched. chapter ii. dawn was brightening in the sky though the sun was not yet risen when charles lathom awoke next morning in the tent by the river-side. close by him in the narrow limits of their shelter his brother reggie was lying on his back still fast asleep with mouth a little parted, a plume of tumbled hair falling over his forehead, and a bare brown arm and shoulder outside the sheet in which he was loosely wrapped. late last night, after they had got back from their moonlit drift down the river, reggie, who, to do him justice, had done all the paddling so as to leave charles free to serenade, saw the propriety of one dip in the pool below the weir before bed, and had come back into the boat dripping and refreshed and glistening, and without further formality of drying, had curled himself up and gone to sleep with a mocking reference to the lady of the punt. the picture of him taking a header into the pool, now on the point of completion, leaned against the tent-side, and a couple of bags gaping open and vomiting clothes and brushes, and a box of provisions, the lid of which did duty for a table, completed the furniture of the tent. charles got up quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeper, and went out into the clean dewy morning. the thickets behind their encampment were a-chirrup with the earliest bird-music of the day, and high up in the zenith a few wisps of cloud that had caught the sun not yet risen on the earth itself, had turned rosy with the dawn. the spouting of the weir made a bass for the staccato treble of the birds, but otherwise the stillness of night was not yet broken. little ripples lapped at the side of the canadian canoe drawn half out of the water onto a bank blue with forget-me-not, and a tangle of briar-rose with cataract of pink folded petals hung motionless over the water. then with a sudden shout of awakened colour the first long level rays of the sun sped across the meadows, and with the sigh of the wind of dawn the world awoke. the morning light was what charles needed for his picture, but not less did he need his brother, for the painting of the braced shoulder-muscles of his arms as they pointed above his head for the imminent plunge. sun and dappled shade from the trees that bounded the meadow just beside the weir fell onto his naked body, making here a splash of brilliant light, here a green stain of sunlight filtering through the translucent leaves, while his face and the side of his body seen almost in profile were brilliantly illuminated by the glint from the shining pool below him. but underneath these surface lights there had to be indicated the building and interlacement of the firm muscles and supple sinews of his body. he had all but finished them, he had all but recorded what he saw, but it was necessary that reggie should stand for him just a little while more. meantime, since it was still so early, and his brother still so profoundly dormant, there was a little more work to be done to the ecstatic dance of sunlight on the pool. just at the edge the shadow of the wall of the weir lay over it, and it was deep brown with a skin of reflected blue from the sky, but a few yards out the sun kindled a galaxy of golden stars, flowers of twinkling and dazzling light. he got his picture out of the tent, set it on its easel, and put a kettle of water on the spirit-lamp. it was still far too early to have breakfast, but a cup of tea brought presently to reggie's bedside might tend to make him unresentful of being awakened when charles found he could get on no further without him. so when this was ready, charles rattled the sugar in its tin loud enough to wake not one only but seven sleepers, and reggie sat up with a justifiable start. "what the deuce----" he began. "sorry," said charles. "i'm afraid i made rather a row. but i've made some tea, too. have a cup?" "of course. is it late?" "well, no, not very. i've been up some little time painting. but i can't get on any more without you!" reggie gave a great yawn. "i suppose that means you want me to turn out, and stand with my arms up on that header-board. it's lucky i have the patience of an angel." "archangel," said charles, fulsomely. "you've been a real brick about it." "and will you get breakfast ready if i come now?" "yes, and i'll make both beds." reggie accordingly got up and glanced at the picture as he passed it on his way to the header-board. "i suppose i am like a dappled frog, if you insist on it," he said, "but a devilish finely-made young fellow." "absolute adonis," said charles humbly. "oh, reggie, stand exactly like that as long as you possibly can. that's exactly right." the work went on in silence after this, for the modelling of muscle and flesh below this checker of light and shade and reflection was utterly absorbing to the artist. he had tried all ways of solving this subtle and complicated problem: once he had put in the curves and shadows of the tense muscles first, and painted the diaper of sun and shade on the top of it, but that made the skin thick and muddy in texture. once he had mapped the sunlight and surface shadows first and overlaid them with the indicated muscles, but this seemed to turn the model inside out. then only yesterday he had seen that the whole thing must be painted in together, laid on in broad brushfuls of thin paint, so that the luminousness and solidity should both be preserved, and this method was proving excitingly satisfactory. often during this last week he had almost despaired of accomplishing that which he had set himself to do, but stronger than his despair was his absolute determination to record what he saw, not only what he knew to be there. it was impossible for his brother to hold this tiring pose for more than a couple of minutes, and often it was difficult to get its resumption accurately. but this morning reggie seemed to fall or rather stretch himself into the correct position without effort, and charles on his side knew that to-day he had the clear-seeing eye and the clever co-ordinating hand. for an hour of pose and rest reggie stood there, and then charles stepped a few yards away from his canvas, and stood a moment biting the end of his brush, and frowning as he looked from model to picture and back again. then the frown cleared. "thanks most awfully, reggie," he said. "it's done: good or bad, it's done." reggie gave a great shout, and disappeared altogether in the pool. * * * * * charles made breakfast ready according to agreement, and the two sat for a while afterwards in the stupefaction of out-door content. "this week has gone on wings," said reggie, "and it's an awful melancholy thing to think that this is my last day here. but it's been a beauty of a week, i'm no end grateful to you for bringing me." reggie had the caressing moods of a very young thing. as he spoke he left his seat and established himself on the ground leaning back against his brother's knees and anchoring himself with a hand passed round his leg. "i should have had to stew in sidney street for my week of holiday," he went on, "if it hadn't been for you. it was ripping of you to let me come." "it's i who score," said charles. "you've earned your keep all right. i should have had to hire a model otherwise, or have done without one." "oh, well, then, we both score." reggie threw away the end of his cigarette and abstracted charles' case from his pocket. "i must go up to town this afternoon," he said, "for thistleton's gallery opens again to-morrow morning. and there i shall sit, all july, at the receipt of custom and sell catalogues and make the turn-stile click and acknowledge receipts ... oh, a dog's life. jove, what a lot of money some of those fellows have! there was an american who came in last week and went around the gallery with a great fat white man called craddock who often comes and shows people round. i rather think he is thistleton, and owns the place. i say, charles----" reggie broke off suddenly. "why, i believe it was he who was in the punt last night," he said, "and was standing on the lawn with that girl you sang at----" "didn't notice him particularly," said charles. "no, you were noticing somebody else particularly. but i feel sure it was he. as i say, he was taking an american round last week, who bought a couple of little dutch pictures. he stopped at my desk on the way out and borrowed my pen and wrote a cheque for £ right straight off, without coughing. i remember he said he was going to post-date it. but he didn't tip me." "i don't quite know what this is all about," remarked charles. "nor do i. i hoped it was just agreeable conversation. don't you find it so? but i bet you what you like that the fat white man in the punt was craddock." reggie lay further back against his brother's legs. "i see a great tragedy ahead," he said, "with inquests and executions. craddock is about to marry the girl of the punt, and charles will cut his throat, and----" "whose throat?" asked charles. "his own or craddock's; perhaps craddock's first and his own afterwards. then there will be a sensational trial, and i can't bother to make up any more. are you going to paint all the morning, charles?" "no, none of it. it's enough for to-day to have finished you. i shall stop down here a day or two more and do another sketch after you have gone. i'm at your disposal this morning." "then let us do nothing for a long time, and then bathe for a long time, and then do both all over again. lord, i wish i was an artist like you, instead of a doorkeeper, to stop about all day in delicious places, and do exactly what you like best in the world, which is to paint." "it would make it completer if anybody wanted best in the world to buy what i had painted," remarked charles. "but you sold two water colours the other day for three pounds each," remarked the consolatory reggie. "that's as much as i earn in a month." "it might happen oftener," said charles. "by the way, i heard from mother last night." "a nice woman," said reggie. "quite. she sent me another sovereign in case funds had run low. when you get back you will find she has been living on tea and toast because she didn't feel hungry." reggie gave a huge sigh. "i wish a man might marry his mother," he observed. "i should certainly marry her and we would ask you and the punt-girl to stay with us." "very kind," said charles. * * * * * these two young men who were enjoying so open-aired a week of june by the thames-side were the only children of the widow whom they kindly agreed to regard as a "nice woman." they had been brought up in easy and well-to-do circumstances, and educated at public schools, until the suicide of their father a little more than a year ago had disclosed a state of affairs that was as appalling as it was totally unexpected. he was a jobber on the stock-exchange and partner in a firm of high repute, but he had been privately indulging in a course of the wildest gambling, and he could not face the exposure which he knew could no longer be avoided. the sale of the pleasant country home at walton heath, and the disposal of all that could be converted into cash had been barely sufficient to make an honourable settlement of his unimagined debts. neither his wife nor either of the boys had ever dreamed of the possibility of such a situation: never had it appeared that he had had the slightest anxiety with regard to money. his self-control had been perfect until, as with the breaking of some dam, it had given way altogether in ruin and destruction. till that very moment he had been the gayest and youngest of that eager little family party, all of whom brought an extraordinary lightness and zest to the conduct of their unclouded lives. charles had already left school for a three years when the stroke fell, and was studying in a famous _atelier_ in paris, while reggie, still at marlborough, was devoting as much time as he could reasonably be expected to spare from athletic exercises to the acquiring of foreign tongues with a view to the diplomatic service. they had both been instantly sent for by their mother, who met his death with a fortitude that never wavered. it was not long that they had to wait for the explanation of the utterly unlooked-for catastrophe, for a very short examination of his private papers showed the extent of his defaulting and the imminence of the crash. willingly, had it been possible, would she have kept from her sons the knowledge that he had killed himself, bearing alone the unshared secret, but an explanation of accident was impossible. equally impossible was it to conceal the miserable cause of it. it was on the evening of charles' return from paris, as they sat in the still house that till to-day had always rung with jollity, while heathery sweetness and the resinous odour of pines came in at the open windows, that she told them everything, quite shortly, and when that was done and they were still half stunned with the sudden horror that had blackened life, she rallied her own courage by awakening theirs. "you know it all, my darlings," she said, "and now whenever you think of it, and for a long time it will always be in your thoughts, you must think of it all as some dreadful mistake that dear dad made, something he never meant at all. he got his troubles muddled up in his head till he didn't know what he was doing. he felt he couldn't bear it, just as sometimes he used to call out when we were playing some silly game like animal grab 'i can't bear it: i can't bear it.' oh, charles, my darling, don't cry so awfully. we've got to go straight ahead again, with all our courage undismayed, and show that we can face anything that god chooses to send us." she waited a little, comforting now one and now the other. "it was all a mistake," she went on, "and we must never allow ourselves to think that it was the dear dad we knew who did it. he wasn't himself: trouble had made him forget himself and all of us just for a moment. we will think about that moment as little as we can, and then only as a mistake, but we will think constantly and lovingly of the dear dad we have known all these years, who was so loving and tender to all three of us, and whom we knew as so gay and light-hearted. we will have him constantly in our thoughts like that, this and all the loving-kindness of the years in which we laughed and loved together. and if we can't help, as we shan't be able to do, thinking with a sort of wondering despair of that blunder, that mistake, we must remember that, somehow or other, though we can't explain how, it is and was even then in the hands of god." it had been no vague piety or bloodless resignation that had inspired her then, nor in the year that followed, and it had required a very full measure of the essential spirit of youth, which never sits down with folded hands, but despises resignation as it despises any other sort of inaction, to bring them all to the point where they stood to-day. whether the boys helped their mother most, or she them, is one of those problems of psychological proportions into which it is unnecessary to enquire, since each had been throughout the year, essential to the others. for if there had been no jolly boys coming home at evening to mrs. lathom in their lodgings in the meagre gentility of sidney street, she could no more have got through her industrious day with hope never quenched in her heart than could they if there had been no mother waiting to welcome them. she without waiting a day after they moved to london invested a few pounds of their exiguous capital in buying a typewriting machine, and before long, by dint of unremitting work was earning a wage sufficient, with reggie's office salary, to keep the three of them in independence and adequate comfort, as well as to pay for a slip of a dilapidated studio in a neighbouring street, where charles toiled with all the fire of his young heart and swiftly-growing skill of hand at his interrupted studies. it was for him, of all the three, that life was most difficult since he was an expense only to the others and it required all the young man's courage to persevere in work which at present brought in almost nothing. but his mother's courage reinforced his: while it was possible for him to continue working, it would be a cowardly surrender to give up tending the ripening fruit of his years in paris, and let the tree wither, and turn his brushes, so to speak, into pens, and his palette into an office stool. besides, he had within him, lying secret and shy but vitally alive, the unalterable conviction of the true artist that his work was ordained to be art, and that where his heart was there would sufficient treasure be found also. but it was hard for him, even with the endorsing sincerity of his mother's encouragement, to continue being the drone of the hive so far as actual earning was concerned, and it had demanded the utmost he had of faith in himself and love for his art to continue working with that ecstasy of toil that art demands at all that which his education needed, and not to grudge days and weeks spent in work as profitless from the earning point of view as he believed it to be profitable in his own artistic equipment. drawing had always been his weak point, and hour after interminable hour from casts or from the skeleton, properties saved from the lavish paris days, he would patiently copy the framework of bones and patiently clothe them in their appropriate muscles and sinews. as must always happen, long weeks of work went by without progress as noticed by himself, until once and once again he found himself standing on firm ground instead of floundering through bogs and quick-sands which endlessly engulfed his charcoal and his hours, and knew that certain haltings and uncertainties of line troubled him no longer. but he made no pause for self-congratulation but continued with that mingling of fire and unremitting patience which is characteristic of the true and inspired learner. colour and the whole complex conception of values, which go to make up the single picture, instead of a collection, however well rendered, of different objects was naturally his: he had by instinct that embracing vision that takes in the subject as a whole. the heat of the morning disposed to quiescence, and the two boys with the spice of meadow-sweet and loosestrife round them, and the coolness of the running water, drowsily booming, to temper the growing swelter of the day, talked lazily and desultorily, concerned with these things, for a long time after breakfast was over. but they were vividly concerned with them no more: to each the opening pageant of life was more engrossing than the tragedy of the past, being young they looked forward, where the middle-aged would have dwelt with the present, and the old have mumbled and starved with the past. but to them it was but dawn, and the promise of day was the insistent thing, and there was no temptation to dwell in ruins, and conjure back the night. but before long the itch for activity, in spite of their resolve of a lazy morning, possessed each, and reggie fervidly washed up the used crockery of breakfast, while charles went up the few yards of path that lay between the tent and the side of the weir, to behold again the picture he had left standing on its easel. in his heart he knew it was finished, but in the eagerness of his youth he almost looked forward to some further brushful of inspiration. he would not touch what he knew was good: he hoped only to find something that could be touched with advantage. he turned a sharp corner, where willows screened the weir; his picture was planted within a dozen yards of him. but between him and his picture was planted a big white-faced man who was regarding it so intently that he did not hear the swish of the parted willows. it was not till charles was at his elbow that craddock turned and saw him. and he put into his manner the deference which he reserved for duchesses and talent. "i have come to your private view," he said, "without being asked, and it was very impertinent of me. but really this is my second visit. i had my first private view yesterday, when i looked at your picture from a punt in which i happened to be. i had just a couple of glimpses at your work before this. you have been very fortunate in your inspiration since then. the muse paid you a good visit this morning." charles said nothing, but his eyes questioned this intruder, giving him a tentative welcome. but before the pause was at all prolonged the tentative welcome had been changed into a wondering and tremulous expectancy. were there fairies still by the thames-side? was this fat white man to prove a fairy? "you have painted an admirable picture," continued the possible fairy, "and the handling of the most difficult part of all--of course you know i mean the lights and shadows on that delightful figure--is masterly. of course there are faults, plenty of them, but you can see, and you can draw, and you can paint." craddock saw charles' lip quiver, and heard that it cost him an effort to command his voice. "not really?" he stammered. "unless i am much mistaken, and it has been the business of my life to seek out those who can see and draw and paint. now i don't know your name, and assuredly i have never seen your work before, and since it is my business also to know the names and the works of all young men who can paint, i imagine that you have your artistic début, so to speak, still in front of you. but i shall be exceedingly grateful to you if you will sell me your picture, straight away, here and now. and if you won't let me have it for fifty pounds, i shall have to offer you sixty." charles looked vaguely round, first at craddock then at his picture, then at the spouting weir, almost expecting to see them melt, as is the manner of dreams, into some other farrago as fantastical as this, or dissolve altogether into a waking reality. "do you really mean you will give me fifty pounds for it," he asked. "no: i will give you sixty. but don't touch it again. take my word for it that it is finished. or did you know that already?" "oh, yes," said the boy. "i finished it an hour ago. but i came back to make sure." "well, then, when you leave your encampment here, will you please send it to me at this address? that is to say, if i am to have the privilege of purchasing it." this repetition gave reality to the interview: people in dreams were not so persistent, and charles gave a little joyous laugh, as craddock took a card out of his pocket and gave it to him. "or were you thinking of exhibiting it?" he asked. "i was meaning to have a try with it at the autumn exhibition of the 'artists and etchers,'" said charles. "i have no objection to that, provided you will let me have a little talk with you first, and put certain proposals before you." he looked at the picture again, and saw more surely than ever its admirable quality. it had unity: it was a picture of a boy just about to plunge into a sunlit pool, not a boy, and a pool, and some sunlight, a mere pictorial map, or painted enumeration of objects. it was all tingling with freshness and vitality and the rapture of early achievement: no artist, however skilled, if he had outgrown his youthful enthusiasm could have done it like that, though he would easily have produced a work more technically faultless. eagerness, though wonderfully controlled, burned in it; the joy of life shouted from it. and when he looked from it to the tall shy boy whose grey eyes had seen that, whose long fingers had handled the brushes that recorded it, he felt sure he would not go far wrong in his own interests in making a proposal to him that would seem to him fantastical in its encouraging generosity. indeed he felt that there was no element of chance in the matter, for there could be no doubt about this young man's temperament, which lies at the bottom of all artistic achievement, and in this case was so clearly to be read in those eager eyes and sensitive mouth. naturally he had a tremendous lot to learn, but a temperament so full of ardent life and romantic perception as that which had inspired this idyll of youth and sunshine and outpouring waters would never rest from the realization of its dreams and visions. he looked at his watch and found he had still half an hour before he need to go to the station. "can you give me a few minutes of your time now?" he said. "of course. i will just tell my brother that i can't come with him at once. we were going on the river." "do. tell him to come back for you in half-an-hour. that is he, i suppose, on the header-board." charles went quickly down the little path to the tent. "o, reggie," he said. "the fat white man has come and bought my picture. absolutely bought it. it's real: i'm just beginning to believe it." reggie stared for a moment. then, for he had a poor opinion of his brother's business capacities, "how much?" he demanded. "sixty pounds. not shillings, pounds. and he wants to talk to me now, so come back for me in half-an-hour. he says i can paint, and somehow i think he knows." "bless his fat face," said reggie. "we'll let him have it at his own price. anything for the model? i think the model deserves something." "he shall get it," said charles. reggie caught hold of his brother by the shoulders, and danced him round in three wild capering circles. * * * * * arthur craddock had sat himself down on the steps that led to the header-board waiting for charles' return. he had turned the picture round, so that he saw it in a less perplexing light, and found that he had no need to reconsider his previous conclusions about it. it was brimful of lusty talent, and there seemed to him to be a hint of something more transcendent than talent. there was a really original note in it: it had a style of its own, not a style of others, and though he felt sure that the artist must have studied at bonnart's in paris, there was something about the drawing of it which had never been taught in that admirable atelier. and the artist was so young: there was no telling at what he might not arrive. craddock had a true reverence for genius, and he suspected genius here. he also had a very keen appreciation of advantageous financial transactions, which he expected might be gratified before long. for both these reasons he awaited charles' return with impatience. he was prepared to make his proposal to him at once, if necessary, but he felt he would prefer to see more of his work first. charles did not tax his patience long: he came running back. "let us begin at the beginning, like the catechism," said craddock. "what is your name?" "charles lathom." "and mine is arthur craddock. so here we are." craddock was capable of considerable charm of manner and a disarming frankness, and already charles felt disposed both to like and trust him. "your work, such as i have seen of it," craddock went on, "interests me immensely. also it makes me feel a hundred years old, which is not in itself pleasant, but i bear no grudge, for the means"--and he pointed at the picture, "excuse the effect. now, my dear lathom, be kind and answer me a few questions. you studied with bonnart, did you not?" "yes, for two years." "only that? you used your time well. but who taught you drawing?" charles looked at him with a charmingly youthful modesty and candour. "nobody," he said. "i couldn't draw at all when i left bonnart's. of course i don't mean that i can draw now. but i worked very hard by myself for the last year. i felt i had to learn drawing for myself: at least bonnart couldn't teach me." "and have you copied much?" "i copy in the national gallery. i try to copy the english masters." "there is no better practice, and you will do well to keep it up, provided you do plenty of original work too. but of course you can't help doing that. i should like to see some of your copies, unless you have sold them." charles laughed. "not i, worse luck," he said. "indeed, i have only done bits of pictures. you see----" he was warming to his confession: the artist within him bubbled irrepressibly in the presence of this man who seemed to understand him so well, and to invite his confidence. "you see, i didn't care so much about copying entire pictures," he said. "it wasn't reynolds' grouping--is that fearfully conceited?--that i wanted to learn and to understand, but his drawing, ears, noses, hands--i find i can manage the composition of my picture in a way that seems to me more or less right, and can see the values, but the drawing: that was what i wanted to get. and it has improved. it was perfectly rotten a year ago." a further idea lit its lamp in craddock's quick brain. "you shall show me some of your studies," he said. "and should you care to copy a reynolds, i feel sure i can get you a good commission, if your copies are anything like as good as your original work. do tell me anything more about yourself, that you feel disposed to." charles brushed his hair back off his forehead. craddock's manner was so supremely successful with him that he did not know that it was manner at all. he felt he could tell him anything: he trusted him completely. "i studied with bonnart for two years," he said, "and then there came a crash. my father died, and we were left extremely poor; in fact, we were left penniless. perhaps you remember. my mother earns money, so does reggie, my brother. but for this last year, you see, it is i whom they have been supporting. they wanted me to go on working, and not mind about that. so i worked on: i have been very industrious i think, but till now, till this minute, i haven't earned more than a pound or two. that's why----" charles had to pause a moment. the reality and significance of what was happening almost overwhelmed him. sixty pounds meant a tremendous lot to him, but the meaning of it, that of which it was the symbol meant so infinitely more. "that's why i could hardly believe at first that you wanted to buy my picture," he said. "it seemed too big a thing to happen. it's not only the fact of sixty pounds, it's your belief that my picture is worth it, that i can paint. but if nobody ever wanted to buy or saw any merit in what i did, i don't believe i could help going on working." he was sitting on the ground just below the steps which craddock occupied, and he felt a kind hand on his shoulder, as if to calm and fortify his voice which he knew was rather unsteady. "so i guessed," said craddock, "but it is just as pleasant to find that somebody does believe in you, and i assure you that i am only the first of many who will. now about our arrangements--i will give you ten pounds at once to show you i am in earnest about buying your picture----" "o, good lord, no," interrupted charles. "i should prefer it, and i will send you the balance from town. now will you come up there to-morrow and show me what you call your bits of things? show me them the day after to-morrow, and shall we say ten in the morning? you must give me the address of your studio and i will come there. bring up your picture with you, but get some boy from the village to look after your tent and belongings for a night or two, if you prefer this to rooms. very likely you will want to occupy it again. the reynolds of which i spoke is in a house near." craddock got up and pulled out a russia-leather pocketbook. "here is my earnest money," he said. "your studio address? thanks." charles' heart was so full that it seemed to choke his brain and his power of utterance. the first ineffable moment of recognition, dear even to the most self-reliant of artists, had come to him, and until then he had not known how nearly he had despaired of its advent. he held out his hand, and smiled and shook his head. "it's no use my trying to thank you," he said, "for there are no words that are any use. but i expect you know." as has been said, arthur craddock had a profound reverence for talent quite apart from his keen pleasure in advantageous bargains, and his answer, dictated by that was quite sincere. "the thanks must pass from me to you," he said. "people like myself who are unable to create, find their rewards in being able to appreciate the work of those like yourself. pray do not think of me as a patron: i am a customer, but i hope i may prove to you that i am a good one. ten o'clock, then, the day after to-morrow." craddock had the invaluable mental gift of attending with a thoroughness hermetically sealed from all other distractions to the business on hand. nor did he let his mind dribble its force into other channels, when he wanted the whole of it to gush from one nozzle, and in this interview with charles lathom he had summoned his whole energy, though the expression of it was very quiet, to winning the boy's confidence, and making himself appear as a discerning and generous appreciator. it would have seemed to him a very poor policy to obtain this picture, as he could no doubt have done, for a quarter of the price he had offered for it, while on the other hand, it was unnecessary to offer twice that price (which he would willingly have done) since he could make the impression that was needful for his future scheme, at the lower figure. economy was an excellent thing, but there was no mistake more gross than to economize at the wrong time. he was satisfied as to this, and now he dismissed the subject of charles and his picture quite completely, and turned his whole thoughts elsewhere. there were several directions in which it might profitably have turned; he turned it to one in which any possible profit was remote. that morning, before he made this visit to charles, craddock had proposed to joyce, who had refused him. he had not taken, and did not now take her refusal as final, and told her so, but it had considerably surprised him. he knew well how restricted a life she led at home, how subjected she was to her father's peevish caprices and complaints, how cut off she was from the general diversions of life, and this, added to her father's assurance that he "pleased her" was sufficient to make him frankly astonished at her rejection of him, and her refusal to walk through the door which he held open for her, and which provided so easy an escape from all these disabilities. he had put before her, though not pompously, these advantages, he had mentioned that her father endorsed his application, he had not omitted to lay stress on his devotion to her, and had ascertained that there was no rival in the field of her maidenly preference. it is true that he was not in love with her, but, acute man though he was in all that concerned the head, it never entered into his mind, even now, as he drove to the station, and thought intently about the subject, that this omission could have had anything to do with his ill-success. it is quite doubtful whether, even if he had been desperately in love with her, joyce would conceivably have given any different answer, but, as it was, the omission was so fatal to her instinct, that there could not be a moment's struggle or debate for her. she was not even sorry for him, for clearly there was nothing real to be sorry for. otherwise, she would have sincerely regretted her inability to accept him, for, in spite of a certain physical distaste which she felt for him, she liked him, and admired his quickness and cleverness. had her father told her that craddock was going to live with him, she would have hailed him with a genuine welcome. but quite apart from her feeling towards him, there was the insuperable barrier of his want of feeling towards her. of that barrier, of the possibility of her knowing it, he, with all his cleverness, had no idea. but to joyce the whole matter was abundantly evident; she knew he did not even love her, and his love for her was the only thing that could have made her acceptance of him ever so faintly possible. without that all other reasons for marrying him were fly-blown; no debate, no balancings were conceivable. the scale dinted the beam with its unchecked kick. he thought over this ill-success, guessed without getting within miles of the truth at the primary reason for it, as he drove through the white sunshine from his interview with the astounded and grateful charles, and almost immediately became aware that in the last hour, his feelings for joyce had undergone a curious intensification. inspired, as he had been all his life by desires that were entirely material, he had been used, by the aid of his clever brain, to compass and possess them. often, of course, he had not been able for the mere wanting, to obtain the coveted object, and hitherto, it had almost invariably happened that this temporary check stirred him up to such further efforts as were necessary. a wish denied him hitherto, had connoted a wish intensified, and since there is a great deal of truth latent in the commonplace that to want a thing enough always earns the appropriate reward of desire, he had not often fainted or failed before reaching his goal. even now, though up till now his desire for joyce had been scarcely more than a wish, it seemed to him different from all other wishes; it was becoming a desire as simple and primal as hunger for food or sleep.... some internal need dictated it. this was disturbing, and since he had other immediate work on hand, he turned his attention to a typewritten manuscript, of which he had read part, last night; he proposed to finish it in the train. craddock, as has been said, had a mind profoundly critical and appreciative: he had also quite distinct and segregate, an astonishing _flair_ for perceiving what the public would appreciate. often he bought pictures which from an artistic point of view he thought frankly contemptible because he saw signs so subtle that they were instinctively perceived rather than reasoned--that the public was going to see something in either an old outworn mode, or in some new and abominable trickery. he then transferred his purchases to thistleton's gallery, and gladly parted with them on advantageous terms. but this _flair_ of his was by no means confined to mere pictorial representations, and he was always glad to read a novel or a play in manuscript, with a view to purchasing it himself, and disposing of his acquired rights to publisher or playwright. living as he publicly did in the centre of things, an assiduous diner out and frequenter of fashionable stair-cases, he yet had a quiet and secret life of his own as distinct from the other as are the lives of inhabitants in adjoining houses, whose circle of friends are as diverse as bishops from ballet-dancers. he preferred to deal in the work of men who were young or unknown, and at present had not been able to get producers for their possible masterpieces. he was thus often able by liberal offers to secure an option of purchase (at a specified figure) over the output of their next few years. often to the sick-heartedness of their deferred hopes, such prospects seemed dictated by a princely liberality, and they were gladly accepted. scores of such plays he read and found wanting, but every now and then he came across something which with judicious handling and backed by the undoubted influence he had with the public through the press, he felt sure he could waft into desirable havens. only this morning by the weir-side he had found a gem of very pure ray, which he believed to be easily obtainable, and now as he read this manuscript in the train, he fancied that his jewel-box need not be locked up again yet. the public he thought to be tired of problem-dramas: they liked their thinking to be peptonized for them, and presented in a soft digestible form. just at present, too, they had no use for high romance on the one hand, or, on the other, subtle situations and delicate unravellings. they wanted to be shown the sort of thing, that, with a little laughter and no tears, might suitably happen to perfectly commonplace, undistinguished (though not indistinguishable) persons, and in this comedy of suburban villadom, with curates and stockbrokers and churchwardens behaving naturally and about as humorously as they might be expected to behave without straining themselves, he felt sure that he held in his hand a potential success on a large scale. the author was young and desperately poor: he had already had a play on the boards at the first night of which arthur craddock had been present, which had scored as complete a failure as could possibly have been desired to produce suitable humility in a young man. but craddock, who always thought for himself instead of accepting the opinions of others, had seen what good writing there was in it, how curiously deft was the handling of the material, and knew that the failure was largely due to the choice of subject, though ten years ago it would probably have been welcomed as vigorously as it was now condemned. it was an excellent play of ten years ago, or perhaps ten years to come, with its lurid story too difficult for the indolent theatre-goer of this particular year to grasp, and its climax of inextricable misery. he had therefore immediately written to frank armstrong, the author, and at an ensuing interview told him what, in his opinion, were the lines on which to build a popular success. then, guessing, or, rather knowing, that armstrong must have attempted drama many times before he had produced so mature a piece of work as the unfortunate "lane without a turning," he said: "i daresay you have something in your desk at home, rather like what i have been sketching to you, which you have very likely failed to get produced before now. send it to me, and let me read it." it was this play "easter-eggs" which craddock finished as the train slowed down into paddington station. it could not be described as so fine a play as that which had achieved so complete a failure, but it had all that the other lacked in popular and effective sentiment. even to a man of craddock's experience in the want of discernment in theatrical managers, it was quite astounding that it had ever been refused, but he could guess why this had been its fate. for there was no "star-part" in it; there was no character, overwhelmingly conspicuous, who could dominate the whole play and turn it into a "one-man" show. the success of it must depend on level competent acting, without limelight and slow music. it was a domestic drama without villain or hero or dominating personality, and when he again read over the list of acting managers to whom frank armstrong had submitted it, he saw how absurd it was to suppose that tranby or akroyd or miss loughton could ever have considered its production. but he saw also how a company of perfectly-unknown artists could admirably present it, with a great saving of salaries. it needed moderate talent evenly distributed, and one part mishandled would wreck it as surely as would some ranting actor-manager who tried to force a dominant personality into the play, and only succeeded in upsetting the whole careful balance of it. even as craddock drove back to his sumptuous and airless flat in berkeley square he jotted down a half-dozen names of those who filled minor parts in star-plays quite excellently. he wanted them without the stars. and then quite suddenly, his mind, usually so obedient, bolted, and proceeded at top-speed in quite another direction. without intention, he found himself wondering what joyce was doing, whether she would have told her father about his proposal, or confided in that astutest of grandmothers, whether she was in the punt with panting dogs, or still troubled with the undoubted indisposition of buz, who had not been at all well, so she had told him, this last day or two. her life seemed to him a deplorable waste of heavenly maidenhood, partly owing to a selfish father, partly, now at least, because she had not consented to waste it no longer. youth lasted so short a time and its possessors so often squandered it on things that profited not, ailing dogs, for instance, and swans' nests among the reeds. then he caught sight of his own large face in the mirror of his motor, and felt terribly old. he, too, had squandered his youth in the amassing of knowledge, in all that could have been acquired when the leap of the blood thrilled less imperatively, in the passion devoted to passionless things, in the mere acquisition of wealth, in the formation of his unerring taste and acumen. but he knew that his blood had tuned itself to a brisker and more virile pulse, since joyce had shaken her head and smiled, and been a little troubled. or was it over the indisposition of buz that she was troubled? then, arriving at his flat, he became his own man again, and cordially telephoned to frank armstrong to have lunch with him. chapter iii. an hour later frank armstrong was sitting opposite craddock eating lunch with the steadfast and business-like air of a man who was not only hungry now, but knew from long experience that it was prudent to eat whenever edibles could be had for nothing. some minutes before craddock had suggested a slice of cold meat to give solidity to the very light repast that was so suitable to the heat of the day, and since then armstrong had been consuming ham and firm pieces of bread without pause or speech. but nobody was less greedy than he; only, for years of his life he had been among the habitually hungry. in appearance he was rugged and potentially fierce: a great shock of black hair crowned a forehead that projected like a pent-house over deep-set angry eyes, and it might be guessed that he was a person both easy and awkward to quarrel with, for his expression was suspicious and resentful, as of some wild beast, accustomed to ill-usage, but whom ill-usage had altogether failed in taming. but though this ugliness of expression was certainly the predominant characteristic of that strong distrustful face, a less casual observer might easily form the conclusion that there were better things below, a certain eagerness, a certain patience, a certain sensibility. he looked up at craddock after a while, with a queer crooked smile on his large mouth, not without charm. "i will now cease being a pig," he said. "but when one is really hungry one can't think about anything else. it is no more hoggish, really, than the longing for sleep if you haven't slept for nights, or for water when one is thirsty. i had no breakfast this morning. now what have you got to talk to me about?" craddock was a strong believer in the emollient effects of food, and had determined to talk no business till his client was at ease in a chair with tobacco and quiescent influences. "ah, no breakfast!" he said. "i myself find that i work best before i eat." frank armstrong laughed. "i don't," he said. "i work best after a large meal. no: i did not have breakfast, because it would have been highly inconvenient to pay for it. there are such people, you know. i have often been one of them." arthur craddock found this peremptory young savage slightly alarming. for himself he demanded that social intercourse should be conducted in a sort of atmosphere of politeness, of manners. just as in landscape-painting you had to have atmosphere, else the effect was of cast-iron, so in dealings with your fellow-men. there should be no such things as edges, particularly raw ones. he thought he had seldom seen anybody so unatmospheric. "my dear fellow," he said. "do you mean that you have been actually in want of money to pay for food? why did you not tell me? you knew what an interest i took in you and your work." frank looked at him quite unatmospherically. "but why should my having breakfast matter to you?" he said. "you wanted my work, if you thought it good: if not, i was no more to you than all the rest of the brutes who go without breakfast. now about the play. at least, i don't suppose you asked me to lunch in order to talk about breakfast. i quite expect you to tell me it's twaddle, indeed, i know it is. but does it by any chance seem to you remunerative twaddle?" craddock really suffered in this want of atmosphere. he gasped, mentally speaking, like an unaccustomed aeronaut in rarefied air. "ah, i can't agree with you that it is twaddle," he said. "the plot no doubt is slender, but the dialogue is excellent, and you show considerable precision and fineness of line in the character-drawing." "but what characters?" said the candid author. "the curate, the housemaid, the churchwarden. lord, what people, without a shred of life or force in them. but it answered your description of what theatre-goers liked. i wrote it last year, in a reaction after the 'lane without a turning.'" "ah, was that it?" said craddock. "it puzzled me to know how a boy like you--you are a boy, my dear fellow--could possibly write anything so bitter and hopeless as that, and something so quietly genial as 'easter eggs.'" "easily enough. i myself wrote the one: it was me, and as i found out, nobody liked it. 'easter eggs' is merely my observation of a quantity of blameless chattering people. i lived in surbiton when i was quite a boy. they were rather like that: there were teaparties and sewing-societies to relieve distress among the poor. packets of cross-overs used to be sent to cancer hospitals. let's get back to the subject. remunerative or not?" "without doubt remunerative," agreed craddock again gasping. "but i have given three of our leading actors the opportunity of remunerating themselves and me, and they won't touch it. are their souls above remuneration, and do they only want topping high art?" arthur craddock did not see his way to telling armstrong that he had sent his play to exactly those managers who would be quite certain to refuse it, because that was information which he had excellent reason, if he was to conclude an advantageous bargain, for keeping to himself. "nevertheless, i am right about your play," he said, "and tranby and akroyd are wrong." frank shrugged his shoulders. "so you tell me," he observed. "yes, and i am willing to back my opinion. i will here and now buy this play from you and pay for it at a figure which you will not consider ungenerous, considering it is a pure speculation on my part. but there are certain conditions." frank armstrong pulled his chair up closer to the table, and put his elbows on it. craddock could see that his fingers were trembling. "name your conditions, if you will be so good," he said. "perhaps you would also tell me more about the not ungenerous figure." craddock held up a white plump hand of deprecation. he positively could not get on without manners and life's little insincerities. as this young man seemed to have none of them, he had to supply sufficient for two. he was glad to observe that signal of nervousness on armstrong's part: it argued well for the acceptance of his bargain. "you are so direct, my dear fellow," he said. "you demand a 'yes' or a 'no' like a cross-examining counsel. you must permit me to explain the situation. i take a great interest in your work and in you, and i am willing to run a considerable risk in order to give your work a chance of being fairly judged and appreciated. now there is nothing more difficult to gauge than the likings of the public, and while i tell you that your play will be without doubt remunerative, i may be hopelessly in error. but i see in it certain qualities which i think will attract, though in your previous play, which, frankly, i think a finer piece of work than this, the public was merely repelled. but here----" armstrong's elbow gave a jerk that was quite involuntary. "shall we come to the point?" he said. "of course this is all very gratifying, but we can talk about the play's merits afterwards. how much do you offer me for 'easter eggs' and on what conditions?" craddock drummed with his plump fingers on the table. looking across at the strong rough face opposite him he could see suspense and anxiety very clearly written there. he felt a rather nasty pleasure in that: it was like poking up some fierce animal with a stick, where there are bars between which prevent its retaliating violence. but perhaps it would be kinder to put it out of its suspense, for armstrong wanted to know this more than he had wanted lunch even. "i offer you £ down for all rights of your play," he said, "on conditions that you let me have three more of your plays within the next three years at the same price, should i choose to buy them." armstrong did not take his eyes off him, nor did the stringency of their gaze relax. "did you say £ ?" he asked in an odd squeaky little voice. "i did." then the tension relaxed. the young man got up and rubbed the backs of his hands across his eyes. "if i'm asleep," he said, "i hope i shan't wake for a long time. it's deuced pleasant. i don't quite know what five hundred pounds mean--i can't see to the end of them. i thought perhaps you were going to offer me £ . i should certainly have accepted it. why didn't you?" this was a good opportunity for craddock. "because i do not happen to be a sweater," he said, "and because like an honest man i prefer paying a fair price for good work." armstrong gave a great shout of laughter. "and because there isn't much difference to you between fifty pounds and five hundred," he said. he paused. "i beg your pardon," he said. "i had no business to say that. but i don't understand your offer. by the way, of course i accept it." craddock had tried to look hurt when this rather ruthless suggestion as to the reason for his generosity was made, but he did not feel within himself that his attempt was very successful, and was glad to look benign again when frank armstrong apologised. the tremulousness of his hands had ceased, and he looked straight at his benefactor with his distrustful gaze. then once more the crooked rather charming smile came on his mouth. "personally, i am sure you rather detest me," he said, "so i suppose it seems to you worth while financially to run this risk with your money. so, though i'm bewildered, i tell you frankly, with the prospect of five hundred pounds, i'm not grateful to you. i wish i was. of course, if 'easter eggs' makes anything of a hit, you will do pretty well, and i shall be a popular playwright----" he broke off a moment, and pushed back his hair. "ah, i see: that's where you come in," he said. "you have an option to buy three more plays by a popular playwright at the same price. again if any of the three new ones makes a success, you won't do very badly." craddock went on the whisker-hunt for a moment. "and if 'easter eggs' is put on, and fails, as your other play did," he observed, "shall i not be considerably out of pocket? and another failure would not encourage me to exercise my option over any future work of yours. however, let it be me this time who asks you to come to the point. do you accept my offer or not? i may mention that i shall not renew it. i cannot waste my time over arrangements that come to nothing." armstrong nodded at him with comparative friendliness. "good lord, yes. i accept it," he said. "i told you i should have accepted £ ." craddock got up. "then if you have finished your lunch, we might draw up an agreement over our cigarettes." "certainly. i daresay you will let me have a cigar, too. and when i've signed, or whatever i have to do, will you give me a cheque straight off? i shall have a banking account, i suppose, and i shan't be hungry again for ever, as far as i can see. by george, i ought to be grateful to you. but i think the sort of experience i've been through don't give a fellow much practice in gratitude. gratitude is an acquired virtue. it is the prosperous who mainly acquire it." craddock patted him on the shoulder. "my dear fellow, you may leave the cynicism of the lane that had no turning behind you," he said. armstrong suddenly drew up his shirt-cuff and showed a long scar healed years ago which ran nearly up to his elbow. "that's where my father threw a knife at me once," he said. "it was a bad shot, for he threw it at my head. it's healed, you might think: it looks healed. it bleeds inside, though." this was a savage young beast, it seemed, that craddock had got hold of, one who had been set in slippery places, that sloped hell-wards. craddock had known some who had learned patience from their sojournings in such resorts, he had known others who had simply been broken by it, others again, and of those possibly the joyful and attractive charles lathom was one, who seemed to have taken no colour from their surroundings, but emerged with their serenity and sweetness undisturbed. but never yet had he seen anyone who came out of dark places with mere anger and resentment against his sufferings, and yet with strength quite unimpaired. armstrong seemed to him like that: the flames apparently had but hardened and annealed him. he had suffered under the lash of circumstance, not stout-heartedly nor with any loss of spirit, and now when for the first time he saw daylight, ahead, he was in no wise grateful for the dispersal of the darkness. he did not hail the sun or melt to the benignancy of its beams: he came out iron, remembering the hunger of the years that had starved his body and his soul, without subduing either, for physically he was hard and muscular, morally he was cynical, expecting from others little except such emotions as he himself shared, the instinct of self-defence, and the stoical bearing of such blows as he could not ward off. he was not in himself kind or unselfish or loving, and up till now he had practically never come across such qualities in others, and there was really no reason why he should believe in their existence. hitherto, nobody as far as he remembered, had done him a good turn, unless thereby he reaped a personal benefit, and indeed armstrong saw little reason why anybody should; for the world as he had known it, was not run on lines of altruistic philanthropy. the strong spoiled the weak, and the weak looked for opportunities of preying on the weaker. the rich paid as little as they could for the service of the poor, which was obviously the course that common-sense indicated, while the poor, the workers, combined so far as was possible, to make the rich pay more. there was no reason for either side to act otherwise, and thus he was puzzled to know why craddock had offered him more than was necessary in order to get this play from him, and the ensuing contract. as a matter of fact, craddock had done so for exactly the same reasons as that which prompted him to give charles lathom sixty pounds for his sketch: he wanted to earn a sort of blind unreasoning gratitude from his new client, since clients possessed of this convenient spirit were far easier to manage and to deal with. but he had failed, and knew it: this new client, though he looked forward to finding him very remunerative indeed, could not possibly be considered to be blind with gratitude. but after all the main point was that he should sign the contract that embodied craddock's proposals, which he was perfectly willing to do, and craddock's butler, coming in with coffee, witnessed the transaction. a leaf from craddock's cheque-book completed it. * * * * * all the appliances of refrigeration, in the way of electric fans and outside blinds, were not more than sufficient to keep craddock's flat at an agreeable temperature and when, that evening, about six o'clock mrs. lathom put away her typewriter, and the neat piles of manuscript and transcription which had occupied her all day the heat in the little sunbaked sitting room in sidney street, which at meal times did duty also as dining-room, was almost overpowering. but she expected the younger of her two handsome boys to arrive from his holiday on the thames with charles in time for supper, and tired as she was and worn out with her daily work in this little furnace of a room, her fatigue forgot itself in thought of and preparation for his home-coming. reggie had, on a picture postcard that showed thorley weir, advertised her of the hour of his train's arrival, and before she need busy herself over the gas-stove that stood in the corner of the passage outside the sitting-room, and had to be fed with pennies to keep its flame burning, she found there was a quarter of an hour left her to rest herself, and if possible to get a few minutes' doze to clear the heat and heaviness from her eyes. this evening in spite of the home-coming of one of her darlings, she was conscious of an unusual despondency, which, quite rightly, she told herself was only physical, and did not touch her spirits or her essential self. but this utter fatigue of body apparently reached down to her mind, and she could not help, since dozing proved an impossible feat, receding backwards into the ashes and desolation of the past. yet, when she allowed herself to do so something stronger than any sense of desolation met her, love and her womanhood and her motherhood, and the blessing of her boys. and the tired eyes grew brighter again. strawberries had been very cheap that morning, and she had bought a basket of them which she had laid out on a newspaper on her bed, each separate, so that they should not bruise each other. she could give reggie some toasted cheese as well, and tea and bread and butter. it was not such a feast as she had planned for him on the evening of his return, before he went back to his work again at thistleton's gallery next morning, but she had sent the boys a sovereign only the day before, in order to let them have a plethora of boat-hire and general jubilance, and until she took the completed copy of the manuscript back to the office next day, there was nothing more in the way of cash that could be expended. womanlike, with all the direct and tender instincts of womanhood alert, she loved to treat her males to the material comforts of life. her love had to express itself not only in affection but in the edible transcription of it, and while she would not have denied that mary had chosen the good part, she had a strong sympathy with martha, who showed her love in a fashion less purely spiritual perhaps, but none the less authentic. to serve, even if the only monument of service was unbruised strawberries, and the preparation of toasted cheese, cooked over a smelling gas-stove in the heat of this broiling evening, did not seem to her an inferior lot. she knew she had the mary-love for her boys, but, though she did not reason about the point, nor even was conscious of it, she believed martha had not chosen a bad part, when she put on her apron, so to speak, and got uncomfortably warm over the kitchen fire. there were still a few minutes left before she need stir. reggie's train was just about arriving now, and it would take him a good half-hour to walk home. in twenty minutes she could do her best by his supper, and have the toast and cheese hot and crisp for him, and she had already put the kettle on: tea would be ready simultaneously. she knew the chronology of these simple suppers very well. she sat in a frayed arm-chair. the room looked west, and at this hour it was not possible to place it entirely out of the sun, and since there was a little wind blowing in she drew up the blind of the window, admitting both. it was her hands and her eyes that were so tired; for a couple of months now it had been something of a strain to read small writing, and to-day even the clear-cut letters of her typewriter were hard to focus. very probably she was in need of glasses, but an oculist's fee, when expenses so nearly met income, was not a disbursement to be incurred lightly, and certainly her eyesight was not always so bad as it had been to-day. the strain of continual focussing had ruled two vertical lines between her eyebrows, as she had seen when she went to wash her hands after putting away her machine and before cooking reggie's supper. she had seen them there before, but more faintly. to-day they were deeply carved. mrs. lathom was but a year or two over forty, and she was aware that wrinkles such as these had no right as yet to set up so firm a dwelling-house on her face. but they only troubled her as a sign of eye-strain, a direction-post to the oculist's, and as symbols of approaching age they concerned her not at all, except in so far that approaching age might prove a drag on her energies and her work. yet it was easy to see that as a girl she must have been beautiful, and women who have been beautiful as girls are not usually so careless over the signs of their lost youth. but the moment's glance sufficient to disentangle from her face the loveliness of its youth, would have been, except to the most superficial observers, enough to make him desist from his disentangling, and stand charmed and almost awed at the gifts the advance of years had brought her which so vastly out-valued the mere smoothness of line and brightness of colour that they had taken away. they with the losses and griefs that had visited her had taken so little in comparison with the love and the patience and the proved unconquerable serenity which they had brought her. nor, except that for the moment, when heat and physical fatigue lay like a mist over her face, dimming the inward brightness of it, had they robbed her of the lighter gifts of the spirit, humour and the appreciation of the kindly merriment that to cheerful souls runs through the web of life like some gold thread in the windings of a labyrinth. high moral courage and simple faith are without doubt essential to noble living on whatever scale, but it is only the puritanically minded who would discount the piquancy that an appreciation of the comical aspects of a world, possibly tragic, gives to the business of life. and a certain sparkle in mrs. lathom's grey eyes, a certain twist in her mouth clearly betokened that she was quite capable of laughing at those she loved when they behaved in a ridiculous manner. in the end without doubt a deeper-abiding tenderness would overscore her amusement, but she would never commit the error of blindly spoiling her idols. but her ten minutes' rest was over, and she got out of her cupboard the materials for supper, and went out onto the landing where stood the gas-stove that browsed on inserted pennies. mercifully it stood near the window that looked out on to sidney street at the top of this shabby genteel house, and the generous fumes grafted on to the faint odour of oil-cloth and a more pronounced smell of other culinary operations on some lower storey did not hang in stagnation on the landing. outside on the pavements and roadway shadowed by the houses, children, not quite gutter-snipes, but markedly a little lower than the angels, played about with the eked-out contrivances of childhood, a pair of ill-running skates shared between two, a small box on wheels which would hold a baby, and cabalistically labelled squares drawn on the paving-stones. opposite there were no houses, for a stiff church stood in an acre of disused graveyard. rather sad and spiritless marriages used sometimes to be officiated there, and on sunday a great clamour of four bells brought together a sparser congregation than so much noise seemed to deserve. over all lay a grey heat-hazed sky. somehow the gas-stove with its accompanying odour of oil-cloth and another supper below, in which it was now clear that fish was an ingredient, was more encouraging than those symbols of worship and mortality. the gas-stove promised supper anyhow, and supper is a symbol that life not only is not extinct, but that it demands to be maintained, and mrs. lathom turned to the kettle from which steam was beginning to spurt, and put her saucepan on the bars of the top of the range. simultaneously a motor-car hooted outside, and appeared to draw up, still throbbing, at the house. then there came an impatient roulade on the bell, and the moment after the leap of active ascending feet on the staircase. it was impossible to mistake that tread: nobody in the house but reggie came upstairs like a charging brigade, and yet how should reggie have taken a motor from paddington? it could scarcely be that charles was ill, that there had been some accident, for then surely he would have telegraphed: nor did these flying feet sound like the bearer of ill news. but she left her gas-stove and went to the head of the stairs, not exactly expecting ill-news, but wanting to know. reggie flung himself upon her in his usual tornado of welcome. "oh, mother, things have happened," he said, "and charles hasn't decided whether berkeley square or grosvenor square is the nicest, and so he'll leave it to you. yes, quite right: i'm mad, and i've kept the taxi because charles orders you to drive out with me and have supper somewhere. it's his treat. to come to the point, he has sold his picture right off the easel for sixty pounds--i said pounds--and it seems that's only the beginning." "oh, my dear!" said mrs. lathom. "i know i am, so put on your hat. goodness, how hot the house is, and oil-cloth and fish and cheese don't smell as good as thorley weir." berkeley square and a ticking waiting taxi and a supper at a restaurant, while the root of the matter, the fountain head of all this glory was just sixty pounds, made up an admirable example of the charles-reginald attitude towards money. both of them seemed to regard it, the moment that there was any immediate superfluity of it, as a thing to be got rid of as soon as possible. this mrs. lathom continuously and earnestly and not very successfully tried to combat: a future rainy day, in the opinion of her sons, was not worth a moment's thought if the present day was a fine one. but at this moment mrs. lathom also gloriously desired the swift rush through the air, the sense of shaded lights and tinkle of ice, for she was not in any way immune from the temptations of these sub-celestial pleasures. and it was with not any very great firmness that she resisted. "it's too dear of charles to have ordered all these nice things," she said, "but my darling it's out of proportion even to such a fortune as sixty pounds, for us to go to a restaurant. send the taxi away, like a good boy: i was just beginning to cook your supper." reggie shook his head. "can't be done," he said. "charles' orders and my promise to obey them are binding. and the taxi is a-ticking out the sweet little twopences." mrs. lathom made one more effort. "but it's ridiculous," she said, "and supper will be ready in two minutes, and oh, reggie, i am longing to hear all about the sixty pounds. and there are strawberries: i separated them, so that they should not spoil each other." "we will eat them when we come back," said the inexorable reggie. "i shan't tell you a word about the sixty pounds unless you come. i promised charles. i heard another twopence go then." a little puff of air came upstairs laden and flavoured with oil-cloth and fish which would not positively improve if kept, and the curious "poor" smell that dwells in houses where in winter the windows are not very often opened for fear of losing the warmth so expensively procured when coals are high. mrs. lathom's resolution wavered. "one of us has to give way," she said. "please let it be you, reggie." "can't be done. the taxi is working awful quick, mother." all opposition collapsed. "oh, i will get my hat, you monster," cried she. "it's exceedingly wrong of me to come, and for that very reason i am going to enjoy it all the more. how i long to hear about the sixty pounds! put out that dreadful gas-stove, darling: we will stop all the tickings." * * * * * charles duly arrived next morning with the picture, not yet quite dry, on the seat opposite him propped up by a melon which he had felt compelled to buy for his mother. reggie had already gone off to his desk at thistleton's gallery when he arrived, and she was at work with her typewriter, and had not heard his step above the clacking of the busy keys. she turned as the door opened, with surprise and welcome on her face, and rose, pushing herself up with a hand on the arm of her chair. a hundred times and more when he came home of an evening had charles seen her in exactly that attitude, with all that love and welcome beaming in her face, but to-day she took his eye in a way she had never done before. the artist in him, not the affectionate son only, perceived her. he paused in the doorway without advancing. "oh, you picture!" he cried. "how is it i never saw you before. you are my next model please. mother, darling, here i am! the melon, yes, that's for you, and the picture, that's for mr. craddock, and me, well, i'm for both of you." charles deposited these agreeable properties. "and reggie has told you all there is to be told, i expect," he said, "but unless i'm mistaken there'll be much more to tell when i've seen mr. craddock to-morrow morning. he's coming to my studio at ten, and i'm sure things are going to happen. what i don't know. a commission to copy a reynolds perhaps, other things perhaps, who knows? but my next picture is going to be you: you with your typewriter, just getting up as you did this moment, because reggie or i came in. lord, how often have i seen you do that, and yet i saw it for the first time to-day. now i must go and put my studio in order in preparation for to-morrow, but i shall stop and talk to you for ten minutes first. yes: that's reggie just going to take a header into the weir. dappled like a horse, and spotted like a frog, he says, but if you won't tell anybody, there's some devilish good work in it. i happen to know because i put it there. clever handling in the modelling of the 'nood,' as bonnart used to call it when he talked english, and as for the light and shadow on his blessed shoulders, i call it a wonder. and if i'm not deceived it'll be thorley weir he's just going to dip into. oh, mother, i've grown silly with happiness." they sat down together on the shabby shiny american cloth sofa, which reggie said was guaranteed to slide from under the securest sitter in ten minutes. "it's a new world," he went on, "just because somebody who, i am sure, knows, tells me i can paint, and has already shown himself willing to back his opinion. you don't know what a nightmare it has been to me all this year, to be earning nothing while you and reggie were supporting me." she laid her thin white hand on his brown one. "ah, my dear, do you think i haven't known all along?" she said. "couldn't i see you struggling to keep your heart above water, so to speak? all this year, my darling, you haven't chattered, as you chattered just now." "i suppose not. but i mustn't chatter any more. i've got to get my studio arranged, and all my bits of things stuck out for mr. craddock to see. i wonder what he wants to come down to see everything for. if it had been about this reynolds' copy only he could have asked me to bring a couple of bits of work up to him. mother, he is such a good sort: he was so friendly over it, and considerate and understanding. i shall come back as soon as i've dusted and cleared up. it won't take long." she glanced at the sheets on her desk. "i think i shall come and help you," she said, "and when we've put things to rights, i will go on with my work in your studio, dear, if i shan't be in the way. it gets so baking hot here in the afternoon." "hurrah! and while you work i shall begin the world-famed picture of the artist's mother." "i think you owe yourself a holiday, dear, after finishing that other picture." "pooh! who wants holidays when he's happy? we'll bring the melon and the typewriter and the picture along, and have a jubilation." charles' studio was but a few hundred yards away down a side street leading off the brompton road, and had not it been called a studio it might not have been misnamed an attic. four flights of dark and carpetless stairs led to it, and its garniture was of the most rudimentary kind. carpet and curtains it had none: a dishevelled screen and torn blind shut the light, when so desired, from its southern facing window, but in the opposite wall was a big casement giving the rayless illumination from the north. in one corner the skeleton which had been arranged in an attitude of dejected thought by reggie on his last visit here, had a straw hat tilted back on its skull, on a shelf by it were casts of a skinless man with flayed muscles, and three or four reproductions from greek antiques, an easel, a rough square table and three or four cane-backed chairs in various stages of disrepair completed the furniture. in one corner a cupboard let into the wall was masked by a ragged curtain which bulged suspiciously. thither mrs. lathom's housewife eyes were led, and she drew it aside with a contumelious finger. horror was revealed: she had scarce believed that any cupboard could contain so appalling a catalogue of evidence to prove the utter incapability of a man to live, when left to himself, in a way consistent with self-respect or tidiness or cleanliness. she had not been to his studio for a month past, and to-day she would cheerfully have sworn that for all these weeks charles had never touched the cupboard except to stow away in it some new and disgraceful object. crockery and knives and forks, some clean, some dirty, were lodged there, there were twisted and empty tubes that had contained colour, there was a hat without a brim and a jug without a handle, irregular shapes done up in newspaper, bottles of medium, tin tacks, sheets of paper with embryonic sketches, painting rags, half-used sticks of charcoal, remains of food, remains of everything that should have been cast into the dust-bin. it was a withering face she turned on charles. "i should not have survived it if mr. craddock had seen in what a pig-sty you choose to live, charles," she said. "i should have died of shame. it's little work i shall do this morning in the way of typewriting. water and dusters and a scrubbing-brush, please." charles twitched the curtain over the cupboard again. something fell behind it as he did so, and his mother groaned. "it's little work you shall do in the way of cleaning up my messes," he said. "there's a charwoman about who brushes and scrubs and makes everything resplendent for half-a-crown per resplendency. on my word of honour she shall dust and clean. but you might help me to dust my sketches and put them out, mother. i got her to tidy-up once, and she wiped off a complete oil-sketch which was still wet." mrs. lathom looked round. "of course i will," she said, "but oh, charles, what squalor! a torn blind, and a broken screen, and three chairs all of which want reseating. and to think of reggie and me last night stuffing ourselves at a restaurant with your money." "where shall we sup to-night?" asked charles, bringing out a pile of canvasses. "at twenty-three sidney street. give me a duster. my dear, what a quantity of paintings." an hour was sufficient to make charles' private view presentable, and to display all his sketches, finished and unfinished, round the wainscot of his walls. then without pause he put a new canvas on his easel, and bribed by his promise not to spend more than five shillings on their supper to-night, mrs. lathom consented to abandon her own work for an hour and sit for him. he put her typewriter on the table, and made her rehearse. "it's like an instantaneous photograph," he said, "at least that is what the picture is going to be like. oh, do attend, mother, and not look at the skeleton. reggie stuck it there with a straw hat on it: it doesn't matter. you may dust it afterwards. now! tinkle with your typewriter, and then all of a sudden reggie or i come in here to your right, and you put your hand on the arm of your chair, and get up saying, 'gosh, what a surprise and how nice!' does your poor mind take that in at all? it's rather important." mrs. lathom sat down in obedience to this peremptory son. she clacked her machine, and turned woodenly round, with a smile as wooden as her gesture. "no, not at all like that," said charles. he had set his easel up, and was waiting with poised charcoal. "can't you manage to get up, as you did when i came in this morning? exercise your imagination. look surprised! will you try again? you are working hard with your typewriter: is that clear? you are thinking that there is a debt of sixty pounds to clear off, and that reggie is very ill. then on a sudden the door opens, here to your right, and reggie comes in, quite well, bursting with health, and a stack of sovereigns. do attend, think of what i tell you to think of. then you get up, and say 'darling reggie!' i shall say, 'one, two, three,' and then do it, and then stop just in the position i have told you. never mind about your face." charles took up his charcoal again, and stood with hand poised. "one, two, three," he said. she got up, and the seconds added themselves into minutes. there was no sound at all except the dry grating of the charcoal on the canvas. otherwise the austere stillness of the actual creation of art filled the room. once again, as on the morning of yesterday, charles knew his hand was attuned to his eye, and his eye attuned to the vision that lay behind it. rapidly and unerringly the bold strokes grated across the canvas. then they ceased altogether. "you beautiful woman," said charles. "i've got you. you can't escape me now." then his face which had been grave and frowning lit into smiles. "mother darling," he said. "i'm going to make such a queen of you with your shabby old dress and your eyes of love. now for a treat you may dust the skeleton for ten minutes, and then you must give me your face again. i see it: i see it all." he rummaged behind the terrible curtain, and found a palette and a couple of brushes. he squirted onto it worm casts of colour, and filled his tin with turpentine. it was a medium-sized canvas he had chosen, about three feet six by three feet, and with big brushfuls of colour very thinly laid on, he splashed in the dull neutrality of greys and browns to frame his figure, making notes rather than painting. a blot of black indicated the typewriter, and then with greater care he filled in the black of her dress, and smeared in the white of the apron she wore with body colour. this took but ten minutes for his bold brush, and then standing a little back from it, he half-closed his eyes and looked a long time at it to see whether the value of background to figure, and figure to background, were as he meant them to be. he did not want the figure to jump out from its place, for even as she rose to greet the incomer with that face of loving welcome, her left hand still hovered with fingers outstretched over her typewriter. it had to be felt that the greeting over, her work must occupy her again. she had not detached herself from it, for all the leaping-forth of her heart in shining eyes and smiling mouth. as yet the figure was a little too near the spectator, a little too far off from its background, and while he puzzled over this the solution struck him. a little more emphasis given to the chair, the arm of which she grasped gave him what he wanted: she belonged to the chair and it anchored her in her place. charles suddenly threw back his head and laughed. "oh, jolly good!" he exclaimed, "and i don't care if nobody else agrees with me. mother, leave that silly skeleton, please, and get back to your place. you may sit down, but turn your face towards me, and remember that reggie is just coming in, and you've thought he was ill and----" charles' voice suddenly ceased, and he stared at his mother as she obeyed these instructions with eyes as of some inspired seer. very slowly his hand moved to his brush which he had laid down, very slowly and quietly as if afraid of startling away the vision which he saw, he mixed his paint, and laid on the first brushful in planes of colour bold and firm and defined. between the strokes he paused a long while, but the actual application was but the work of a second. but it was in these pauses when he stood with drooping mouth, head thrust forward, and eyes that seemed as if they burned their way into that beloved face that his work was done. to record what he saw was far less an effort than to see. the insight was what demanded all the fire and effort and imagination which possessed him. he had set himself to divine and to show what motherhood meant. for half an hour he worked thus, he, too absorbed for speech, she wise enough not to risk an interruption. then from mere fatigue of brain and eye with this sustained white-heat effort, he felt his power of vision slipping from him, and laid his palette down. "come and look at it," he said to his mother. the face was but roughly put in as yet, but the spirit of the face was there. "oh, charles, dear," she said. "that is just how i love reggie and you. how did you guess?" he took her face in his hands and kissed her. "guess? i didn't guess," he said. "you told me: your face told me." * * * * * charles was not to be induced to leave his picture while daylight lasted, but he wheeled it round with its face to the wall, before he shut up his studio for the night. he was not sure whether he wished craddock to see it in its present stage: somehow, it seemed to him private, not for everybody, until it had been clothed, so to speak, in paint. he felt shy, though at the same time he told himself he was merely fantastical at exhibiting so crude a confidence ... and while he was in two minds about it next morning, he heard his visitor's footstep on the bare and creaky staircase outside. the last flight of steps as he knew well was a mere trap to the ignorant, with the darkness of it, and its angles and corners, and he set his door wide to give light to his visitor. then, just before craddock came in, he told himself he was ridiculous in imagining that there could be privacy in a portrait, and wheeled the easel round so that it stood just opposite the door. craddock, large and white and gently perspiring, emerged from the stairs with outstretched hand, and-- "good morning, my dear fellow," he said. "it is very well for art to sequester herself and live alone, but four flights of break-neck stairs are really an exaggerated precaution against intrusion. however, here i am----" suddenly he caught sight of the portrait and he dropped charles' hand without another word, and stared at it. the silent seconds grew into a minute, and more than a minute passed without a sound. hard and commercial and self-seeking as craddock was he had the saving grace of true reverence for genius, and there was not the smallest question in his mind that it was a master's work that stood before him. there was no need to ask who was this tired and beautiful woman, for no one but her son could have painted a woman so, and have divined that unique inimitable love that no woman ever felt even for husband or lover, but only for those who have been born of her body and her soul. it was that tenderness and love, no other, that charles had seen, and for none but a son could it have glowed in that worn and lovely face. craddock was immensely touched. he had expected a good deal from this visit to charles' studio, but he had never dreamed of so noble, and simple a triumph, as that unfinished portrait presented. and when at length he turned to charles, his eyes were moist, and he spoke with a simplicity that was quite unusual to him. "that is very true and beautiful," he said. "you are fortunate to have a mother to love you like that." charles gave an exultant laugh. "then i have shown that?" he asked, his shyness entirely vanishing before this penetrating person where was the point of being shy when a man understood like that? "indeed you have," said craddock. "and you have shown it very tenderly and very truly. it required a son to show it." he looked again at the eager welcoming face on the canvas, and from it to the face of the boy beside him, and asked himself, impatiently, what was this mysterious feeling of perception that underlay and transcended all technique. here was a portrait with perhaps two days' work only (it happened to be less than that) expended on it, and even now it had arrived at a level to which mere technique could never lift it. love and the inspiration that love gave it caught it up, gave it wings, caused it to soar.... yet how, why? there were hundreds and hundreds of artists, who as far as mere technique went, could paint with the same precision and delicacy: why should not any of them have put on the brushful just so? yet even in the most famous of all portraits of the artist's mother, there was not such a glow of motherhood. then he turned from it abruptly. he had not come here merely to admire, though he hoped that he should admire. he had come on a business proposal, which should satisfy both himself and the young man to whom it was made, and he began examining the smaller canvases which charles and his mother had displayed round the room. here were a couple of studies of thorley weir, here half a dozen sketches of reggie prepared to take his plunge, with details thereof, a raised arm, a bent knee, the toes of a foot pressed heavily in the act of springing. there were copies of casts, there were portraits and numerous transcriptions of leg-bones, arm-bones, ribs, with muscles, without muscles, and all betokened the same indomitable resolve to draw. then there were the copies or bits of copies from masterpieces in the national gallery: half a dozen heads of lady hamilton as a bacchante, and in particular philip iv. of spain, quantities of philip iv.--his head sometimes, sometimes a dozen of his left eyebrow with the eye beneath: his right hand, a finger of his right hand, the thumb of his right hand: could they have been put together like the dry bones of ezekiel's vision, there would be a great army of philip iv. and in none was there any sign of impatience: the argus of eyes was drawn for a purpose; and till that purpose was achieved, it was evident that the artist was prepared to go on copying eyes until his own were dim. admirable also was the determination to achieve the result by the same process as that employed by the master: to get the general effect was clearly not sufficient, else there would not have been so copious a repetition. an examination of a quarter of these delicate copies was sufficient for craddock's purpose in looking at them. his only doubt was whether it was not mere waste of time to give this youth more copying work to do. but the study of a picture so admirable as wroughton's reynolds could hardly be waste of time for anybody. also, he was not sure whether his involuntary tribute to the unfinished portrait had not been too strong: he did not wish charles to think of himself as one with the world at his feet. "i see you have got a sense of the importance of copying method," he said, "and i feel sure you will be able to produce an adequate copy of the reynolds i have in mind. now you will see why i told you to leave your camp at thorley weir unbroken, for the picture in question is at the house a little lower down the river, the mill house. probably you know it: the lawn comes down to the water's edge." certainly charles knew it. involuntarily there sounded in his brain a song he knew also, "see the chariot at hand." decidedly he knew it. but an infantine caution possessed him, and he raised and wrinkled his eyebrows. "i think i do," he said. "is there a big tree on the lawn? and are there usually some dogs about?" "yes, and a charming young lady who looks after them. now i can't offer you very much for the work, but if £ tempts you at all, i can go as far as that. i should not recommend you to do it at all, if i did not think it would be good for you. what do you say?" charles drew a long breath. "i--i say 'yes,'" he remarked. "let us consider that settled then. i will telegraph for the exact size of the picture, and you can take your canvas down. i should start to-morrow, if i were you. ah, and talking of £ , here is another specimen of £ which i already owe you. i advanced you ten, did i not? i will take my picture away with me if i may." the crisp crinkling notes were counted out, and charles took them up and stood irresolute. then by an effort the words came. "you can't know," he said, "what you've done for me, and i feel i must tell you----" the notes trembled and rustled in his hand. "you've given me hope and life," he said. "i--i don't think i could have gone on much longer, with the others working and earning, and me not bringing a penny back. you've done all that. you've put me on my feet." craddock felt for his whisker in silence a moment. to do him justice there was a little struggle in his mind, as to whether he should put the proposal he had come here to make, or do what his better self, the self that reverenced the unfinished portrait, prompted him to do. yet for a year now this boy had been toiling and struggling unaided and undiscovered. none of all those who must have seen him copying in the national gallery had seen what those eyes of philip iv., those repeated fingers and thumbs implied: none had ever suspected the fire and indomitable patience of those admirable sketches. it was but just that he, who had recognised at once what charles already was and might easily become, should reap the fruits of his perspicuous vision. and the offer he was about to make would seem wildly generous too to his beneficiary. "my dear lathom," he said. "i hope to put you much more erect on your feet. i haven't said anything of what i came to say. now let me put my whole proposal before you." he paused a moment. "it is quite impossible for you to continue in your studio here," he said. "you are a painter of portraits, and what sitter will come up those stairs? your admirable portrait of your mother will certainly be seen next year, at some big exhibition, and certainly people will enquire for the artist. but it is mere folly for you to live here: you must be more accessible, more civilised. some fine lady wants to be painted by you, but will she survive, or will her laces survive these stairs? will she sit on a chair like this for an hour together, and look at a torn blind? i know what you will say: quite sensibly you will say that you can afford nothing better. but i can afford it for you. i will start you in a proper studio, well furnished and comfortable, and as it should be. why, even a dentist has a comfortable chair for his sitter, and a waiting-room with papers, and a servant who opens the door." again craddock paused, for he had caught sight of the unfinished portrait again, and felt desperately mean. but the pause was very short. "i will start you decently and properly," he said, "and i will not charge you a penny. but i want a return, and you can make me that return by your paintings. i propose then that you should promise to let me have a picture of yours every year for the next three years at the price of £ . do you understand? in a year's time or before, i can say to you, pointing to a picture, 'i will take this for this year.' i can say the same next year: i can say the same the year after. you get your studio and all appurtenances free: you also get a hundred a year for certain, provided you only go on painting as well as you paint now. i shall get three pictures by you at a price which i honestly believe will be cheap in three years' time. i tell you that plainly. i think your pictures will fetch more than that then." craddock caressed the side of his face a moment. "i shall also," he said, "have had the pleasure and the privilege of helping a young fellow like yourself, who i believe has a future in front of him, to get a footing in that arena, where attention is paid to artistic work. i have a certain command of the press. it shall assuredly be exercised on your behalf. you have heard of struggling geniuses. i do not say you have genius, but you have great talent, and i shall have enabled you to work without the cramp and constriction of poverty as you paint. now, you need not tell me now what you decide. think it over: talk it over with that beautiful mother, whom i hope i may see some day. it is just a business proposal. on the other hand, if you feel no doubt as to your answer, if you are going to tell me to go to the deuce for certain----" charles took two quick steps towards him. "i accept," he said, "how gladly and thankfully i can't tell you. but you might guess ... i think you understand so well ..." craddock, laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. "then there's our little private bargain," he said. "tell your mother and that bathing boy, of course. but we'll not talk about it otherwise. our little agreement, yours and mine. i don't think we shall either of us repent it." "it won't be me who starts repenting," said charles joyously. chapter iv. charles was in camp again at the little peninsula fringed with meadow-sweet and loosestrife below thorley weir, scarcely hearing, far less listening to its low thunder, diminished by the long continuance of the drought, scarcely seeing, far less looking at the dusky crimson behind the trees which showed where the sun had set. probably his unconscious self, that never-resting observer and recorder of all the minutest unremembered incidents of life, saw and took note, but though his eyes were open and his ears alert, his conscious brain was busy with what concerned him more vividly than those things. besides, in a way he had already made them his own; he had painted them half a dozen times in sketches and studies, he had guessed their secret, learned the magic of their romance, and they were his. all that was not his, all the life that was expanding and opening about him, could not but claim and receive this surrender of his brain and his heart. he had come back here two days ago, and on the morning following, had presented his card at the mill house to a parlour-maid who had taken it in, leaving him and the canvas easel and paint-box he had brought with him to grill at the door. this rather haughty young person returned after a while and bidding him follow, took him upstairs into what looked like a disused nursery, overlooking the lawn and river, and pointed at a picture propped against the end of a sofa. "mr. wroughton hopes there is everything you require," she said, "and please to ring if you want anything." she rustled out of the door, which she closed with elaborate precaution, exactly as if charles had fallen into the sleep which was necessary for his recovery. charles' grave grey eyes had been twinkling with amusement, as he was thus led through an empty house, and stowed away like a leper, in this sequestered chamber, and, left alone, a broad grin spread over his face. then before looking at the picture which stood with its face towards the end of the sofa, his eye made an observant tour of the room. certainly it had been a nursery, for here stood a doll's house, here a child's crib, here a chair with a confining bar between the arms, so that no child imprisoned there could by any means escape. but there were signs of a later occupancy, a couple of big arm-chairs, and a revolving book-case stood there also, on the top of which evidently in recent use lay a writing-pad with ink-bottle and pen-tray attached. also there was that indefinable sense in the air, manifest subtly but unmistakably that the room was still in use.... a rap at the door which indicated not "may i come in?" but "i am coming in," interrupted this short survey, and the parlour-maid entered. she cast a vulturine glance round the room: she saw and annexed the writing-pad. but again before leaving she spoke like a delphic oracle up-to-date. "if you desire to rest or smoke there is the garden," she observed. now charles had already drawn his conclusions about the room, and he resented the removal of the writing-pad by anybody but its owner. for it required but little constructive imagination to reform the history of this room. surely it had been the nursery of the girl of the punt, and was still used by her as a sitting room. she ought to have come and got her blotting-pad herself. however, she had done nothing of the sort, and in the meantime it was his business not to dream dreams, but see and reproduce another painter's vision. he took hold of the picture that stood against the end of the sofa, turned it round, then gave a short gasp of amazement. for here was the girl of the punt, inimitably portrayed. just so and in no other fashion had she turned opposite their tent, and looked at charles while his brother execrated that which should have been an omelette. there was no question that it was she: there was no question either that it was a superb reynolds. instantly the artistic frenzy awoke: the dream that lay deep down in his young soul, dim and faint and asleep, seemed suddenly to awake and merge and personify itself in the treasure that it was his to copy. instantly the whole room, too, burst into life, when this prototype of its owner was manifested. nor, apart from the sweet and exquisite pleasure that it gave him to work here, had the room been badly chosen: there was an excellent north light and by drawing down the blinds of the window opposite, he could secure exactly the illumination he required. in five minutes he had adjusted his easel, and with his canvas already mapped faintly out into squares to guide his drawing, the charcoal began its soft grating journeys. for a long time he worked on in one absorbed pulsation, and was just beginning to feel that his arm was momentarily unable to continue without some pause for rest, when an interruption unlooked for and for the moment inexplicable occurred. a faint continued scratching, not impatient but entreating, came at the door, and rightly rejecting the first idea that had presented itself to him, that the indomitable parlour-maid, suddenly brought low, besought admittance, charles opened to the intruder. a big golden collie stood outside, who sniffed at him with doubt and hesitancy, and then deciding that he was harmless, came softly by, and established himself on the sofa. established there in the haven where it would be, it thumped gently with its tail, as a signal of gratitude. charles stood with the open door in his hand a moment, but it seemed impossible to continue drawing into the passage, so to speak, and with a tremor of anticipation in his wicked young heart, he closed it again. a parlour-maid could remove a writing-pad, but it might easily require someone with greater authority to entice away that other possession. then before going back to his work, he tested the friendliness of his visitor, and finding he was welcome, spent a minute in stroking its ears, and received as thanks a rather dry hot nose thrust into his hand. clearly the dog was not well, and with that strange canine instinct, was grateful for the expression of even a stranger's sympathy. then it lay down with muzzle on its outstretched paws, and eyes wide-open and suffering and puzzled. charles went back to his canvas, but he expected further interruptions now. in a little while they began. through the open window on the side towards the river, where he had drawn down the blind, he heard a footstep on the gravel path below, a whistle, and then a voice calling "buz!" buz heard too, for he pricked a languid ear, and just moved a languid tail, but did not feel equal to a more active recognition. again and once again buz was whistled for and called, and it seemed to charles that he was in the position of an unwilling accomplice, who had better turn king's evidence. so as quietly as he could, he pulled up the blind and looked out. below on the grass stood buz's mistress, and perhaps the whisper of the blind had caught her listening ear, for on the moment she looked up, and saw charles at the window. "i beg your pardon," he said, "but i was shown up here, and i think it must be buz who asked to come in. he is lying on the sofa." there was a sudden surprise in the girl's face: it might only be due to being thus addressed by a stranger from the upper storey. but as a matter of fact, it was not a stranger quite who addressed her: she perfectly recognised him, though the surprise was there. "oh, thank you," she said. "i will come up to fetch him." charles stood there waiting, with his blood somehow strangely a-tingle and alert. it seemed to him as if this had all happened before, yet he could not remember what happened next. but it all seemed very natural. then he heard her quick step on the stairs and she entered. she smiled at him rather remotely but not without friendliness, and certainly without embarrassment. "thank you so much," she said. "i could not find him. buz, dear, come along." she stood in the doorway, with head already half-turned to leave the room again, just as in the hundred-year old portrait of her. buz tattooed languidly with his tail. "i'm afraid he is not very well," said charles, with the sense of taking a plunge. "his nose is hot and dry." "i'm afraid so. the dogs always think of this room as their sick-room if they don't feel what's called the thing. buz, come along." buz thought not. "but won't you leave him here?" said charles. joyce came a couple of steps into the room. "oh, i hardly like to," she said. "won't he disturb you?" "not an atom. do leave him if he feels like stopping. he doesn't object to me." that last sentence won joyce's heart: it was easy to reach it through her dogs. but she detached herself from charles again, as it were, and went up to her ailing dog. "buz, darling, i'm so sorry," she said. "you can stop here if you like. not quite well? oh, i'm afraid not well at all." she bestowed a kiss on buz's head, who wrinkled puzzled eyebrows at her. it appeared she could not help him, and he did not understand.... then she turned to charles again. "please forgive my interrupting you," she said. "and weren't you painting below thorley weir a week ago? yes: i thought it was you." before he had time for more than the bare affirmative, she had left the room again. and all the way downstairs she mingled with compassion for buz, a wonder why she had felt as if she could not help asking that, although she was perfectly certain it was he. it was characteristic of charles that he flew to his drawing again, for that expressed his feelings better than any mooning reverie would have helped him to do. he must draw, he must draw, just as an eager young horse must run, to give outlet to the life that rejoices in its limbs. besides, each moment of industry brought him nearer to the painting of the face and the half turned neck. but before he began again, with buz's permission, he kissed the top of his flat golden head, and went to his work with a heightened colour, feeling a little ashamed of himself. * * * * * perhaps an hour passed, while from the house came no sound at all nor any from the room where charles worked, except the scrape of his charcoal, and the rather quick uneasy breathing of the dog. then came an interruption which did not excite him in the least, for he had not forgotten the manner of access peculiar to the parlour-maid. "will you be working here this afternoon, sir, mr. wroughton wants to know," she said. "and if so will you take some lunch?" charles' foolish heart leaped. "i should be delighted to," he said. again silence descended. then, with a heart that leaped down again, he heard a subdued clink on the stairs. it was even so--then re-entered the parlour-maid with a neat tray on which was set an adequate and austere refreshment. and as charles ate his excellent cold mutton and rather stringy french beans, he grinned largely at his mental picture of himself as the prisoner in solitary confinement, who might take exercise in the prison yard when he wanted to smoke. but buz shared his confinement, and the apparition of buz's mistress was not unknown. by and by he would take his exercise.... and then again the glory of the reynolds portrait, the exquisite satisfaction, too, of being able to see, from his studies in the national gallery, the manner of its doing, and the knowledge that he could, owing to his long and careful practice, put on the paint somewhat in that manner, swallowed up his entire consciousness again. a gong sounded from below, and buz from mere force of habit, knowing this was dinner-time, got off his sofa, before he realized that dinner was of no use to him. he went but a few steps towards the door, then turned, and sat down in front of charles, seeking his eyes with his own, mournful, not understanding, mutely beseeching to know what was the matter, asking him to help. charles tried to convey comfort, and buz acknowledged his efforts by a few heavy sighs breathed into his caressing hands. then walking stiffly and painfully he went back on to his sofa again. but charles felt as if he had been taken into the poor beast's confidence: buz had enlisted him to give such aid as was possible. the room had grown very hot in the last hour with the unflecked outpouring of the sun on its roof, and charles thought with a touch of not more than secondary rapture of the cool liquid embrace of his weir. but a more primary ecstasy was in the foreground, and putting aside his charcoal, he could not resist getting out his paints and rioting with loaded brushfuls over the expanse of the faded blue of the sky that toned into pale yellow above the low horizon to the right of the picture. on the left rose a thick grove of dark serge-clad trees against which was defined that exquisite head, and to which there pointed that beckoning hand. who was the unseen to whom she beckoned with that gracious gesture, yet a little imperious? to what did she beckon him? perhaps only--and that would be the best of all--to a saunter through the twilight woods with her alone, away from such crowds as might be supposed to throng the stone terrace, seen glimmeringly to the front of the picture, to a talk, sitting on the soft moss, or on some felled tree-trunk, in low voices, as befitted the quietness of the evening hour, to an hour's remission from the gabble and gaiety of the world. or was it he, the unseen onlooker, who had asked her to give him half an hour ... he had something he wanted to tell her--charles could picture him in his satin coat and knee breeches, stammering a little, a little shy--something for her ear alone.... then the mere quality of the splendid work struck and stung him afresh. what depth of clear and luminous twilight was tangled among the trees that cast tides of long shadows, clear as running water over the lawn! the grass had been painted first, and the shadow laid over it.... it was impossible not to daub in some of that. no one had ever _seen_ quite as reynolds saw, not quite so simply and comprehensively. and then suddenly despair benumbed his fingers: it would be a profanity, were it not so grotesque to think of copying such a wonder. and at that charles became aware that both hand and eye were thoroughly and deservedly tired. also that he had a searching and imperative need for tobacco. it was decidedly time to seek the prison yard. the sun had ceased pouring in at the window when he had raised the blind to turn king's evidence with regard to buz, and now a cooler breeze suggestive of the coming of evening sauntered in. it was this perhaps that had refreshed the sick dog, for when charles opened the door buz shambled off the sofa and followed him downstairs. there was no difficulty about finding the way into the garden, for it lay straight in front of him at the foot of the stairs, and still seeing no signs of life, he crossed the lawn and walked on a grass path down between two old yew hedges, buz still at his heels, towards the river. then turning a corner he stopped suddenly. on a low chair sat a very old lady. suitably to this hot day she was dressed in a little print gown, with a linen sunbonnet, and looked exactly like the most charming of kate greenaway's gallery. she was employed, without the aid of spectacles, on a piece of fine needlework that looked rather like baby-linen but was probably for her own embellishment; joyce, full length on the ground, was reading to her. she instantly dropped her work. never, in all her life, had she failed to make herself agreeable to a good-looking young man, and she was not going to begin now. joyce had half-raised herself also and gave charles a half smile of welcome, which she augmented into a most complete one when she saw buz. "buz, dear!" she said. lady crowborough did not quite say "charles, dear," but she easily might have if she had known his name. "joyce, introduce him to me," she said. joyce looked at charles, raising her eyebrows, and quite taking him into the confidence of her smile and her difficulty. "it's the----" she nearly said "boy," but corrected herself--"it's the gentleman who is copying the reynolds, granny," she said. then to charles, "may i introduce you to lady crowborough." lady crowborough held out her little smooth thin hand. "charmed to see you," she said. "of course, i knew what my silly granddaughter has told me. such a to-do as we've had settling where you were to paint, and where to stow all joyce's bits of things, and what not." charles had excellent manners, full of deference, and void of embarrassment. "and my name's lathom," he said, as he shook hands. "well, mr. lathom, and so you've come out for a breath of air," continued the vivacious old lady. "get yourself a chair from the tent there, and sit down and talk to us. only go quietly, else you'll wake up my son, who's having a nap there, and that'll cause him indigestion or perspiration or a sinking, or i don't know what. perhaps joyce had better get it for you: she won't give him a turn, if he happens to wake." "oh, but i couldn't possibly----" began charles. "well, you can go as far as the tent with her, while she pops round the corner and carries a chair off, and then you can take it from her. but mind you come back and talk to us. or if you want to be useful you can go to the house and tell them i'm ready for tea, and i'll have it here. ring the first bell you see, and keep on ringing till somebody comes. the whole lot of them go to sleep here after lunch. such a pack of nonsense! what's the night for, i say. and then instead of dropping off at the proper time, they lie awake and say a great buzzing, or a dog barking, or a grasshopper sneezing prevented their going to sleep." charles went swiftly on his errand, and accomplished it in time to join joyce outside the tent and take the chair from her. already the comradeship which naturally exists between youth and maiden had begun sensibly to weave itself between them: in addition charles had been kind to buz and seemed to understand the significance of dogs. "it was good of you to let my poor buz stop with you," she said. "he has adopted you, too, for he came out when you came, didn't he?" "yes: i hope he feels better. what's the matter?" "i don't know, and the vet doesn't know, and the poor lamb himself doesn't know. he's old, poor dear, and suffers from age, perhaps like most old people, except darling grannie. i shall send for the vet again if he doesn't mend." they had come within earshot of lady crowborough, who was profoundly indifferent to the brute creation. she preferred motors to horses, mousetraps to cats, and burglar-alarms to dogs. she was equally insensitive to the beauties of inanimate nature, though her intense love, contempt, and interest for and in her fellow creatures quite made up for these other deficiencies. "now you're talking about your dog, joyce," she said. "i'm sure i wish he was well with all my heart, but if his life's going to be a burden to him and you, i say, put the poor creature out of his pain. a dab of the stuff those murderers use in the east end and the thing's done. i say the same about human beings. let the doctors do the best they can for them, but if they're going to be miserable and a nuisance to everybody, i should like to put them out of their pain, too. give 'em time to get better in, if they're going to get better, but if not snuff them out. much more merciful, isn't it, mr. lathom? i hope they'll snuff me out before i'm nothing but a mass of aches and pains, but they haven't got the sense, though i daresay they'll so stuff me up with drugs and doctor's stuff that i shall die of the very things that were meant to cure me." joyce giggled. "darling granny!" she said. "you wouldn't like it if i came to you one morning and said, 'drink it down, and you'll know no more.'" "well, i'm not a nuisance yet with rheumatics and bellyache," observed lady crowborough. "lor', the medicine your father takes would be enough to sail a battleship in, if he'd collected it all, instead of swilling it, and much good it's done him, except to give him a craving for more. why, when i was his age, a good walk, and leave your dinner alone if you didn't want it, was physic enough. but i've no patience with all this talk about people's insides. it's only those who haven't got an inside worth mentioning, who mention it. and did you come all the way back from your tent in the heat, mr. lathom, to go on painting this afternoon?" "oh, no," said charles, "they very kindly sent me a tray up with some lunch on it." "and you sat there all by yourself, mum as a mouse, and ate up your tray?" she asked. "you don't do that again, mind! you come and talk to me at lunch to-morrow. i never heard of such a thing! joyce, my dear, pour out tea for us. i want my tea and so does mr. lathom. i warrant he got nothing for lunch but a slice of cold mutton and a glass of sarsaparilla if your father had the ordering of it. now i hear you live in a tent, mr. lathom? tell us all about it. ain't you frightened of burglars?" "there's nothing to steal except a tin kettle and me," said charles. "well, that makes you more comfortable, no doubt. joyce, my dear, it's no use giving me this wash. put some more tea in, and stir it about, and let it stand. i like my tea with a tang to it. and your tent doesn't let the rain in? not that i should like to sleep in a tent myself. i like my windows closed and my curtains drawn. you can get your air in the daytime. the outside air is poison to me, unless it's well warmed up in the sun. but i should like to come and see your tent." she regarded charles with strong approval: he was certainly very good to look upon, strong and lean and clear-skinned, and he had about him that air of manners and attentiveness which she missed in the youth of to-day. he sat straight up in his chair when she talked to him and handed her exactly what she wanted at the moment she wanted it. "ah, but do come and see it," he said. "mayn't i give you and miss wroughton tea there some afternoon? i promise you it shall be quite strong." "to-morrow," said lady crowborough with decision. "i'll go in the punt for once, and joyce shall push me along." * * * * * charles excused himself soon after, in order to get another hour of his work, and he was scarcely out of earshot when lady crowborough turned to joyce. "well, my dear," she said. "i don't know what you've done, but i've fallen in love with that young man. and to think of him having his lunch all alone, as if he was your father's corn-cutter or hairdresser. when philip awakes, he shall know what i think about such rubbish! where's my cup? i don't want to tread on it as i did yesterday. why, mr. lathom's put it back on the table for me!" "i think he's a dear," said joyce. "and he was so nice to poor buz." "don't begin again about your dog now," said lady crowborough, "though i daresay mr. lathom has been most attentive to him and no wonder." with which rather delphic utterance, she picked up her needlework again, while a smile kept breaking out in chinks, as it were, over her face. for though she liked presentable young men to be attentive to her, she liked them also to be attentive to any amount of their contemporaries. young men did not flirt enough nowadays to please her: they thought about their insides and that silly scotch golf. but she had noticed the change of expression in charles' respectful eyes when he looked at joyce. she liked that look. it was many years since she had seen it directed to her, but she kept the pleasantest recollection of it, and welcomed the sight of it as directed at another. and in her opinion, joyce well deserved to have a handsome young fellow looking at her like that, she, so strictly dieted on the somewhat acid glances of her father. a little judicious flirtation such as lady crowborough was quite disposed to encourage, would certainly brisken the house up a bit. at present, in spite of her own presence there, it seemed to have no more spring in it than unleavened bread. next day, according to the indisputable orders of lady crowborough, charles had taken his lunch with the family, and though philip wroughton had thought good to emphasize the gulf which must exist between his family and a young man who copied their portraits for them, by constantly using the prefix "mr." when he spoke to charles, the meal had gone off not amiss. irrespective of lady crowborough there was the inimitable lightness of youth flickering round it, a lightness which joyce by herself felt unable to sustain, but which instinctively asserted itself when a little more of the proper mixture was added. afterwards charles had paddled back to his encampment in order to prepare for his visitors, and soon after, while philip slept the sleep of the dyspeptic, his daughter and mother left in the manner of a riverside juliet and a very old nurse, to go to what lady crowborough alluded to as "the party." she had dressed herself appropriately in a white linen frock with little rosebud sprigs printed on it, and an immense straw hat with a wreath of rose to embellish it. she had a horror of the glare off the water, which might cause her to freckle, and wore a thick pink veil, which, being absolutely impenetrable, served the additional purpose of keeping the poisonous air away from her. her whole evergreen heart rejoiced over this diversion, for not only was she going to have tea with her handsome young man--"my new flirt," as she daringly called him--but, having had a good go of flirtation herself, she was prepared to encourage the two young people to advance their intimacy. most of all she hoped that they would fall in love with each other, and was then prepared to back them up, for she had guessed in the twinkling of an eye that craddock had philip's consent in paying attentions to joyce, and with her sympathies for youth so keen, and her antipathy for middle-age so pronouncedly contemptuous, she altogether recoiled from the idea of joyce ever having anything to do "with that great white cream-cheese" as she expressed it to herself. she found the cream-cheese agreeable enough at lunch and dinner to give her the news of the town, and a "bit of tittle-tattle" in this desert of a place, but she had no other use for him, either for herself or her granddaughter. charles received them at the edge of his domain, ankle-deep in forget-me-nots, and conducted them a distance of three yards to the shadow of his tent where tea was spread. there were two deck-chairs for the visitors, the box of provisions with a handkerchief on the top for table, and a small piece of board for himself. he had pinned up against the tent side two or three of his sketches, and his sole tumbler stood by the tea things with a bunch of forget-me-nots on it. he made no apologetic speeches of any description about the rudimentary nature of the entertainment, because he was aware that he had nothing else to offer them. besides the tea was strong, and there was a pot of strawberry jam. "joyce'll be saying she must live in a tent, too," remarked lady crowborough withdrawing her veil. "upon my word, mr. lathom, i like your dining-room very much. that thicket behind cuts the beastly wind off. that's the colour i like to see tea." "it's been standing a quarter of an hour, lady crowborough," said charles with his respectful glance. "are you sure it's not a little--well--a little thick?" "not a bit--joyce and you may add water to yours if you like. and are those sketches yours? they seem very nice, though i don't know a picture from a statue." she looked at them more closely. "and has joyce been sitting to you already?" she asked, in a tremor of delight. (they _had_ been sly about it!) the ingenious charles looked mightily surprised. "oh, that?" he said, following her glance. "that's only a little water-colour sketch i did of the head of the reynolds picture. but it is like miss wroughton, isn't it?" it was indeed: so for that matter was the reynolds. lady crowborough was a little disappointed that joyce hadn't been giving clandestine sittings, but she knew as well as charles himself that he had executed this admirable little sketch with joyce, so to speak, at his finger-tip, and not her great-great-grandmother, and her new flirt rose higher than ever in her estimation. "and when will you have finished your copying?" she asked. here again charles did not fail. "i can't possibly tell," he said. "when i came down i imagined it would take a week or ten days, if i worked very hard. but i see how utterly impossible it will be to do it in anything like that time. but it's lovely work. i don't care how long it takes." "bless me, how sick and tired you'll get of it," said she. "not if you'll come and have tea with me, lady crowborough," said this plausible young man. lady crowborough grinned all over: she knew just how much this was worth, but she liked it being said. "well, anyhow this american, mr. ward, is quick enough about his part of the bargain," she said. "my son received his cheque this morning, sent by your friend mr. craddock, joyce, my dear. five thousand pounds! there's a sum of money!" charles paused a moment, some remembrance of an american and a cheque for £ stirred in his brain, without his being able to establish the connection. "what? has he got it for five thousand pounds?" he asked. "yes: plenty, too, i should say, for a bit of canvas and a lick or two of paint on it. i'm sure when you have finished his copy none of us would be able to tell the one from the other. isn't five thousand pounds a good enough price, mr. lathom?" "well, it's a very good picture," said charles. joyce was watching him, and saw the surprise in his face. "why did mr. craddock send father the cheque?" she asked. "lord, my dear, i don't know," said lady crowborough. "cheques and bradshaws are what i shall never understand. i suppose it was what my bankers call drawn to mr. craddock. his name was on the back of it anyhow. whenever i get a cheque, which is once every fifty years, i send it straight to my bank, and ask them what's to be done next, and it always ends in my writing my name somewhere to show it is mine, i suppose. but as for bradshaw, it's a sealed book to me, and i send my maid to the station always to find out." suddenly charles remembered all about this american and the cheque for five thousand pounds, and the slight film of puzzle, uncertainty, though nothing approaching suspicion, rolled off his mind again. reggie a week ago had mentioned the drawing of this post-dated cheque at thistleton's gallery. it was all quite clear. but undoubtedly this mr. ward had obtained his picture at a very reasonable figure. then, as if to abjure what had never been in his mind, he spoke, not more warmly than his heart felt, about craddock. "mr. craddock has been tremendously good to me," he said. "it's scarcely a week ago that he first saw me, when i was painting here one afternoon, and you brought him by in the punt, miss wroughton. the very next day he bought my picture off my easel----" "well, i hope he gave you five thousand for it, too," said lady crowborough. charles beamed at her: she had finished her second cup of positively oily tea, and was smoking a cigarette with an expression of extreme satisfaction. "he did more for me than that, lady crowborough," he said, "he gave me a chance, a start. then he came to see my studio, and gave me the commission to paint this copy. and then----" charles' simple soul found it hard to be silent, but he remembered craddock's parting admonition. "and then, my dear?" asked lady crowborough. "then he's made me feel he believes in me," he said. "that's a lot, you know, when nobody has ever cared two straws before. by jove, yes, i owe him everything." certainly her new flirt was a charming young fellow, and lady crowborough saw that joyce approved no less than she. she felt he was probably extremely unwise and inexperienced, and would have bet her veil, and gone back veilless, the prey of the freckling sun, that craddock had made some shrewd bargain of his own. it was now time for her flirt to have an innings with joyce. she was prepared to cast all the duties of a chaperon to the winds, and inconvenience herself as well in order to secure this. "well, i've enjoyed my tea and my cigarette," she said, "and all i've not enjoyed is joyce's punt. i shouldn't wonder if it leaked, and the gnats on the river were something awful. they get underneath my veil and tickle my nose, and i shall walk home across the fields, and leave you to bring the punt back, my dear. and if you've got a spark of good feeling, joyce, you'll help mr. lathom wash up our tea things first." and this wicked old lady marched off without another word. joyce and charles were left alone, looking exactly like a young god and goddess meeting without intention or scheme of their own, in some green-herbaged riverside in the morning of the world. they did the obvious instinctive thing and laughed. "everyone does what darling grannie tells them," said joyce, "so we had better begin. the only suggestion i make is that i wash up, because i'm sure i do it better than you, and you sit down and sketch the while, because i shouldn't wonder if you do it better than me." "but i wash up beautifully," said charles. "i think not. there was egg on my tea-spoon." "i'm sorry. was that why you didn't take sugar?" "yes." "have some now by itself?" said he. "i think i won't. where's a tea-cloth?" charles wrinkled his brows. "they dry in the sun," he said. "we thread them, tea-cups that is, on to the briar-rose." "and the plates? do begin sketching." "they dry also. they are placed anywhere. but one tries not to forget where anywhere is. otherwise they get stepped on." charles plucked down the reynolds head from the tent wall. "i began it from the picture," he said, "but may i finish it from you? if you wash up by the forget-me-nots, and i sit in the punt, at the far end, i can do it. oh, how is buz to-day? he didn't come up to the nursery." she neither gave nor withheld permission to finish the head in the way he suggested, but her eyes grew troubled as she emptied the teapot into the edge of the water. it was choked with tea-leaves, gorged, replete with them. he picked up his water-colour box, and climbed out to the cushions of the punt. "buz isn't a bit well," she said. "i've sent for the vet to come again to-morrow. oh, isn't it dreadful when animals are ill? they don't understand: they can't make out why one doesn't help them. buz has always come to me for everything, like burrs in his coat and thorns in his feet, and he can't make out why i don't pick his pain out of him." "sorry," said charles, scooping some water out of the river in his water-tin, but looking at her. their eyes met, with the frankness, you would say, of children who liked one another. but for all the frankness, only a few seconds had passed before, the unwritten law, that a boy may look at a girl a shade longer than a girl may look at a boy, prevailed, and joyce bent over the tea-cups. she was not the less sorry for buz, but ... but there were other things in the world, too. "i know you're sorry," she said, "and so does buz, and we both think it nice of you. and how long really do you think your copy will take? and what will you do if the weather becomes odious?" "i shall get a cold in my head," said charles, drawing his brush to a fine point, by putting it between his lips. joyce looked at him with horror. "oh, don't put the brush in your mouth!" she said. "they always used to stop my doing it at the drawing-school. some of the paints are deadly poison." "oh, do you paint?" said charles. "you ought to have painted and i to have washed up--please stop still for a moment, exactly like that. so sorry, but i shan't be a minute. damn!" an unfortunate movement of his elbow jerked his straw hat which was lying by him into the thames: it caught and pirouetted for a moment on am eddy of water, and then hurried gladsomely down-stream. "but your hat?" said joyce in a strangled whisper, as if, being forbidden to move, she must not speak. "i'm afraid i've already said what i had to say about that," said charles. "just one second." he worked eagerly and intensely with concentrated vision and effort of its realization for half a minute. then again he used that forbidden receptacle for paint-brushes, and dragged off the excessive moisture from his wash. "now i'll get it while that dries," he said. he picked up the punt-pole and ran down the edge of the bank to recapture his hat. but it had floated out into mid-stream and his pursuit was fruitless. "and it looked quite new," said joyce reproachfully, on his return. "i'm afraid you are extravagant." "just the other way round. it would have been false economy to have saved my hat--price half-a-crown, and have risked losing the--the sight i got of you just for that minute while my hat started voyaging. but now," he said, gleefully washing out his brushes--"now that i've got you, let the great river take it to the main." he made the quotation simply in the bubble of high spirits, not thinking of the context, nor of the concluding and following line, "no more, dear love, for at a touch i yield." but instantaneously the sequel occurred to him--for the words were set to a tune which he very imperfectly sang with his light tenor, and accompanied on his banjo. "you talk of too many things in one breath, mr. lathom," said joyce. "you said if the weather broke you would catch cold here, so of course you must go to the inn in the village, if it rains. men have no sense: i believe you would stick on here, while you get congestion and inflammation and pneumonia. then you asked me if i painted, and i may tell you i don't. i used to try: if i have any sketches left the sight of them would convince you of the truth of what i say." charles' art and heart tugged for his whole attention. for another minute he was silent and absorbed. "quite done," he said. "thank you so much, miss wroughton." charles looked at her, and all thought of his art passed from him. she was entrancing, and he suddenly woke to the fact that in the last quarter of an hour they had made friends. he came towards her, stripping the sketch off its block. "do let me give it you," he said rather shyly. "you see, i shall enjoy the fruits of your labour, as i shan't have to wash up. it's only fair that you should have the fruits of mine--at least if you would care for them at all." she could not but take in her hand the sketch not yet dry which he held out to her, and looking at it, she could not but care. never was there anything more admirably simple, never had an impression been more breezily recorded. there was no attempt at making a picture of it; there were spaces unfilled in, a mere daub of hard edged blue in the middle of the sky was sufficient note to indicate sky: the weir was a brown blob, and a brown blot of reflection and a splash of grey, as if the brush had spluttered like a cross-nibbed pen, showed where the water broke below. against it came the triumphant painting of a head, her own on the head in the reynolds picture, but so careful, so delicate--and for the rest of her there was a wash of stained blue for her dress; a patch of body colour, careless apparently, but curiously like a tea-cup against it. at her feet was a scrabble of blue lighter than her dress, but none could doubt that this meant forget-me-nots ... they were like that, though the scrabble of pale blue seemed so fortuitous. probably charles never painted more magically than in those ten minutes, even when the magic of his brush had become a phrase in art criticism, a _cliché_. there was all that a man can have to inspire it there, and the inspiration had all the potential energy of the bud of some great rose. it had the power of the full blossom still folded in it, the energy of the coiled spring, the inimitable vigour of a young man's opening blossom of love. it was no wonder that she paused when he handed it to her. her own face, her own slim body and gesture, as he saw her, leaped at her from the sketch, and she thrilled to think, "is that what he sees in me?" no array of compliments, subtly worded, brilliantly spoken, could have told her so much of his mind. it was an exquisite maiden that he saw, and that was she. she could not but see how exquisite he thought her: she could not fail to glow inwardly, secretly, at his view of her. those few minutes' work, at the cost of the straw hat, came as a revelation to her. he showed her herself, or at least, he showed her how he saw her. the insatiable and heaven-born love of all girls to be admired shot in flame through her. now that she saw his sketch, she knew that she had longed for that tribute from a man, though till now she had been utterly unconscious of any such longing. mr. craddock when he proposed to her lacked all spark of such a flame; had even he but smouldered--she knew she was loved. that in itself seemed almost terrifyingly sufficient. she let herself droop and lie on it, on the thought of it ... it was transcendent in its significance. her scrutiny lasted but a moment. then from the sketch she looked back to charles again, him who had seen her like that.... and had she possessed his skill of brush, and could have painted him, there would have been something in her sketch, as in his, of the glimmering light that trembles high in the zenith when the day of love is dawning. back and forth between them ran the preluding tremor, a hint, a warning of the fire that should one day break into full blaze, fed by each; but to the girl, at present, it was but remotely felt, and its origin scarcely guessed at. to him the tremor was more vibrant, and its source less obscure; the waters were already beginning to well out from their secret spring, and he beginning to thirst for them. the moment had been grave, but immediately her smile broke on to it. "oh, that is kind of you," she said. "i shall love to have the sketch. and i retract: it was worth a lot of straw hats to do that. perhaps you have not even lost one. i may overtake it on its mad career as i go back home. i will rescue it for you, if i come across it, and give it first aid. i must be getting back now. thank you ever so much for the delicious tea, and the delicious sketch. you will be at work again, i suppose, to-morrow morning?" * * * * * such was the history of the two days, which charles revolved within him that evening, after he had eaten his supper and sat out by the water-side, unwitting of the dusky crimson in the west, and the outpouring weir. things fairer and more heart-holding than these absorbed and dominated his consciousness. * * * * * day by day his copy of this wonderful reynolds wonderfully grew beneath the deftness and certainty of his brush. though he had said that it would take much longer than he had originally contemplated, he found that he was progressing with amazing speed, and though he would gladly have worked more slowly and less industriously so as to lengthen out the tale of these beautiful days, it seemed to be out of his power to keep back his hand. he was dragged along, as it were, by the gloriously-galloping steeds of his own supreme gift: once in the room opposite the portrait, he could no more keep his fingers off his brush, or his brushes off his canvas, than could a drunkard refrain, alone with his cork-drawn intoxicants. nor could he, for another and perhaps more potent reason, keep away from the house where the picture was, or after a reasonable morning's work lounge away the afternoon on the river. by cords he was drawn to the mill house, for there was the chance (of not infrequent fulfilment) of meeting joyce: and then he had to go to his extemporized studio, and the other frenzy possessed him. but poor buz had no pleasures in these days and as they went by the old dog grew steadily worse. he was a constant occupant of the sofa, where he had established himself on the first morning of charles' occupation, and if he was not, as was generally the case, in his place when charles arrived of a morning, it was never long before there came at the door the request for admittance, daily feebler and more hesitating. charles had to help him to his couch now, for he was too weak to climb up by himself, but he always managed a tap or two with his tail in acknowledgment of such assistance, and gave him long despairing glances out of dulled topaz eyes, that expressed his dumb bewilderment at his own suffering, the abandonment of his dismay that nobody could help him. once, on entering, charles found joyce kneeling by the sofa, crying quietly. she got up when he entered, and openly wiped her eyes. "i'm so glad you don't think me silly," she said, "for i feel sure you don't. other people would say, as darling grannie does, 'it's only a dog.' only! what more do you want?" charles laid a comforting hand on buz's head, and stroked his ears. "i could easily cry, too," he said, "for helplessness, and because we can't make him understand that we would help if we possibly could. what did the vet say yesterday?" joyce shook her head. "there's no hope," she said. "there would have to be an operation anyhow, and probably he would die under it. he wouldn't get over it altogether in any case. he's too old. mr. gray told me i had much better have him killed, but i can't bear it. i know i ought to, but i am such a beastly coward. he sent a bottle and a syringe this morning. there it is on the chimney-piece. i can't bear that the groom or coachman should do it, or the vet. and i can't do it myself, though it's just the only thing that i could do for poor darling buz." charles turned from the dog to her. "let me do it, miss wroughton," he said. "i know what you mean. you can't bear that a stranger like a coachman should do it. but buz always liked me, you know, and rather trusted me. you mean that, don't you?" joyce gave a great sigh. "yes, oh, just that," she said. "how well you understand! but would you really do it for me?" charles went across to the chimney-piece, and looked at what the vet had sent. "yes, it's perfectly simple," he said. "i see what it is. i did it for a dog of my own once. it's quite instantaneous: he won't feel anything." "and when?" said joyce piteously, as if demanding a respite. "i think now," said charles. "he's dying: he won't know anything." joyce bit her lip, but nodded to him. then she bent down over the sofa once more, and kissed buz on his nose, and on the top of his head. then without looking at charles again she went out of the room. this aroused buz, but before many minutes were past he had dozed off again. then charles filled the little syringe, wiped the end of it, so that the bitterness should not startle him, and gently pushing back the loose-skinned corner of his lip he inserted the nozzle, and discharged it. a little shiver went through the dog, and he stretched out his legs, and then moved no more at all. * * * * * charles went to the door, and found joyce standing outside. "it's all over," he said. "buz felt nothing whatever." joyce was not up to speaking, but she took his hand between both of hers, pressing it. chapter v. a dark october day with slanting flows of peevish rain tattooing on the big north window of charles' new studio, was drawing to a chill and early close, and the light was rapidly becoming too bad to paint. his mother, at whose picture he had been working all day, was sitting in front of the plain deal table from his old studio, with fingers busily rattling on her typewriter, and charles had put his easel on the model's-stand and worked from this elevation, since the figure in the picture was looking upwards. it was nearing completion, and the last steps which were costing him so much biting of the ends of his brushes, and so continual a frown that it seemed doubtful if his forehead could ever again lose its corrugations, were being taken, and his progress which up till now had been so triumphantly uninterrupted was beginning to shuffle and mark time. admirable though the wistful welcoming love in her face was, thrice admirable as craddock had thought it, charles knew now it did not completely represent what he saw. all day he had been working at it, making his patient model keep rising and looking at him, and not only was he dissatisfied with the inadequacy of it, but he knew that he was losing the simplicity and brilliance of his earlier work on it. hence these knottings in his forehead, and the marks of teeth in the handles of his brushes. "mother, darling," he said, "stand up once more, will you, and that will be all. now!" by incessant repetition she had got the pose with unerring accuracy, and she pushed back her chair and rose facing him. he looked back from her to his canvas, and from it back again to her, and the frown deepened. it was not the best he could do, but he could not better it by patching and poking at it. for one moment he wavered; the next he had taken up his palette knife and with three strokes erased the whole of the head. then he gave a great sign of relief. "thank god, that's done," he said, "and to-morrow i will begin all over again. i was afraid i wasn't going to do that." "my dear, what have you done?" she asked, leaving her place and coming to look. "oh, charles, you've scraped it all out." "yes, thank god, as i said before." "but when mr. craddock saw it this afternoon he said it was so wonderful." "well, i daresay it wasn't bad. but if craddock thinks that i'm going to be content with things that aren't bad, he's wrong," said charles. "it'll be time for me to say 'that will do,' in twenty years from now. for the present i'm not going to be content with anything but the best that i can do, and that wasn't the best, and that is why there's that pat of paint on my palette knife, and no head on your dear shoulders." mrs. lathom still looked troubled. "but he had ordered it, dear," she said. "he had chosen it as the picture he was going to buy from you this year." charles rapidly turned on all the electric light. "i don't care a straw," he said. "nobody is going to have pictures of mine that aren't as good as i can make them. i see more than i saw when i painted it first, and i couldn't inlay that into it. your face isn't a patch-work counter-pane. no, we begin again. now, mother dear, do be kind and toast muffins for tea, while i give the place where your head was a nice wash-down with turpentine, so that there's no speck of paint left on it. reggie's coming in, and as soon as we've got greasy all over our faces with muffins we'll go and stand in the queue at the theatre. we shall have to go pretty early. 'easter eggs' is a tremendous hit and the pit's always crammed." charles scrubbed away at his canvas for a minute or so in silence, beaming with satisfaction at his erasure of the head. "i'm blowed if we stand in the queue at all," he said. "as a thanks-offering for my own honesty, i shall go and get the three best places that are to be had. now i won't be thwarted. i shall get fifty pounds this week for the reynolds copy, and i choose, madam, i choose to go to the stalls. i will be economical again to-morrow for weeks and weeks. hullo, here's the child. reggie, come and look at my picture of ma. haven't i caught the vacant expression of her face quite beautifully? i think i shall let craddock have it just as it is, and he can call it 'the guillotine at play.'" "charles, you are the most tiresome----" began his mother. "i know: i touch the limits of endurance. but i am pleased to have wiped your face for you. i shall want you at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. goodness, how it rains! i am glad i'm not going to stand outside for a couple of hours." reggie had subsided into a large chair, and was toasting his feet at the fire. "mother's morose," he said, "when i was prepared to enjoy myself. she always was a kill-joy. mother, darling, you shouldn't indulge in these melancholy fits. consider what a great girl you are. consider anything, but put lots of butter on the muffins. charles, history repeats itself. mr. ward--opulent american, you know--came in again to-day with craddock, and again he drew a cheque at my desk, and again, though i lent him my pen, he didn't tip me. he must be indecently rich, because to-day he gave craddock a cheque for ten thousand and one hundred pounds." "what had he bought?" "dunno. some little trifle for the servants' hall i suppose. ten thousand for the picture, one hundred for the frame, do you think? oh, another thing: there was a long notice in the 'whitehall' about the exhibition at the 'british painters and etchers.' i brought it home. it says all kinds of things about the picture of me. here it is: catch hold." charles snatched at the paper with all a boy's natural pride in being for the first time noticed in the press. nor was the morose mrs. lathom less eager, for with muffin on toasting-fork she left the fire and read over his shoulder, and the moroseness vanished. "oh, charles," she cried, "'brilliant achievement--masterly technique--the gem of a rather mediocre exhibition--figure of a graceful stripling.'--reggie, my graceful stripling, that's you--'a new note in english painting'--you darlings, what a pair of you! i should like to know who wrote it. i wish the people would sign their names." but as charles read his first impulse of pleasure faded altogether. at the end he crumpled the paper up, and threw it into the fender. "good lord, what rot!" he said. "lays it on thick, doesn't it?" said reggie. "but i like the part about the graceful stripling." "you would," said charles. the studio which was part of craddock's bargain with charles was admirable in design and appointment. a huge sky-light, set in the slope of the roof, looked towards the north, and an apparatus of blinds made it easy to get as much or as little light as was required. the walls were of that most neutral of all tints, the grey-green of the underside of olive leaves, and the parquet floor had a few sober-hued rugs over it. but colour was there in plenty: a couple of brilliant screens, one of lacquer, one of stamped spanish leather, intercepted possible draughts, and gave a gorgeous warmth of hue to their neighbourhoods, and a big open fireplace with dutch tiles, and a little congregation of chairs round about it, added to a mere workroom a delightful focus of rest and comfort. the faithful skeleton and the flayed man kept each other company in a sequestered corner, where they might be supposed to entertain each other with dismal tales of how they came to be what they were, for the room was no longer the study of a student, but the living-place of a practitioner. beyond these things there was little to attract the attention, or seduce the eye, for the vision that comes from within must feed on what it suggests to itself, and not be tickled with what others have done and thought. at the time when craddock had made his offer to charles, the room, with its little chamber adjoining, was already in his hands, and he had thought of using it as an overflow gallery from thistleton's, but he had drawn a longer bow in offering it to charles, for his speculation there he believed to hold a larger financial possibility than an extension of thistleton's promised. and his furnishing it, in accordance with what he thought to be charles' psychical requirements, was not less than masterly. morning by morning, when charles arrived there, he felt instinctively that he saw clearly here, that his own vision was unharassed by things that were ugly and inconvenient, and yet not distracted by the challenge of beauty that demanded attention. in this temperate, colourless place he grew as plants grow on warm grey days, not soaked or scorched, but realizing themselves, and expanding accordingly to their own irresistible vitality. a month ago, charles could not have scraped out the face that to-day he so joyfully erased from his canvas. no doubt these utterly congenial conditions did not produce his development, but they presented nothing that hindered. above all, the constant gnawing at his heart of the thought that he earned nothing, contributed nothing to those who worked for him, was removed. to some natures such conditions are a spur, to him they had only been a drag. they had never retarded his industry, but they had always caused him that inward anxiety which, though he knew it not, shackled the perfect freedom of his service to art. to-day he had no touch of such cramp or stiffness: he felt entirely untrammelled: his soul stood nude and unimpeded, like some beautiful runner or wrestler. there was nothing to hinder its leap and swiftness. * * * * * arthur craddock had been exceedingly busy this autumn; indeed, since the month that he had spent at marienbad during august, when he atoned for the plethora of nourishment which he had taken during the year before, and cleared his decks, so to speak, for action again, he had hardly spent a night out of town. the bulk of his work was in connection with the production of "easter eggs," for, since he knew that no acting manager would look at it, for not containing a star-part, or if he did, would quite infallibly spoil it by making a star part out of it, he, on rather a magnificent scale of speculation, had taken a theatre himself, and himself engaged the actors whom he desired to see in it. these were without exception ladies and gentlemen who had not hitherto been so fortunate as to attract attention; for this reason their services were more cheaply secured, which was an advantage, but the corresponding disadvantage was that they were not possessed of any great histrionic experience, and thus needed the more drilling and instruction. craddock had engaged an excellent stage-manager, who fully entered into his conception of the manner in which the play must be presented, but there was scarce a rehearsal at which he was not himself present, and after which he did not confabulate with his stage-manager. sometimes from the incessant hearing of the scenes, they seemed to him to lack all significance and dramatic force, and be, as their despairing author had openly avowed them, the merest twaddle. but even when hope burned lowest, and craddock seriously wondered how great would be the loss he would have to face, he still stuck to his opinion that there were marketable elements in this quiet drama. he had another cause for financial disquietude. during the summer there had been an outrageous exhibition of post-impressionists at one of the london galleries, and though from an artistic point of view he considered that these nightmare canvases had as little to do with art as the "tasteful" decorations of a saloon-carriage, he had through an agent made very considerable purchases of them, with a view to unloading again on the confiding public. since his return from marienbad he had caused them to be hung in thistleton's gallery, and had written several signed articles in the "whitehall" which he considered should have proved provocative of purchasers. but up to the present the gallery had been barren of buyers, and even though himself pointed out to mr. ward, to whom his recommendation had hitherto been always sufficient, the marvels of this new mode of vision, and masterly defiant absence of all that had hitherto been known as drawing or painting, the latter, though lamenting his artistic blindness, had altogether declined to make breaks in the frieze of nightmare which brooded on the gallery walls. but though for the present his money--a considerable sum of it--was locked up in these monstrous and unmarketable wares he did not (which would have affected him far more poignantly), lose prestige as a critic and appraiser of art, since he had bought under an agent's name, and the secret of his identity with thistleton's gallery was at present inviolate. his astute young clerk, as has been seen, had conjectured as much, but it was only a conjecture, and the conjecturer was only reggie. had craddock known of reggie's brotherhood to his new protégé, he might perhaps have devoted a little thought as to whether he should take any steps to ensure secrecy: as it was he neither knew reggie's name, nor suspected his conjecture or relationship. a third disagreeableness had chequered september for craddock, and added a further burden to his anxieties during the weeks of rehearsal for this play. four years before he had purchased one of his convenient options on the literary work of a slow-labouring and diabolically-canny scotchman, who had failed to find a publisher for a story which craddock had judged to be a very beautiful and delicate piece of work. he had given this execrable pict the sum of three hundred pounds for it, coupled with the right to purchase any future work by him during the next three years for the same sum. whereupon the execrable pict, having made quite sure that he had mastered the terms of his agreement, had sat down in his frugal house in perthshire and devoted himself to study and porridge and reflection. for those three years he had not set pen to paper, but lived a life of meditation that would have done credit to a student of râja yogi attaining samâdhi, and, the period of his apprenticeship to craddock being finished and the contract terminated, had written a book over which, when it was published during september, the whole world, it seemed, had laughed and wept. never was there a more tender and exquisite idyll, reviewers hailed him as scotland's most transcendent sun, round which all lesser lights must for ever burn dim. hot and hot the editions poured from the press, and craddock, impotent and dismayed, saw the little fortune which he felt was justly his pour into the purse of this disgusting northerner. the execrable pict was a danae. he sat with gold showering round him, the gold that he had acquired in those three years when he sordidly lived, thanks to craddock's bounty, on porridge and meditation. craddock had not, it will be observed, lost money over this unfortunate transaction, since he had more than gathered back his original outlay, but the thought of what he had missed woke him early in the morning, after the remembrance of the last rehearsal had prevented his going to sleep at night. legally, he believed he might be judged to have some claim, since the book in question was, if not blackly written with ink on paper, invented and thought over and prepared during those years in which he had a claim on the author's work, but for personal reasons he did not desire that this pathetic history should be exposed to the unsympathetic ventilation of the law-courts. but it confirmed to him the wisdom of doing business, wherever possible, with the young and inexperienced. though these financial clamours were loud round him, craddock was not so distracted by them as to neglect his interests in the work of his new artist, and it says much for his equanimity in troublesome times that, between these discouraging rehearsals, and the contemplation of the execrable pict and the unmarketable post-impressionists, he devoted his full attention to the furnishing of such a studio for charles as would give him the best possible conditions for work. he himself chose its furniture and embellishment: he sat with his white face on one side and his little eyes half-closed to select the colour for the walls: he himself pulled the blinds up and down over the big north light to make sure that this novel system of springs worked smoothly. he did not, of course, go so far as to believe that a suitably-appointed studio can do anything whatever towards the ripening of a possible genius, but his own thoroughness and common-sense told him that when you are dealing with a brain and hand so sensitive as that of a true portrait-painter, it is the falsest economy to spare either money or trouble in securing for him the best possible conditions for his work. and when, this afternoon, he paid a visit to the studio, an hour before charles triumphantly and joyously expunged that sweet and tender face from his canvas, craddock thought himself justified. it will be readily understood that among this multiplicity of ventures and perplexities, craddock had little time or psychical stuff to devote to the girl who, it is not too much to say, had brought a new type of emotion into his life. but though he had no time to address himself actively to thoughts of her, her image lived somewhere in the background of his mind, without loss of vividness. indeed, without volition on his part, it seemed to be gently soaking into the businesses with which he was more acutely concerned, so that, for instance, even when his brain was most attentive to some lugubrious rehearsal, he would see himself and her with perhaps lady crowborough as chaperone, and frank armstrong as perspiring author, seated in the stage box on the night of the first representation. perhaps he would not ask armstrong: as there was a fierce rugged kind of strength about him that a girl might possibly find attractive.... but, such is the blindness with which ironical fate smites her puppets, no such qualms with regard to charles, who had, so he had learned, stayed at the mill house, on lady crowborough's invitation, for a week after the summer had broken in torrential rain, towards the end of july, ever entered his head. then only a week ago, for the date of production had to be postponed and yet again postponed until the rehearsals went with a smoothness that no friction disturbed, came the first night of "easter eggs," and before the evening was half over the conduct of the execrable pict, and the apparent permanence of the post-impressionist pictures on the walls of his gallery, had been smoothed out of craddock's mind, as a wrinkle in the sand is erased by the incoming tide. from the first moment the simple and brilliant little play, with its neat construction and well-etched delineation of character, charmed and captivated the house. it was not necessary for the audience to put too strenuous a call on their intelligences, and, as craddock had foreseen, they found an entertainment much to their minds in watching and enjoying the unfolding of the unpretentious but absorbing little chronicle. it had something of the fragrance of cranford about it, and its gaiety was of some little bonneted quakeress, suddenly moved to dance in a shy decorous manner. nor did the faint patronizing blame and praise of the critics next morning disturb him in the slightest: he knew well from the manner of its reception, and the pleased chattering crowd that waited for their vehicles in the lobby when the last act was over that he need have no fear for the solidity of its first night's success. being a critic himself, he knew how seldom his colleagues spotted the right horse. indeed, the only jarring note was the attitude of the sardonic author, when, subsequently, he supped with the owner, and in reply to craddock's congratulations returned those congratulations into his bosom. armstrong, in fact, seemed rather vexed at the success of the evening, and craddock remembering, for a brief moment, his own feelings on the success earned by the book of the execrable pict, understood something of the young man's ingratitude. certainly the ill-luck which followed craddock these last months--even at marienbad the number of pounds of the too too solid which he had lost, were not what he had hoped for--seemed to have turned, for "easter eggs," when it had run a week, gave evidence by its advance bookings, of the security of its favour with the public, and the critics also were airily beginning to say that "they had said so all along." so, with the removal of these financial anxieties, craddock was at leisure to turn his mind to the riverside again, and on the evening of the day on which he had visited charles, just previous to the ruthless destruction of the head in his portrait, he went down again to thorley to dine and sleep at philip wroughton's house. he had two ostensible reasons for so doing: in the first place he wanted to see charles' copy of the reynolds, in the second he wanted to talk over his friend's plans for the egyptian winter. he was minded to spend a month or two in egypt himself, and wondered whether a little judicious hinting would cause philip to make a suggestion that he would be eager to fall in with. he found, and was not ill-pleased to find, that lady crowborough was not in residence, but had gone back to town, where she was accustomed during the winter months to hermetically seal herself up, in the manner of a hybernating dormouse, in a small dark house in half-moon street. but he found when the subject of egypt was mentioned at dinner, that she had gone to town principally in order to supply herself with linen frocks and veils that should thwart the freckling powers of the egyptian sun. "my dear mother," said philip, as he passed the port to craddock, "has got it into her head that she would like to accompany joyce and me, and when she has got any plan of any kind in her head, joyce and i find it useless to protest. she does not listen to any arguments, nor does she reply to them. she carries out her plan. i do not entirely applaud this one. as likely as not it will be i who will have to look after her, for i am sure she will find the journey and the heat very trying. and as i planned this expedition with a view to regaining such measure of health as may be possible for a confirmed invalid, i do not quite applaud her resolution. but as i say, she is quite indifferent to applause or its absence. sometimes i think that old people tend to become a little selfish." he frowned slightly, as he poured himself out the water with which he was to facilitate the entry of his after-dinner cachet. "and she will expect joyce to be with her, and read to her and look after her," he continued, "and i shall be companionless. shut up and condemned to an invalid life, as i have been, i find it difficult to think of anybody who might accompany us, and relieve me of the solitude which will so largely be mine. but the world in general and even one's friends, soon forget an invalid like myself. but certainly i should like, now that my mother has settled to come with us, a further addition to our party." philip was sufficiently astute to observe others, when he was not entirely absorbed in himself, and as he looked at craddock now, it seemed to him that there was a certain suggestion of expectancy of tension even about him: in fact he had raised his wine-glass from the table, as if to drink, but sat with it poised, neither drinking nor replacing it. "if only i could induce you to come with us," he said. craddock put his glass down. "i think if you had not suggested that," he said, "that i should have risked a rebuff and done it myself." he paused a moment. "only one thing might have deterred me," he added, "namely the fear that my presence, after what happened when i was here last, might be distasteful to miss joyce." philip waved this away with his thin white hand. "i know that the young are often very selfish," he said, "but i do not believe that joyce would for her own sake wish to deprive me of so congenial a companion, even if your suggestion was well-founded. but i am sure it is not. indeed, i think your being able to come with us is a very fortunate circumstance for her, and, if i may say so, for you, as well as for myself. she will have ample opportunities for knowing you better, and appreciating you more truly. shall we go into the next room? ah, by the way, since you will now be seeing about your journey and your hotel accommodation in egypt, perhaps it would not be troubling you to make arrangements for us also. my mother i know will take a maid, who will look after her and joyce. i cannot afford a similar luxury." * * * * * the rain and gale that had clamorously wept all day, had vastly increased at nightfall, and when the two men left the dining-room they found joyce sitting in the drawing-room with open windows in the attempt to clear the room of the smoke that had been blowing down the chimney. this rendered the room impossible for her father to sit in, and since his own sitting-room was in no better plight, joyce was despatched to see whether her room, which was on the other side of the house and sheltered from the fury of the wind, was more tenable. her report was favourable, and her father, coughing and feeling sure that this quarter of a minute's exposure to the open window of the drawing-room had chilled him, went upstairs with her, leaving craddock to look at the copy of the reynolds which hung in the dining-room. he had had dusky glimpses of it during dinner, but now when he examined it by a fuller illumination, the execution of it amazed him. not only was it faithful in line and colour but in that indefinable quality of each which marks off the inspired from the merely intelligent copy. there was the same gleeful mystery in that turned and radiant face ... it was as if charles no less than the painter of the original picture had known this entrancing girl, had penetrated by his artistic insight into the joy and vitality that enveloped her. and how like she was to joyce! he was swift to see, and the picture did not long detain him, but on his way upstairs he very sincerely congratulated himself on the tide in his affairs that was proving so fortunate. "easter eggs" he already counted as a gold-mine, three pictures of charles', one of them that admirable portrait of his mother, were enviable possessions, and there was the winter in egypt, and the golden possibilities which it contained already his own. he determined, or almost determined, to give charles the hundred pounds which he had received from his customer, in payment for the copy made of the reynolds, instead of the fifty he had promised him. he could easily say that mr. ward had been so delighted with it that in a fit of altruistic generosity (seeing that the copy was not his) he wished to make a larger remuneration. charles would be so ingenuously grateful, and craddock liked gratitude and ingenuousness. they contained the elements of security. joyce gave him a charming welcome to her room; she had just heard from her father that craddock would join their party. "it is delightful that you will come to egypt with us," she said. "a party of four is the ideal number." there was an absence of the personal note in this, which craddock, as he caressed the side of his face, did not fail to observe. "quantitatively, then, we are all right, miss joyce," he said. "but is the latest addition qualitatively satisfactory?" joyce wore raised eyebrows and a slightly puzzled smile at these polysyllabic observations. but it is probable that she understood very well. "it is delightful that you are coming," she repeated. * * * * * craddock might have attempted to get a more personal welcome than this, but at the moment his very observant eye caught sight of a small framed sketch that stood in the circle of lamplight on the table. instantly his attention was diverted there, nor was it only his artistic attention that was thus captured, for in a glance he saw that this sketch concerned him in ways other than artistic. he put out his hand and drew the picture more immediately under the light, unconscious that he had not even acknowledged joyce's repeated speech of welcome. there she knelt in charles's sketch, on the carpet of forget-me-nots at the water's edge. her head was turned as in the reynolds picture, to face the spectator, while her body was in profile. it was possible enough that charles had begun this water-colour replica of her head from the reynolds itself, but there were differences in it, subtle and insistent, that showed beyond all doubt that the girl had sat to him for it also. she was engaged, as to her hands, with a white blot of a tea-cup; the dish-cloth which she held in her other hand was green with reflection from the bank beside her which basked in brilliant sunshine. behind was the weir with its screen of trees, above, a dab of blue was sufficient--neither more nor less--to indicate the serenity of the summer day. critic to his finger-tips craddock could appreciate, none better than he, the slenderness of the means employed to portray these things, and the adequacy. no one but a great artist would have dared to omit so much: the foreground of forget-me-nots was two mere swirls of paint, the weir a splash of brown with a smudge of grey to indicate the shadowed water, while a mere twirl of the brush showed the swift current of the river. but in the midst of these mere symbols and notes of colour was her face, and that was a marvel of portraiture, into which an infinity of care was absorbed. of the same quality were the vague lines that showed the girl's slim body: it was she and no other who knelt among the forget-me-nots. and it seemed to craddock that just as none but a son could have painted that portrait of charles' mother, so none but a lover could have painted this. he saw the difference between joyce and the reynolds picture now; previously he had only seen the marvellous similarity. but here the blood and heart-beat of the artist throbbed in the exquisite handiwork. but his artistic sense took the first call on his faculties. "but a little masterpiece!" he said. "i have never seen a happier moment. that's an inspired boy!" philip just shrugged his shoulders at this admiring explosion. "ah, that little picture of joyce," he said. "it has always seemed to me rather sketchy and unfinished. but if you admire it so much, i am sure joyce would be delighted to let you have it." joyce turned quickly to her father, and for the first time craddock saw her troubled and disturbed. "oh, father, i can't possibly," she said quickly. "mr. lathom gave it me----" she broke off short, and her face and neck were flushed with the blood that sprang there. then bright-eyed and rosy as the dawn she turned to craddock. "it is a clever sketch, isn't it?" she said. "and all the background is only three dabs and a smudge. i suppose they happen to be put in the right place. he did it one afternoon when granny and i were having tea with him." she gave him a few seconds more for looking, and then quickly held her hand out for it, and replaced it on the table. then she baldly and ruthlessly changed the subject. "i don't think you have even been up here before, mr. craddock," she said. "it was my nursery once, as the rocking-horse and the doll's house witness, then my school-room, as the time-table of lessons above the chimney-piece witnesses, and please let it now become your smoking-room and light another cigarette. now do tell us about egypt. i know darling granny will want to stop in cairo, and go to every dance and dinner-party." the new topic effectively diverted her father from the channel concerning charles and his sketch, for he was always more ready to talk about things that concerned his own comfort than any topic which was unrelated thereto. but a week in cairo, before going up the nile to settle down for a month's sunshine at luxor, was not unreasonable: if lady crowborough desired more cairo, there was, of course, no cause why she should not indulge herself to any extent in its pleasures and festivities. but she would be obliged to indulge herself alone: the party whose sole object was the pursuit of health for philip, could not be expected to hamper their guest. joyce had no inclination, so he assumed then, for gaieties like these; the temples of karnak were much more to her mind.... * * * * * joyce left the two men before there was any sign of the discussion growing lukewarm, and went to her bedroom. this was on the other side of the house fronting the full bugling of the gale, and the maddened tattoo of the rain on her panes. it was impossible in this onslaught of elemental fury to open her windows, but she felt in the very bones and blood of her a longing for the out-of-doors, whatever its conditions. up and down her room she walked, strangely and unwontedly excited, and had she obeyed her impulse, she would have put on a cloak, and let herself out of the house, to walk or to run, or even to stand in the blackness of the night, and the bellowing of the wind, and feel herself one with the wild simplicity and force of the storm. better even than that she would have liked to go forth and plunge herself, naked under the hueless night, with the torrent and froth of the weir, to struggle and be buffeted by the furious water, to be herself and nobody else, not anybody's daughter, not anybody's companion, not even his with whom her soul seemed suddenly mated. she had gone out for a drenching walk to this weir only this afternoon, and had leaned over its grey wooden railing, and watched the water in flood over the promontory where a tent had stood. below her a carpet of forget-me-nots, where she had knelt, and she could have found it in her heart to wade through the foam of the flood to kneel there again, and recapture the first thrill of the knowledge that had come to her then. that unbidden flash of desire had lightened on her but for a second, and she had instantly shoved it away again, slamming the door on it, and turning the key, and shooting the bolts. but it had been there, and to-night as she paced her room, she knew quite well what lay behind the barred doors of her consciousness, and though she had imprisoned it, giving it no bail to go abroad, she was not ashamed of it. it burned there within her, warmly radiant, and though she would not allow herself to see the light of it, she knew it to be there, and secretly exulted in the knowledge. but she did not directly want to throw it open to herself: just now she only wanted to be herself, as she felt she would be if she could be out in the storm. she did not formulate in her mind the indubitable necessity of unlocking her inmost self in order to be herself. illogically enough, but with a very human inconsistency, she longed for the conditions that would give her the sense of freedom, of expansion that she demanded, without contemplating that on which her whole freedom was based. yet she knew well that against which she revolted, from which she longed to escape. in a word, it was the fact, and the implication founded on that fact, that arthur craddock was coming to egypt with them. coupled with it was the idea, so cursorily introduced by her father, that she should give craddock the sketch that charles had made of her. literally, no expedition of ingenuity could have framed a more unfeasible request. there was nothing in the world she could less easily have parted with. and the suggestion was just thrown over the shoulder, so to speak, like an idle question, a meaningless complimentary speech! but now she wondered whether it was only that. taken in conjunction with craddock, and his bloodless wooing of her, she felt it was possible that this was in the nature of a test-question. was it? was it? once more for a moment she desired the night and the storm and the waters of the swollen river; then, instantly, she knew that all this was but a symbol of the knowledge that burned behind the closed and barred door of her mind. she seemed to have no volition in the matter: she but looked at the doors, and they swung open, and the light that burned within was made manifest. she ceased from her restless pacing of her room, and with a little sigh of recovered rest sat down at her dressing-table, and unlocked one of the drawers. it was empty but for a couple of letters addressed to her. they were quite short, and nearly quite formal. but they filled the drawer, and they filled everything else beside. she read them. "dear miss wroughton. "i hope the copy of the picture satisfies your father. i didn't see him before i left, and i should so much like to know that he is pleased with it (if he is). i can't tell how sorry i was to finish it, for it was such a pleasure to do it. i should so like to see it in its place, if that is possible--i often think of you and poor buz...." there was nothing here that the merest formalist might not have written ... only a man formalist would not have written it. she took out the second letter. "dear miss wroughton. "i am so glad your father likes the copy. about that silly little sketch--if you are going to frame it, i think you had better just have a plain gilt frame, and no mount. a mount will only make it look more dabby. i am busy with a portrait of my mother, and it's tremendous fun, chiefly, i suppose, because she has a perfectly darling face, and is utterly like her face. but of course any day will suit me to come down and look at the copy, and i do want to see if it is fairly satisfactory. i will come on any day and at any hour that you suggest. "sincerely yours, charles lathom." "p. s.--i have got into a new studio, which is lovely. won't you be up in town sometime before you go to egypt, and won't you come to lunch or tea? lady crowborough said she would, and i will ask her the same day, or if my mother came, wouldn't it do? but i should like you to see my things. it has been quite dark for days, and i suppose will be all the winter. i wish i could put my studio down in egypt." * * * * * there was nothing here that anybody might not see. but joyce would not have shown those letters to anybody. she felt she would have shown his heart no less than her own in showing them. and for comment on the text, if any were needed, there was his sketch of her. that was how he saw her. all restlessness had utterly subsided: she had only been restless as long as she had wanted to be herself, without admitting to herself all that was most real in her, as long as she shut up the bright-burning knowledge that shone in her innermost heart. now she had thrown the closed doors wide, and sat very still, very bright-eyed, with the two simple little notes on the table in front of her, desiring no more the air and the tumult of the night, but unconscious of it, hearing it no longer. below the drawer where she kept those letters was another also locked. after a while she opened that also, and took out what it contained. often she had laughed at herself for keeping it, often she had scolded herself for so doing, but neither her ridicule nor her blows had stung her sufficiently to make her throw it away or destroy it. in its present condition it would have been hard to catalogue or describe. but there was no doubt that this shapeless and mud-stained affair had once been a straw-hat. she had found it drowned and pulpy just below the landing-stage of the mill house the day after charles had made his sketch of her. meantime arthur craddock, though glib and instructive in matters of hotels and travel, had been very deeply busy over a new condition that he felt to concern him considerably. rightly or wrongly he believed that this boy who had painted that wonderful little water-colour of joyce was in love with her. he could not wholly account for his conviction, but judging intuitively it seemed plain to him. and what seemed no less plain, and far more important, was the fact that joyce peculiarly valued that sketch. no intuition was necessary here: the trouble and sudden colour in her face when she told her father that she could not possibly part with it, spoke more intelligibly than her words even. had he known or guessed a little more, had he conjectured that even at this moment joyce was sitting in her room with those two little notes spread in front of her, while in a drawer, yet unopened, there lurked the dismal remains of charles' straw-hat, he might have suspected the futility of the abominable interference that he was even now concocting. for little meddling lies have seldom the vitality to enable them to prevail against needs that are big and emotions that are real. soon or late by logical or chance discovery comes the vindication of the latter, and they assert themselves by virtue of their inherent strength: soon or late, for the air is full of thousands of stray sparks, comes the explosion that shatters such petty fabrications, the chance circumstance that blows it sky-high. but he only thought that he was dealing with the calf-love of a boy whom he had rescued, if not from a gutter, at any rate from a garret, and who was altogether insignificant save for his divine artistic gift, the fruits of which he was bound to sell at so reasonable a price to himself, and with, he supposed, the fancy of a girl who knows nothing of the world, for a handsome young face. so in this dangerous state of little knowledge, he planned and invented as he talked about steamers and hotels, till even his companion was convinced that the utmost possible would be done for his convenience and comfort. then, for he was now ready, craddock took up charles' sketch again. "certainly that young lathom has a wonderful gift," he said, "and i congratulate myself on having obtained you so fine a copy of your reynolds. he stayed with you, did he not, when the weather broke?" philip glanced at the clock: it was already half-past ten, but he did not mind having a word or two about charles. indeed, it is possible he would have initiated the subject. "yes, he was with us a week," he said, "though the invitation was not of my asking. he seemed a well-behaved young fellow." craddock caressed the side of his face before replying. "i wish i could share your good opinion of him," he said. "of course, when i recommended him to you for the work which he has certainly done very well, it never occurred to me that you would have him in the house like that. but i have no wish to enter into details, and since his connection with you is over, there is no reason why i should." philip got up. "indeed, i am glad to know that," he said, "because there certainly was considerable friendliness between him and joyce, which i did not altogether like, though it was hard to prevent. now i have a reason which my duty forbids me to disobey, for refusing to allow any resumption of their acquaintance--i am not sorry for that." craddock got up also. "then let us leave the subject," he said. "now i know your bedtime is half-past ten, so pray do not be ceremonious with me, but allow me to sit here for a quarter of an hour more, while you go to bed. listen at the storm! but by this day month, i hope we shall both be in that valley of avalon basking in the warm sunshine of nile-side. for the present it is goodnight and goodbye, for i have to go early to-morrow. i will write to miss joyce fully about our travelling arrangements." * * * * * craddock lit another cigarette after his host was gone, and knowing he would not see him again in the morning, thought over what he had just said, to assure himself that he had managed to convey that indefinite sufficiency which he had in view. he thought that he had probably succeeded very well, for he had given his host an excuse, which he was clearly glad to make use of, for stopping any future intercourse between this young fellow and his own circle. and he had effected this without being positively libellous, for he had said no more than that he wished he could share philip's good opinion of him. he felt that it was certainly time to prevent the ripening of this acquaintanceship, that joyce had better have it conveyed to her, as assuredly she would, that she would not see the author of that sketch any more. the sketch stood by him on the table, and once again he took it up, and found it even more admirable than he had thought. and even as he looked, the injury and wrong that he had done to its artist made him feel for the first time a curious dislike of him: he disliked him just because he had injured him. but this dislike did not extend to his pictures, and the thought that the portrait of his mother and two more canvases besides, would pass into his possession, gave him the keenest sort of satisfaction, since he augured for their author a fame and a future of no ordinary kind. what would that hand be capable of when its power was fully matured? certainly it should not be for want of recognition that he should any longer remain unknown. he himself, though anonymously, had written the notice to the "whitehall" regarding charles' picture of his brother at thorley weir, and next week under his own signature would appear a column's notice of the same exhibition, practically devoted to that one canvas. at any rate, that would have the effect of making the world in general turn their eyes to that which had evoked from him so apparently extravagant a eulogy, and he completely trusted the picture itself to convince them that no extravagance had been committed. people would be set talking, and in next year's academy would be hung the portrait of charles' mother. that would be sufficient. he got up and lit his bedroom candle. it seemed to him that he had arranged charles' future very satisfactorily. he would do the most that could be done for a young man with regard to his artistic career, and as regards his private affairs, he had made arrangements for them already in half a dozen sentences that had not been spoken amiss. but his new born dislike of him made him reconsider his resolve to pay him the hundred pounds which mr. ward had been so pleased to give for the copy of the reynolds. after all, charles had been promised only half that sum, and had been more than content to close with that bargain. the fact that mr. ward had paid more for it was a thing that lay outside questions that concerned him. craddock had promised him fifty pounds for the copy, and craddock would pay it.... but he did not definitely settle either on one sum or the other. it was three days after this that craddock's word of warning to joyce's father bore fruit. she had come into his study that morning before lunch, and found him singularly well pleased at the proposed itinerary which craddock had sent him that morning. sleeping-berths had already been secured, they would not have to change trains at paris, and the sleeping-car went, on arrival at marseilles, straight through to the quay where their ship was berthed.... "and you came in to ask me something, joyce," he said, when he had explained this. "yes, father. i have heard from mr. lathom, asking when he can come down to see his picture framed and in its place--i suppose any day will do, will it not? shall i ask him to stay the night?" philip had been expecting this. he remembered a cordial invitation conveyed by his mother to the artist, to come back and see his handiwork when it was framed and in the room of the original picture. but it was a little uncomfortable to be obliged to give a reply so different to that which joyce expected, and there was nothing in the world which he disliked so much as being uncomfortable. bodily discomfort, of course, was the worst form of that imperfection, but mental discomfort was odious also. "i think mr. lathom may take it for granted that his picture looks well, and pleases me," he said. "we have less than three weeks here, before we actually start for egypt. there is an infinity of things to do. you will be very busy without the extra burden of entertaining people." joyce did not at once assent to this, or even reply to it. all her secret knowledge seethed within her. "he was asked to come to see it," she said. a more definite statement was necessary. philip had been glad enough of craddock's information, but he did not find it quite easy to use it with joyce's young eager face looking at him. yet its eagerness gave him an added courage. it was too eager: in spite of the excellent reasonableness of her words, he felt the unreasonable wish behind them. "by my mother," he said, "who does not regulate all my affairs. frankly, my dear joyce, i do not want mr. lathom in my house again. i do not hear a very good account of him. to copy a picture for me is one thing; to have him proposing himself even though asked, is quite another. you may take it that we have finished with mr. lathom." joyce's instinct and desire urged her. "i don't see how i can write a letter to him on those lines," she said. "am i to say that you don't wish to see him again? if that is so, father, you must write it yourself. i--i was very friendly with him when he was here. why should i appear to cease to be so?" philip went into the rage of a weak man. he had not meant to argue the point with joyce. he had, in his imagination, framed this interview on quite different lines. in his imagination it was enough for him to have said that charles' proposed visit was inconvenient, and that joyce would have written a note that should embody his wish. but while he delayed and fussed with the little appurtenances of his writing table, adjusting sealing-wax, and putting pens level, joyce spoke again. "he isn't quite like a bootmaker or a tailor," she said, "whom you can order down, and who will send in what you have commanded. he has been staying with us. i can't say to him that we have finished with him." the weak rage burst out. "that is what you are to say," he cried. "you will make it clear that he is not to come here again. you will show me your note when you have written it. quite polite, of course, but it must be made clear that we have finished with him. he came to paint a portrait, and he has done so, and he has been paid, no doubt, for his trouble. that is all. we are going to egypt within a week or two. his visit will be inconvenient. he may come after we have gone away, if he chooses, and look at his picture. he wants to see it: very well, he shall see it after the third week in november." he beat with his feeble closed hand on his table. "do you understand?" he said. "you will tell him that he may come here when we are gone. not before, and not after we get back. he can look at his picture every day for three months. you may tell him that if you choose. and you have no consideration for me, joyce: you make me excited, and make me raise my voice, which, as you know quite well, always gives me a fit of coughing." joyce came back from the window, and sat down by her father at his table. "if i am to write such a letter, father," she said, "i must know why i write it. you must tell me something which accounts for it." she had her voice perfectly in control, but she could not control her colour. she felt that her face had become white, and though she detested herself for this palpable sign of emotion, she was powerless to prevent it. "it is easy for me to account for it," said philip, "though i should have hoped that my wish was enough." "it isn't enough," said joyce quietly. "i have treated him like a friend." "you must treat him as a friend no longer, and as an acquaintance no longer. he is not a desirable friend for you nor an acquaintance. he is nothing to you: he painted a portrait. he begins and ends with that. he is not the sort of man i want to know, or want my daughter to know." the weak rage subsided: but the calmer tone which followed was not less ineffectual. "you must take my word for it, dear joyce," he said. "you are young and inexperienced, and you must obey me, and not see any more of this young man. i have excellent authority for telling you that he is undesirable as friend or acquaintance. i am sorry for it: he seemed harmless enough and even well-bred!" joyce got up. the accumulated weight of the habit of filial obedience was heavy, but her heart was in declared rebellion. nor did she believe what had been told her. "will you tell me who this excellent authority is?" she asked. "no: you must take its excellence on trust from me." joyce turned to him. she spoke quite respectfully, but quite firmly. "then i can't write that letter," she said. "i am very sorry, but it is quite impossible." "and do you intend also to disobey me with regard to neither seeing nor communicating with mr. lathom again?" joyce hesitated. "no, i intend to obey you," she said. "at least--at least i promise to tell you if i ever intend to do otherwise." for the first time it struck him that he was dealing with a force greater than any that was at his command. hitherto, joyce had never put herself into open opposition to him, and he had had no experience of the power which her habitual serenity held within it. "you are vastly obliging," he said. "i had no idea i had so obedient a daughter." "i am sorry, father," she said. "but you have been asking me to do things i can't do." "things you won't do," said he. "you have made me feel very unwell with your obstinacy." "i am sorry for that, too," she said. chapter vi. the autumn session, combined with a singularly evil season as regards pheasants, had caused london to become very full again during november with the class that most needs and happily can best afford to pay for amusement, and theatres were enjoying a period of unprecedented prosperity. night after night the queue outside the theatre where "easter eggs" was being performed had the length attained usually only by gala performances and after a month's run craddock had successfully accomplished the hazardous experiment of transplanting it to a much larger theatre, which, by chance, happened to be tenantless. his luck still burned as a star of the first magnitude, and he had without difficulty sublet the scene of its initial triumph, and started a couple of provincial companies on a prosperous progress. money poured in, and with a generosity that surprised himself he presented the author (though there was no kind of claim on him) with a further munificent sum of two hundred pounds. but armstrong's continued ingratitude though it pained him, did not surprise him nearly so much as his own generosity. he knew exactly how the young man felt. it was but a few days before he was to start on the egyptian expedition, when armstrong was dining with him in his flat in berkeley square, intending to read to him after they had dined, the first act of "the lane without a turning," which, with somewhat cynical enjoyment, he was remodelling in order to suit the taste of the great ass, as he called the patrons of the drama, though craddock had urged and entreated him not to attempt this transformation. however thoroughly it was transformed he argued that the great ass would detect that below lay the original play of which it had so strongly disapproved, would feel that it was being laughed at, and would, as it always was quick to do, resent ridicule. he put forward this view with much clearness as they dined. "you have had the good fortune that comes perhaps to one per cent. of those who try to write plays," he said. "you have scored a great and signal success, and i beseech you not to imperil your reputation and prestige by so risky an experiment. i don't doubt your adroitness in remodelling and even reprincipling--if i may coin a word----" frank had only just filled his wine-glass. he emptied it at a gulp. "not exactly reprincipling," he said, "it's more turning it upside down. but i think your advice is rather premature, do you know, considering you have not at present the slightest idea what this remodelled play will be like. had you not better wait till i read you some of it?" "i don't think it matters what it is like," said craddock, "because there will still be 'the lane without a turning' at the bottom of it. it might be macbeth and hamlet rolled into one----" "that remarkable combination would certainly have a very short run," remarked frank. "you were saying?" "i was saying that the public, and the critics, will know that at the base of your play lies the play they so unmistakably rejected." "there was one critic who thought it promising," said frank. "and he is reaping a very tidy little harvest for his perspicacity." "you are girding at everything i say this evening, my dear fellow," said craddock placidly. frank looked at him with scarcely repressed malevolence. "i think the sight of this opulent room and this good dinner and delicious wine makes me feel vicious," he said. "i can't help remembering that it is i who have really paid for all i am eating and drinking a hundred times over. and yet it is you who ask me to dinner." "i am sorry if i burden you with my hospitality," said craddock. "and as a matter of fact, it was you who asked yourself." frank armstrong laughed. "quite true," he said, "and i will ask myself to have another glass of port. but really i think the situation justifies a little wailing and gnashing of teeth." craddock was slightly afraid of this very uncompromising young man. he liked to feel himself the master and the beneficent patron of his protégés, and it was a very imperfect sense of mastery that he enjoyed when he was with this particular beneficiary. he had tried cajolery and flattering him with the most insignificant results, and he determined to adopt more heroic methods. "as to the gnashing of teeth," he observed, "there certainly was less gnashing of teeth on your part before i put on this play for you, for the simple reason that you often had to go without meals. but i am bound to say you didn't wail." frank laughed again. "that's not bad," he said. "but i repeat that it is maddening to think of you earning in a week over my labour, as much as i earned altogether. of course you had the capital; one can't expect labour and capital to fall into each other's arms." "i had much more than the capital," said craddock. "i had the sense to see that star-actors would not take, or if they did take, would ruin your works. you had not the sense to see that, if you will pardon my saying so." "true. i like you better when you answer me back, and i'm not denying your shrewdness--god forbid when i have been the victim of it. i've been thinking, let me tell you, how i can get out of your clutches, but really i don't see my way. you may take it i suppose that you're safe. now about this play. i don't see to begin with why it matters to you what i write. you needn't exercise your option over it, unless you please. in that case i shall get it done on my own account." "ah, but it does matter to me," said craddock. "if you produce a couple of plays that fail, you may consider your present success as wiped out. you can't tamper with a reputation, and the bigger it is--yours at this moment is very big indeed--the more it is vulnerable. it is for your sake no less than mine that i am so strong about this." "surely for my sake a little less than yours?" suggested frank. "if you will have it so. and for your sake a little less than mine i advise you not to produce plays too quickly. the public are very fickle: if you flood the theatres with the dramas of frank armstrong they will soon laugh at you." "i disagree with that policy altogether," said frank. "whatever happens they will get tired of you in five or six years. so for five or six years i propose to produce as many plays as i possibly can. i find i've got lots more twaddle-sketches and things half-finished, and scenarios that were invariably returned to me. but they shall be returned to me no longer. actors and managers are tumbling over each other to get hold of my work. i like seeing them tumble. by the way, there is a point in our agreement i should like to discuss. akroyd came to me to-day--good lord, think of akroyd coming to me, when a few months ago he wouldn't even let me come to him--he came to me with his terrible smile and his amazing clothes and offered me a thousand pounds in advance on account of royalties for a play. he wants to see and approve the bare scenario. now supposing i accept, and you choose to exercise your option on it, do you get that?" "naturally. i have acquired all rights in such a play. i shall also try to make akroyd give me a little more than that." "hell!" said frank succinctly. he poured himself out another glass of port as he spoke, and shaking the drop off the lip of the decanter broke his glass and flooded the tablecloth. his action was on the border-land between purpose and accident, and he certainly was not sorry as he looked at the swiftly-spreading stain. "my port, my tablecloth," he observed. "and your manners," said craddock drily. "yes, i deserved that. but i didn't really do it on purpose, so, as it was an accident, i'll say i am sorry. no, no more, thanks. but i feel in a better temper you may be pleased to hear. there's nothing so soothing as smashing something, if one doesn't value it oneself. i spent an hour this afternoon at one of the side-shows in the exhibition, banging wooden balls, seven for sixpence, at a lot of crockery on a shelf. what an ironical affair the world is! when i had hardly enough money to get dinner for myself, nobody ever asked me to dinner, and now that there is no longer any difficulty in paying for my own dinner, everybody wants me to dine at his or her--chiefly her--house. people i have never seen who live in squares, write to me, giving me the choice of a couple of nights! they ask other people i have never seen to meet me. they roar with laughter, whatever i say, or if it obviously isn't funny, they look pensive and say 'how true!' what a great ass it is!" "ah, make the most of that," said craddock. "a dozen people talking about you will do more for you than a dozen newspapers shouting about you." "probably, but i rather like the newspaper shouting. it's so damned funny to think of a lot of grinning compositors ruining their eyesight to set up columns about me. i read your article in the 'whitehall,' by the way; you didn't spare the adjectives did you? they send interviewers to me, too, with cameras and flash-lights, who fill my room with stinking-smoke, and ask me to tell them about my early days. hot stuff, some of it. they are nuts on the story of my father throwing the knife at me." "did you tell them that?" asked craddock, feeling rather bruised. "certainly. why should i not? he came to see me this morning himself, rather tipsy, and i told him to go away and come back when he was sober, and i would give him half-a-crown to get drunk on again. there's a commandment, isn't there, about honouring your father. i should like to see a fellow trying to honour mine. it's out of my power." frank lit a cigar, and leaned forward with his elbows on the table. "success hasn't made me a snivelling sentimentalist," he observed. "now that i'm on the road to make money--or i shall be when i've got out of your hands--i don't instantly think the world is a garden full of ripe apricots and angels. it's a hard cruel world, same as it always was, and the strong tread on the weak and the clever suck the foolish, as a spider pulls off the leg of a fly and sucks it. i've often watched that. i've been foolish, too, at least i've been hungry, and in consequence you are sucking me. but why should i go slobbering over and blessing my father, who made life hell to me? or why should i say it's a kind, nice world just because i myself am not cold or hungry any longer? and i'm not a bit sorry for the cold and hungry any more than i was sorry for myself when i was among them. i hated being cold and hungry, it is true, but nobody cared, and i learned to expect that nobody should care unless he could get something out of me, as you have done. all your fine rich people were there while i was starving, and nobody asked me to dinner or treated me to dozens of wooden balls at the exhibition. now i've shown that i can amuse them for an hour or two after dinner, they think i'm no end of a fine fellow. but i've not changed. i always believed in myself, even when i was hungriest, and not being hungry doesn't make me believe in anything else. no, no more wine, thanks. i'm not going to take after my father. by the way, i met a dear little female methuselah last night, name of lady crowborough, who told me she knew you. i congratulated her, of course." "did you--did you mention your connection with me?" asked craddock, with some little anxiety not wholly concealed. "you wouldn't have liked that, would you? but you can make your mind easy. i didn't and i don't suppose i shall, i wouldn't vex you for the world." "that is not so good a reason as i should expect from you." "no? try this one then. you made a fool of me, you see, you outwitted me. i don't want people to know that for my sake far more than yours. the rôle of the brilliant successful dramatist is more to my mind than the rôle of your dupe." "these are offensive expressions," said craddock. "certainly. but why should you care? no doubt other people have used them before to you. by the way again, there was another fellow there last night who knew you, under lady crowborough's slightly moulting wing. lathom: that was his name. i congratulated him also. there was something rather taking about him: a weird sort of guilelessness and gratitude. he's coming to the play with me sometime next week. and now if you want to hear the first act of the 'lane without a turning,' we had better begin? i'm going to mrs. fortescue's party later on. who is mrs. fortescue?" "the prettiest bore in london, which is saying a good deal, both as regards looks and as regards _ennui_. but she is so convinced she is only twenty-eight, she is worth your study as showing the lengths to which credulity can go. by all means let me hear your first act." armstrong got up. "i want you to tell me when you have heard it," he said, "and when i have told you how the second and third acts will go, whether you exercise your option or not. you are going to egypt in a few days, you tell me, and i don't want this hung up till you get back." "i have no doubt i shall be able to tell you," said craddock. * * * * * in spite of this assurance, craddock found himself an hour afterwards, in a state of bewildered indecision. the finished first act, together with a very full scenario of the other two, gave him, as he was well aware, sufficient data for his conclusions, but he was strangely embarrassed at the recital of the brilliant and farcical medley, which, as the author had said, turned the original play upside down, parodied it, and winged it with iridescent absurdity. he knew well the unaccountableness of the public, well, too, he knew the value of a reputation such as "easter eggs" had brought its author, and it seemed to him a frantic imperilment of that reputation to flaunt this rainbowed farce in the face of the public. armstrong had acquired the name of an observant and kindly humorist, here he laughed at (not with) the gentle lives of ungifted people. again, in the original play, he involved his puppets in a net of inextricable tragedy: here, as by a conjuring-trick he let them escape, with shouts of ridicule at the suppose destiny that had entangled them. the play might easily be a failure the more stupendous because of the stupendous success of "easter eggs": on the other hand there was the chance, the bare chance, that its inimitable and mocking wit might be caught by the rather stolid ass.... but he had to decide: he knew quite well that he had sufficient data for his decision, and he did not in the least desire merely to annoy armstrong by a plea for further opportunity of consideration. but he most sincerely wished that the play had never been written. and that wish gave him an idea that for the moment seemed brilliant. he was harvesting money in sheaves, he could well afford it.... "i will exercise my option," he said at length, "and then i will destroy the play. for your convenience, my dear fellow, you needn't even put on paper the last two acts. you can take your cheque away with you to-night." frank armstrong considered this munificent proposal for a moment in silence, looking very ugly. "you didn't purchase the right to destroy my work," he said. "i purchased the right to possess it." for a minute more armstrong frowned and glowered. then suddenly his face cleared, and he gave an astonishing shout of laughter. "all right," he said, "draw the cheque, and here are my manuscript and notes, which you are going to destroy. to-morrow i shall begin a new play exactly like it. how's that? gosh, what an ass i am! i ought to have got your cheque first and cashed it before i told you. but you gave yourself away so terribly by telling me you would purchase and destroy it that i was off my guard. but now----" once again the sense of imperfect mastery struck craddock. there was this difference about it now that it forced itself rather as being a sense of mastery on the other side. he was thrown back on the original debate in his mind. doubt of success prevailed. "i take no option," he said curtly. frank got up. "thank god," he said. "good night." * * * * * craddock sat quiescent for a few minutes after armstrong had left him, feeling rather battered and bruised, and yet conscious of having passed a stimulating evening. and he did not wonder that that section of london who spend most of their time and money in procuring tonic entertainments that shall keep their pulses racing, should pursue this flaring young man with eager hospitalities. he was liable, it is true, to behave like a young bull-calf: he might, and often did, lower his head, and, fixing a steady and vicious eye on you, charge you with the most masculine vigour, but it was quite impossible to be dull when he was there. there was a strength, a driving force about him that raised the level of vitality at social gatherings, and though it was a little disconcerting to have him suddenly attack you, he might equally well attack somebody else, which was excessively amusing. moreover many women found a personal attack exciting and inspiriting. to be tossed and tumbled conversationally did not do one any harm, and so virile and brutal an onslaught as his had something really fascinating about it. to be sure, he had no manners, but yet he had not bad manners. he would not plan an impertinence, he only ran at a red rag, of which, apparently, the world held many for him. if he was bored, it is true that he yawned, but he didn't yawn in order to impress upon you your boring qualities, he only expressed naturally and unaffectedly, his own lack of interest in what you were saying. to be sure, also, he was ugly and clumsy, but when there were so many pretty little men about, who talked in the softest of voices and manicured their nails, a great rough young male like this, who said he hated dancing, and asked leave to smoke his pipe instead of a cigarette, brought a sense of reality into the room with him. he was not rough and uncouth on purpose: merely that big clever brain of his was too busy to bother about the frills and finishings of life. scandal and tittle-tattle had no interest for him, but when he told you about his own early years, or even when with inimitable mimicry he showed you how craddock felt for a whisker, and looked at his plump little hands, he was immensely entertaining. very likely he would soon become tiresome and familiar, but it would be time to drop him then. craddock was not in the least surprised at this lionizing of young armstrong. not only had he written the play which was undeniably the bull's-eye of the year, which in itself was sufficient, but, unlike most writers and artists, the strength of whose personality is absorbed into their achievements, he had this dominating personal force. craddock knew well the mercantile value of the social excitement over the author of "easter eggs" (as he had said to armstrong a dozen people talking was worth the shouting of two dozen journals), and while it lasted there was no question that stalls and dress-circles would overflow for his plays. apparently, too, they had the no less valuable attraction for pit and gallery: there was a sincerity about his work that appealed to those who were not warmed by the mere crackle of epigrams and neat conversation. but while he welcomed armstrong's appearance as a lion as a remunerative asset at the box-office, he was not so sure that he entirely approved of a possible intimacy between his new artist and his new playwright. he could not have definitely accounted for his distaste, but it was there, and though he was in the rapids that preceded his departure for egypt, he found time next morning to go round to charles' studio, ostensibly to see the finished portrait of his mother, but with a mind alert to sound a warning note as to undesirable companionship. * * * * * charles the joyful, as craddock had christened him, received his visitor with arms open but with palette and brush and mahl-stick. the confidence which he had so easily won from the boy, at that first meeting by their weir, burned with a more serene brightness than ever, and his gratitude towards his patron was renewed morning by morning when he came into the comfortable well-appointed studio which had been given him. "oh, i say, mr. craddock," he exclaimed, "but it is jolly of you to come round to see me. do say that you'll stop for lunch. it will be quite beastly by the way, but i promised to cook lunch for lady crowborough who is coming. but there are things in tins to eke out with." indeed this was a very different sort of protégé from him who had spilt the port last night, so much easier to deal with, so much more conscious of benefits. gratitude and affection were so infinitely more becoming than the envious mistrust that frank habitually exhibited. and how handsome the boy was, with his fresh colour, his kindled eyes, and unconscious grace of pose as he stood there palette on thumb! how fit to draw after him, like a magnet, the glances of some tall english girl. and at the thought, and at the remembrance of the injury he had done charles, craddock felt his dislike of him stir and hiss once more. "i can't do that my dear charles," he said, "as i have only a quarter of an hour to spare. besides i am far too prudent to think of incurring lady crowborough's enmity by spoiling her tête-à-tête with you. but on this grey morning i felt it would do me good to see your serene joyfulness, and also the presentment of your joyfulness' mother which you tell me is finished." charles looked deprecating. "i'm rather frightened," he said. "you see, i've changed it a lot since you saw it. i took out the whole of the head and painted it quite fresh and quite differently." craddock frowned ... it was as if armstrong had interpolated an act in "easter eggs" without permission. "my dear fellow, i don't think you had any business to do that without consulting me," he said. "i had said i would buy the picture: you knew too that i immensely admired it as it was. where is it? let me see it." charles seemed to resent this somewhat hectoring and school-master-like tone. below the serene joyfulness there was something rather more firm and masculine than craddock had expected. "oh, i can't concede to you the right to tell me how i shall paint," he said. "just after you saw the picture the other day i suddenly saw i could do better than that. i must do my best. and as a matter of fact i don't think you will mind when you see it. here it is, anyhow." he wheeled the picture which was on an easel, face to the wall into position, and stood rather stiff and high-headed. "i shall be sorry if you don't like it," he said, "but i can't help it." somehow it struck craddock that charles had grown tremendously in self-reliance and manliness since he had first seen that shy incredulous boy at the weir. he was disposed to take credit to himself for this: these weeks of happy expansion, of freedom from the dragging sense of dependence had made a man of him. and then still blameful he looked at the picture. long he looked at it and silently, and quickly in his mind the conviction grew that he must climb quite completely down from his hectoring attitude. but, after all, it was not so difficult: there were compensations, for the lower he had to go, the higher the picture soared, soared like some sunlit ship-in-air. "you were perfectly right," he said at length. "it was the rashest presumption in me to suppose that i knew better than you. that will make you famous. i was an utter fool, my dear charles, to have imagined that you could have spoiled it." "oh, that's all right," said charles, tall amid his certainties. again craddock looked long at it. "is it finished now?" he asked humbly. "i think so. it seems to be what i see, and a picture is finished when that's the case. i daresay i shall see more sometime: then i shall do another." craddock felt no call on his superlatives. "i must say i shall be seriously anxious if i thought you were going to scrape it out again," he said, "though this time i shouldn't dream of interfering. now what other work have you got on hand? i am off to egypt in two days, and i should like to know i leave you busy. did mrs. fortescue come to your studio? i recommended her to." "i know: it was awfully good of you, and i am going to paint her. you told me to charge two hundred guineas, which seemed a tremendous lot." "not in the least. you won't remain at that figure long." charles made a face of comic distaste. "i--i don't quite know how to paint her," he said. "i can't make her as young as it is clear she thinks herself, and i can't make her such a bore as i think her." "how could your portrait show you think her a bore?" asked craddock. "how it shall not is my difficulty. i must try not to get a weary brush. then lady crowborough says she will sit to me when she comes back in the spring. i shall love doing that. by the way----" charles hesitated a moment. "you've been so extraordinarily kind to me," he said, "that perhaps you don't mind my consulting you. she told me to propose myself to go down and see my copy of the reynolds picture when it was framed and in its place, and for the last month i've been ready to do so any day. but mr. wroughton wrote me rather a queer letter. he suggested that i should go down after they left for egypt. it read to me rather as if he didn't want to see me. and i was so friendly with them all. what can have happened?" craddock assumed his most reassuring manner. "happened?" he said. "what on earth could have happened? you know our respected host down at the mill house. i assure you when i was there three weeks ago for one night he could think about nothing but his underclothing for egypt, and the price of pith-helmets. he had already, i believe, begun to pack his steamer-trunks and his medicine-chests. do not give it another thought." charles gave a sigh of relief. "i'm so glad you think that is the reason," he said. "all the same i should have liked to go down and say goodbye to--to them." "to her, don't you mean?" said craddock. charles flushed and laughed. "well, yes, to her," he said. "why not?" "why not indeed? every sensible young man likes to say some goodbye to a charming girl, if he can do no more than that. my dear fellow, if only i was your age, i should take a leaping heart to egypt. and now that we've pricked that little troublesome bubble, tell me a little more about yourself and your life. i meant to have seen much more of you this last week or two, but i have been distractedly busy, and have seen no one but people on business. apart from your work, have you been going about much?" "hardly at all. i don't know so many people you see. i dined with lady crowborough, though, a couple of nights ago, and she took me to a big party. oh, and i met there such a strange queer fellow, name of armstrong, who said he knew you. he wrote "easter eggs": such a ripping play. have you seen it? he is going to take me to it next week." craddock puffed the smoked-out end of his cigarette from its amber tube into the grate. "yes, i know him," he said. "i should not have thought there was much in common between you." "i'm not sure. i should like to find out. and, heavens, how i should like to paint his portrait. where's the charcoal?" charles seized a stick and spread a loose sheet of paper on the table. "eye like that," he said, "with the eyebrow like a pent-house over it. face, did you ever see such a jaw, square like that and hungry. that's the sort of face it pays to paint. there's something to catch hold of. and his ears are pointed, like a satyr's. i think i must ask him to sit to me. i'll give him the portrait if he will." craddock took up this six-line sketch. "yes, very like, indeed," he said, "and a terrible face. and now i must go. but i wonder if you will resent a word of advice." "try," said charles encouragingly. "well, i will. now, my dear charles, you are a young man just beginning your career, and it is immensely important you should get among the right people. the latin quarter in paris is one thing: bohemianism in london is quite another. for the next forty years your work will be to paint these charming mothers and daughters of england. they have got to come and sit to you in your studio. they won't if they find that it savours of the bohemian. you can't be too careful as to your friends, for the strongest and most self-sufficient people take their colour from their friends: they can't help it." he laid his plump white hand, which he had been observing, on charles' shoulder. "you must pardon me," he said, "but i have got to the time of life when an unmarried man wishes he had a son growing up. but i have none,--i have to expend my unfruitful potentiality of parentage elsewhere. if you were my son, i should choose your friends for you so carefully." there was something pathetic and unexpected about this, which could not but touch charles. but somehow he felt as if he ought to have been more touched.... "_Ã� propos_ of armstrong?" he suggested. "_Ã� propos_ of intimacy with mr. armstrong in general," said craddock, feeling somehow that he had missed fire, and that it was as well to get behind a hedge again. charles nodded. then suddenly he felt his own lack of responsiveness: he felt also, though without touch of priggishness, that here was a man who had been wonderfully good to him, and who felt the burden of the years that were not lightened by the tie of fatherhood with youth. it struck him suddenly, vaguely but convincingly. "you have been as kind as a father to me," he said quickly. "i hope i don't pay you with a son's proverbial ingratitude. you have been like a father to me--i--i've often wanted to tell you that." he looked up a moment at craddock, and then seized with a fit of misgiving at his blurted outspokenness, shied away from the subject, like some young colt. "but i should like to paint armstrong's portrait," he said. "i promise you that you would not think i had wasted my time." craddock appeared to accept this sudden switching off of sentiment. "i will leave you free from any option of mine regarding it," he said. "to have it on the wall opposite me would certainly cause me indigestion, if it was as like as your charcoal sketch. the truth is he has not behaved very nicely to me. i tried to befriend him, as i have tried to befriend you, but with less success in amicable relationship. it is a mere nothing, but i felt i might do worse than give you a word of warning. it is of course for your private ear alone. goodbye, my dear charles. i shall let you know when i get back from the land of bondage. and accept my long experience to make your mind easy over the matter of going down to see your admirable copy of that reynolds picture. i should not for instance, confide in lady crowborough. god bless you!" * * * * * craddock took the unusual step of walking back to berkeley square after he had left charles, and as he pursued his portly way up the brompton road, he thought rather intently over what he had said, and again, as on the evening when he had let drop a few lying words to philip wroughton, he felt he had not spoken amiss. he could not possibly prevent an acquaintance between his two protégés, nor could he certainly prevent it ripening into an intimacy, but he felt he had spoken well when he hinted that armstrong had not behaved very nicely to him. as a rule, he did not much believe in the stability of such an emotion as gratitude, but he believed very strongly in the child-like simplicity of charles. in this his conclusions were firmly founded, for in the course of his life he had never come across, as a matter of fact, so guileless and unsuspicious a nature. he almost regretted the necessity of deceiving him, for the feat was so inconspicuous a one. charles was a child, a child with a divine gift, of which he himself was in the position to take secure advantage. after all nurses and kind mothers habitually deceived children: they told them that if they squinted and the wind changed, their squint would be permanent: they told them that many poor beggars would be glad of the food they rejected, in order to induce them to swallow it, and thus, incidentally, to extinguish altogether the outside chance of a poor beggar getting it: they told them that god would be angry with them if they disobeyed orders and got their feet wet.... charles was just a child. though certainly he had grown a good deal lately. but his soul was a child's. it was not until he had walked as far as hyde park corner that he knew he was waging a war instead of merely conducting a child's education. he was at war, he with his obese person and half-century of years, with the generation that had sprung up after him, and was now realising the zenith of its youthful vigour. already it trod on his heels, already he seemed to hear in his ears its intolerant laughter at his portly progress, and his first acute attack of middle-age stabbed him like the lumbago from which he occasionally suffered. it seemed to him a devilish complaint, not to be acquiesced in, but to be ostentatiously disregarded and denied. even since last june, when he had first felt the charm and the need of girlhood, he had suspected this foe, and the fact that charles admitted the attraction which was his magnet also, stiffened his resistance. he hated the young generation, chiefly because his own youth had been a bloodless affair, but he did not feel himself old, except when he met the guileless eyes of charles, or the vindictive glance of young armstrong. both of these, in their widely different fashions, illumined the truth, and thus for them, these young and vigorous males, he cherished an enmity that rivalled armstrong's. but he was not shelved and done with yet. as far as the attainment of love went, he entered the lists against charles, as far as hard business capacity went, he was willing to meet armstrong. but he had suffered an initial defeat on either hand. on the one side armstrong had taken this remodelled play into his own control, on the other--this was more subtle--charles had been able to paint that rough sketch of joyce among the forget-me-nots. yet he had weapons against these attacks. he could and would write feebly appreciative notices of the play, more damning than any slash of onslaught, he could and would go southwards with joyce, and her approving father, the day after to-morrow. and then with a spasm of satisfaction he thought of lady crowborough. with one if not both feet in the grave, she was kissing her hands as vigorously and contentedly as ever. her conviction of perennial youth overrode the disabilities of years: age was a mere question of conviction: he had only to convince himself. even at this moment she, who had attained middle-age before he was born, was lunching with a boy whose father he himself might be, and tasting all the delights of flirtation and unspeakable decoctions over a gas-stove.... "the new flirt...." he could hear her say it with unctuous serenity. and the "new flirt" was that child charles, he who was so much younger than anyone craddock had ever known. of course lady crowborough was a freak, but if a woman did not feel old at ninety (according to her own account) what excuse was there for a man feeling middle-aged at fifty, or a little less? he determined to have no lunch whatever, but have a turkish bath and a swim at the bath club instead. * * * * * just as craddock might have made a certain sinister suggestion to philip wroughton about charles, had he known that after she left them she read and re-read two common-place little letters and regarded something that had once been a straw hat, so to-day he might not have foregone lunch and sat in the agreeable tropics underneath the bath club (as a matter of fact these processes made him so hungry that he indulged in a sandwich or two afterwards) in the heroic hue-and-cry after his vanished youth, if he had been aware of charles' immediate occupation after he had left him. there was another canvas, a big one, leaning with averted face in the corner of his studio. it represented a girl kneeling among forget-me-nots at the edge of a stream. behind was a spouting-weir. he had half a dozen sketches of the weir to help him, some very carefully finished, which he had made in preparation for that picture of the bathing-boy, and he had so many sketches, more vivid than these, more brilliantly lit by the steadfast lamp within his brain, to help him. but he had felt he could not show this to craddock: he did not know if he could ever show it to anybody, it was his own, or hers, if ever she cared for it or for him.... but it was not craddock's. eagerly now he pulled it into the light. it mattered not what he worked on, in this picture, so long as he worked at it the figure that knelt there, dressed in stained blue, had suffused the whole, so that the grey camp sheltering below the weir, the loosestrife and meadow-sweet, the rope of hurrying water, woven by the force of the stream, were all part of her. unsuspicious and trustful by nature, relying on craddock's experience and knowledge of the world, on his brief assurance that there was nothing below the curt note which had given charles leave to see his reynolds' copy after the family had gone, he wiped off his mind, almost without an effort, the vague doubts that had for the last week or two tarnished and dimmed it. craddock, who had been so uniformly kind to him, who had almost lapsed into parental sentiment to-day, had not thought his doubts worth a moment's debate. besides, what could have occurred to change the friendliness of the family into this cold acidity? what, also, could be more reasonable than the explanation which craddock threw off, over his shoulder, so to speak, of philip's amazing solicitude for the complete provision of his own comfort. "blue! blue! what a world of blues! sky, dress, eyes, forget-me-nots, reflection of sky, reflection of dress, and eyes that looked straight into his." these reflections came not into his picture ... he caught and kept these.... * * * * * craddock's prophecy (the wish perhaps being father to it) that the two young men whom he had benefited would not find much in common, seemed at their first meeting to be likely of fulfilment. they met at the theatre, and charles' enthusiastic appreciation of the piece, at the second time of witnessing it, seemed to rouse armstrong's contempt. "i wish you had told me you had seen it before," he said as they lounged and smoked between the acts, "and we could have gone to something else." "but there's nothing else i should have liked so much," said charles eagerly. "i think that scene between violet and the curate is simply priceless. do tell me about it? did you know people like that?" frank beckoned to the man in the box-office. "just show me the returns for this week," he said. then he answered charles. "yes: i used to think they were like that," he said. "i expect they were far harder and meaner and fouler really. people can't be as gutless as i've made them all out to be." "oh, but they're not gutless, do you think? they are kind and jolly, and slightly ridiculous.... isn't that it? like most people in fact, but you've seen the funny side of them." the man from the box-office had returned, and handed armstrong a strip of paper. "fuller than ever, mr. armstrong, you see," he said with a sort of proprietorship, like the head-waiter at a restaurant when guests find a dish to their taste. "and advance bookings go well on to the other side of christmas." unaccountably, the dish was not to armstrong's taste. "blasted fools people are," he remarked, and nodded curtly to the man. "i'm one of them, you know," said charles. "yes: i forgot that. but don't you ever despise your pictures--anyhow distrust them--just because they are popular?" charles laughed. "i haven't yet been in the position to find out what effect popularity would have on my own estimate," he said. "oh, but wait a minute--i went to a gallery the other day, where there was a picture of mine, and there happened to be some people round it, so i went among them and listened to what they said. they were rather complimentary, and--and i think i liked them for it. anyhow it didn't affect my own estimate." frank armstrong glared at the well-dressed, well-fed loungers in the entrance. "somehow, i think fellows like these must be all wrong in their taste," he said. "then would you like unpopularity? would you be better pleased if the theatre was empty, and there was no advance booking?" frank armstrong grinned. "no: i should curse like mad," he said. "it happened to me once, and i had no use for it." then his surliness broke down. "i don't mind telling you," he said. "the fact is that i sold my play inside out from iceland to peru and madagascar, and i don't get a penny more or less whether it runs to doomsday or only new year's day. i feel all these people are defrauding me." "oh, what a pity!" said charles. "i am sorry. but they'll come flocking to your next play." the thought that there were three more plays of his to be pouched by craddock sealed armstrong's good humour up again. it had put in a very inconspicuous appearance, and now popped back like a lizard into its hole. he shrugged his shoulders. "there's the bell," he said, "if you want to hear the third act." "don't want to miss a word," said charles cordially. through the first half of the act armstrong so yawned and fidgetted in the stall next him, that about the middle of it charles felt that good manners prompted him to suggest that they should not remain till the end. yet another way round, good manners were horrified at such a course. it would appear that the play bored him.... but he decided to risk it, armstrong was so obviously tired of it all. "shall we go?" he suggested. armstrong slid from his seat into the gangway. "i thought the third act would be too much for you," he observed. they went quickly and quietly up through the swing-doors, and charles, rather troubled, laid a hand on the other's arm. "it wasn't that a bit, indeed it wasn't," he said. "but you were yawning and grunting, you know--i thought you wanted to get out. i--i was enjoying it." armstrong knew he was behaving rudely to his guest, but to-night the thronged theatre, also, in part, the buoyancy of the serene joyfulness, had got on his nerves. "then go back and enjoy the rest of it," he said. charles' good humour was quite unimpaired: it was as fresh as paint. "i think i will," he said. "thanks awfully for bringing me. i'm enjoying myself tremendously. good night." somehow for the moment that annoyed armstrong even more, and there is no doubt that he would have found a pungently-flavoured reply. but there was no reply possible: on the word charles had turned and gone back through the swing-doors once more. then it dawned on armstrong that his annoyance with charles was really annoyance with himself at his own ill-mannered behaviour. for half-a-minute he hesitated, more than half disposed to follow him, to say a whispered word of regret if necessary.... then again the balance wavered, and he went out into the street. people with such infernally good tempers as his new acquaintance, he thought, should not be allowed at large. they did not fit in with his own ideas of the world, where everyone sought and grasped and snarled, unless he had some specific reason for making himself pleasant. he looked aimlessly up and down shaftesbury avenue as he stood on the steps of the theatre, uncertain what to do with himself. there was a party he was bidden to, but he felt no inclination to stand and fire off the cheap neat gibes that he knew were considered his contribution to such gatherings, his payment for a supper and a cigarette, nor, as on some nights, did the illuminated street with the flaring sky-signs up above, and the flaring gaiety of the pavements below, allure him in the least. sometimes he wandered up and down piccadilly for an hour at a time in absorbed yet incurious observation of it all. it all bore out his theory of life: the spoiler and the spoiled, the barterer and bartered, everybody wanted something, everybody had to pay for it. but to-night the street seemed a mere galaxy of coloured shifting glass.... should he then go home, and work for an hour on his remodelled "lane without a turning"?... he thought with a little spasm of inward amusement at the title that had occurred to him to-day, namely, "it's a long lane that has five turnings." they were all there in the play, five distinct turnings, parodies of passion; five separate times would the stalls make a fixed face so as not to show they were shocked, five separate times would they be utterly fooled and have fixed their faces for nothing. those who happened to remember the original play--there would not be many of them--would laugh a little first because they would guess what was _not_ going to happen: those who had never seen that sombre and serious work would merely find here the most entrancingly unexpected farcical situations developing on legitimate lines out of tragical data. strolling, he found himself underneath the brilliantly lit doors of mr. akroyd's theatre, where within at this hour, as armstrong well knew, mr. fred akroyd was being nobler than anybody who had ever yet worn a frock-coat and patent-leather shoes, with a pith helmet to indicate india. the third act would only just have begun: akroyd was even now probably beginning to dawn like a harvest moon on the blackness of night and the plentiful crop. the moon would reach the zenith in about twenty minutes. then it died in the garden of the viceroy at simla (blue incredible himalayas behind) ... and, if he sent his card in, he felt sure that mr. akroyd (after death in the garden) would be charmed to talk to him for ten minutes. it would be well to make some sort of contract without delay in case craddock changed his mind about an option on this bewildering topsy-turvy of a lane. for the moment he even felt grateful to craddock for the hint he had given him as to the possibility of getting a larger advance on royalties out of akroyd than the thousand pounds which that eminent actor-manager had offered. he would certainly act on the suggestion. * * * * * akroyd was just expiring when he arrived, and after waiting five minutes he was shown into his dressing-room. the actor was still a little prostrate and perspiring profusely, with his efforts, and extended a languid hand.... people sometimes said that if he acted on the stage as well as he acted off.... "delighted to see you, my dear fellow," he said. "sit down while i rest for a minute. it takes too much out of me, this last act. cruel work! i feel the whole pulse of the theatre beating in my own veins ... arteries." "strong pulse for a dying man," observed armstrong. "yes: very good. you don't know, you authors, how we slave for you. well, well; as long as you give us good strong parts, we have no quarrel with you. how's 'easter eggs,' by the way?" "oh, booked full over christmas," said armstrong negligently. "such rot as it is too! i don't wonder you refused to look at it. no strong part in it. but i've got something fully in my head, and partly on paper, which might suit you better. i hear that this--this present strain on you isn't likely to continue after the middle of december. so if you feel inclined you might come round to my rooms, and you can have some supper there while i read you what i've done, and tell you about the rest." a reassuring alacrity possessed akroyd at this, and he made a good and steady convalescence from his prostration. he always made a point of walking home after the theatre, for the sake of his health, he said. he did not walk very fast, and often he took off his hat, and held it in his hand, so as to get the refreshing breezes of the night on his brow which "much thought expands." his tall massive form and fine tragic face often attracted a good deal of attention, and people would whisper his name as he went by. but he put up with these small penalties of publicity: it was very good for the hair to let the wind play upon it.... akroyd some ten years ago had sprung to the front of his profession by his masterly acting of a comedy part which verged on farce. since then he had drifted into noble middle-aged parts, such as bachelor marquises who made marriage possible between fine young fellows and girls whom the marquis was secretly in love with, husbands of fifty with wives of twenty-five, all those parts in fact in which tact, nobility, breadth of view and unselfish wisdom untie knots for everybody else and give everybody else a splendid time. but his drifting, though in part dictated by his conviction that he handled these virtues as if born to the job, was due also to the fact that during these years he had really not been given a comedy that seemed to him worth risking. he knew he could always make a success as a prime minister or a marquis without any risk at all, and his luck, as less fortunate managers called it, was proverbial, for he never had a failure. but it was not luck at all that was responsible for these successes: it was fine business capacity, and a knowledge of what his following among play goers expected of him. he always gave the public what they expected, and then never disappointed them. but in his secret heart he had a longing (provided the risk was not too great) to play a rousing comic part again, to set his stalls laughing instead of leaving them dim-eyed. he was aware that he must do it soon if he was going to do it at all ... there is an age when even the most self-reliant do not feel equal to the strain of being funny. "it's rather out of your line," said armstrong abruptly, as he sat akroyd down to his oysters. "but you once did a part of the same kind: it was the first play i ever saw. you were marvellously good in it." "ah, 'the brittlegings,'" said akroyd, considerably stimulated. "old history, i'm afraid. time of the georges." "well, it's the time of the georges again," remarked armstrong. "the play is called 'it's a long lane that has five turnings.'" akroyd when discussing theatrical matters always criticised freely. an author once had suggested forty-two as a suitable age for the part that he was to play. he had considered this and replied "forty-three. i think forty-three." "that's a very long title," he said. "it was a long lane," said armstrong. "anyhow, it is the title. dramatis personae----" "tell me what you have designed to be my part," said akroyd. "i think i shall leave you to guess. there are many points, by the way, that want discussion, and i should like your advice. but i think i will read straight through the first act without interruption." * * * * * akroyd, as has been stated, was a very shrewd business man, but his keen appreciation of the wit and effectiveness of this act made it difficult for him to bring his business capacity into full working order. many times throughout it had he checked his laughter, throughout it too had he _seen_ himself in the glorious tragico-farcical situations provided for him, (he had no difficulty in guessing his part) in a sort of parody of his own manner. it was a brilliant piece of work, he saw himself brilliantly interpreting it. but at the end he, with an effort, put the cork into his admiration. "yes, yes: very clever, very sparkling," he said, "but hardly in my line, do you think? hardly in yours, perhaps either. it would be taking a great risk: i should not expect there to be much money in it. appreciative stalls perhaps: it is hard to say. however, read the scenario of the rest." frank armstrong felt he knew quite well what this meant. it was the usual decrying of work by the intending purchaser, in order to get it cheaper, and it roused in him all the resentment that as producer he had so often felt for craddock as capitalist. he threw the manuscript onto the table, resolved to play the same game. "hardly worth while," he said. "obviously the play doesn't appeal to you, though i think it might have ten years ago, before you took to the heavy work business. i was thinking of you as i saw you first. jove, it's thirsty work reading, and now i shall have to read it all over again to somebody else to-morrow." "ah, you rush at conclusions altogether too much," said akroyd slightly alarmed. "much necessarily depends on the working out of the play. it is admirably laid down: the scenes are full of wit and interest. i--i insist on hearing the rest." "shan't bother you," said armstrong, taking whisky and soda, and enjoying himself keenly. "then let me take it away and read it," said akroyd. "really, my dear fellow, it is hardly fair to ask me here to listen to an act and the scenario of the rest, and then refuse." "but i feel now i read it how much more suitable it would be for tranby," said armstrong. "i will telephone to him and read it to him to-morrow. he has been asking me if i hadn't got anything for him. i hope the oysters are good." "let me read it myself then, now," said akroyd, holding out a hand that almost trembled with anxiety. frank gave up his obstinacy with an indifferent yawn. "o, well: i'll tell you the rest of it," he said. but having begun, his indifference vanished, while akroyd's anxiety increased. to think of tranby, his esteemed and gifted colleague, having this marvel of dexterous fooling submitted to him to-morrow, was to picture himself on the edge of a precipice. he felt giddy, his head swam at the propinquity of that catastrophic gulf. fortunately he could crawl away now, for armstrong was continuing. intentionally he did the utmost he could for the reading, giving drama and significance to the bare sketch. here and there he had written upwards of a page of dialogue in his wonderful neat hand, and once, when he found a dozen lines of a speech by akroyd, he passed them over to him, asking him to read them aloud (which he did, moving about the room with excellent gesticulations). then as one of the ludicrous "turnings" approached armstrong would drop his voice, speak slowly and huskily--"surely he can't be fooling us this time," thought akroyd--as the tragic moment approached. then came another ludicrous legitimate situation of the impasse, another thwarting of ridiculous destiny. life became a series of brilliant conjuring tricks, all carefully explained, and the gorgeous conjuror was akroyd. he felt there must be no further mention of tranby, for his nerves could not stand it. at the end he got up, and shook hands with armstrong. "i am much obliged to you for offering me the most brilliant piece of work i have seen for years," he said. "i will certainly accept it, and put it on when we open after christmas. i will send you a contract to sign to-morrow----" frank armstrong lit a cigarette. "we might talk over the lines of it to-night," he said. "else perhaps i might not sign it." akroyd, as was his custom, became so great an artist and so magnificent a gentleman when any question of money was brought forward that it was almost impossible to proceed. "i am sure you will find my proposals framed on the most generous lines," he said. armstrong allowed the faintest shadow of a grin to hover about his mouth. "no doubt," he said, "but there is no reason that you should not tell me what they are. advance, for instance, on account of royalties. what do you propose?" akroyd put a hand to his fine brow, frowning a little. "i think i suggested some sum to you," he said. "eight hundred pounds advance, was it? something like that." again armstrong boiled within himself.... yet after all this was business. akroyd wanted to pay as little as he could: he himself wanted to obtain the most possible. but it was mean, when he knew quite well that he had himself proposed a thousand pounds. it was great fun, too ... the thought of craddock now on the bosom of the treacherous mediterranean, perhaps being sea-sick.... "oh, no," he said quite good naturedly. "a thousand was the sum you proposed. but i don't accept it." the interview did not last long after this: a mere mention of tranby's name was enough, and a quarter of an hour afterwards akroyd went home in a taxi (as the streets were now empty) having yielded on every point, but well pleased with his acquisition. fifteen hundred pounds down and royalties on a high scale was a good deal to give. but it seemed to him that there was a good deal to be got. * * * * * frank sat up for another half-hour alone, in a big arm-chair, hugging his knees, and occasionally bursting out into loud unaccountable laughter. what an excellent ten-minutes scene the last half-hour would make in a play called, say "the actor manager" or "the middleman." how mean people were! and how delightful fifteen hundred pounds was! but what work, what work to bring his play up to the level of the first act! but he would do it: he was not going to be content with anything but his best. then he laughed again. "'the middleman ... the sweater thwarted.' good play for tranby." he put down his expired pipe, and rose to open the window. the room was full of tobacco-smoke, the table hideous with remains of supper: it was all rather stale and sordid. stale and sordid, too, now it was over, was his encounter with akroyd, and his complete victory. he had scored, oh, yes, he had scored. he leaned out for a moment into the cool freshness of the night-air, that smelt of frost, finding with distaste that his coat-sleeve on which he leaned his face reeked of tobacco. it reeked of akroyd, too, somehow, of meanness and cunning and his own superior cunning. it was much healthier out of the window.... "gosh, i wish i hadn't been such a pig to that jolly fellow at the play," he said to himself. chapter vii. philip wroughton was sitting (not on the steps, for that would have been risky, but on a cushion on the steps of the mena hotel) occasionally looking at his paper, occasionally looking at the pyramids, in a state of high content. to relieve the reader's mind at once, it may be stated that egypt thoroughly suited him, he had not sneezed nor ached nor mourned since he got here nearly a month ago. the voyage from marseilles, it is true, had been detestably rough, but he blamed nobody for that since he had come under the benediction of the egyptian sun, not the captain, nor messrs. thomas cook & sons, nor joyce--nobody. this was the sun's doing: there never was such a sun: it seemed regulated for him as a man can order the regulation of the temperature of his bath-water. it was always warm enough; it was never too hot. if you had your white umbrella you put it up; if you had forgotten it, it didn't matter: several times he had assured joyce that it didn't matter. in every way he felt stronger and better than he had done for years, and to-day, greatly daring, he was going to mount himself, with assistance, on an egyptian ass, and ride to see the sphinx and make the tour of the great pyramid, in company with craddock. it may be added that his reason for sitting on the hotel steps was largely in order to make a minute survey of the donkeys on hire just beyond. he wanted one that was not too spirited, or looked as if it wanted to canter. there was a pinkish one there that might do, but it flapped its ears in rather an ominous manner.... perhaps craddock would choose one for him. and glancing again at his paper he observed with singular glee that there were floods in the thames valley. lady crowborough and joyce had gone into cairo that morning to do some shopping and lunch with friends. this happened with considerable frequency. not infrequently also they went to a dinner or a dance in that gay city, and stopped the night there. these dinners and dances had at first been supposed to be for joyce's sake; they were actually, and now avowedly, for lady crowborough's sake, though joyce, for more reasons than one, was delighted to accompany her. on such days as the two did not go into town, it was pretty certain that small relays of british officers and others would ride out to have lunch or tea with them at ulena, and lady crowborough had several new flirts. altogether she was amazing, prodigious. she rode her donkey every morning, as beveiled as the temple, in a blue cotton habit and with a fly-whisk, accompanied by a handsome young donkey-boy with milk white teeth, and an engaging smile. he called her "princess," being a shrewd young man, and it is to be feared that he was to be numbered also among the new flirts. also, as he ran behind her donkey he used to call out in arabic "make way for the bride o-ah!" which used to evoke shouts of laughter from his fellows. then lady crowborough would ask what he was saying that made them all laugh, and with an ingenuous smile he explained that he told the dogs to get out of the way of the princess. "and they laugh," he added "'cause they very glad to see you." this was perfectly satisfactory and she said "none of your nonsense." joyce beyond any doubt whatever was enjoying it all very much. the sun, the colour, the glories of the antique civilization, the kaleidoscopic novelties of the oriental world, the gaiety and hospitality so lavishly welcoming her grandmother and herself, all these made to a girl accustomed to the restrictions and bondage of her dutiful filialness to a thoroughly selfish father, a perpetual festa and spectacle. but though she was in no way beginning to weary of it, or even get accustomed to it, she found as the full days went by that two questions, one retrospective, the other anticipatory, were beginning to occupy and trouble her. with regard to the future she was aware that craddock was exercising his utmost power to please her and gratify her, and felt no doubt whatever as to what this accumulation of little benefits was leading up to. before long she knew well he would ask her again to give him the right to think for her always, to see after her welfare in things great and small. in a hundred ways, too, she knew that her father wished him all success in his desire. often he made dreadfully disconcerting remarks that were designed to be understood in the way joyce understood them. "ah, joyce," he would say, "mr. craddock as usual has seen to that for you.... i declare mr. craddock guesses your inclination before you know it yourself. he has ordered your donkey for half-past ten."... she felt that assuredly mr. craddock was going to send his bill in--"account rendered" this time--and ask for payment. but not possibly, not conceivably could she imagine herself paying it. the retrospective affair occupied her more secretly, but more engrossingly. behind all the splendour and gaiety and interest and sunlight there hung a background which concerned her more intimately than any of those things: compared with it, nothing else had colour or brightness. and her father had told her that this background was stained and daubed with dirt, with commonness, with things not to be associated with.... never had the subject been ever so remotely alluded to again between them: charles' name had not crossed her lips or his. she had never asked him who his informant was, but she felt that any such question was superfluous. she knew; her whole heart and mind told her that she knew. whether she had ever actually believed the tale she scarcely remembered: anyhow she had accepted it as far as action went. but now, without further evidence on the subject, she utterly and passionately disbelieved it. by communing with herself she had arrived at the unshakeable conviction that it not only was not, but could not be true. through quietly thinking of charles, through telling over, like rosary beads, the hours of their intercourse together, she had seen that. it was as clear as the simplest logical proposition. but she saw also that when craddock repeated the question he had asked her last june, he would ask it far more urgently and authentically. there had been no fire behind it then: now, she saw that he was kindled. before, he used to look at her with unconcealed glances of direct admiration, make her great speeches of open compliment, comparing her to a greek victory, a bacchante. now he looked at her more shyly, more surreptitiously, and he paid her compliments no longer, just because they no longer expressed all he had to say about her: they had become worn, like defaced coins out of currency. but this acquired seriousness and sincerity of feeling on his part, which before would have earned at any rate her sympathy, now, in the conviction she held that it was he who had spoken of charles to her father, made him the more detestable as a wooer, even as in ordinary converse he now excited her disgustful antipathy. he was as pleasant, as agreeable, as clever and adaptable as before, but her conjectured knowledge had spread through his whole personality staining and poisoning it. he had thought--so she now supposed--to put a rival out of the field by this treacherous stab in the back, to unhorse him and ride over him. in that he had bitterly erred, and though still thinking he had succeeded, deep in her heart was his disgraceful failure blazoned. and daily she felt the nightmare of his renewed proposal was coming nearer. very possibly, she thought, he was delaying speech until they should go up the nile, and should be leading a more leisurely, and, she was afraid, a more intimate life in the comparative quietude of luxor, where they proposed to make a long stay. for that reason, largely, she gladly joined her grandmother in her amazing activities in cairo and gave the kindliest welcome to those pleasant young english soldiers who were so ready to come out to them. but most of all joyce loved to wander over the hot yellow sands of the desert, or go out alone if possible, and sit looking at the pyramids, or at the wonderful beast that lay looking earthwards with fathomless eyes of everlasting mystery, as if waiting patiently through the unnumbered centuries for the dawning of some ultimate day. or else, ensconced in some wrinkles of the undulating ground, she would watch the hawks circling in the fathomless sky, or let her eyes wander over the peacock green of the springing crops to the city sparkling very small and bright on the edge of the nile. a long avenue of carob trees, giving the value of prussian blue against the turquoise of the sky and the vivid green of the rising maize and corn led in a streak across the plain to it. she was not conscious of consecutive or orderly thought in these solitary vigils. but she knew that in some way, even as her mind and her eye were expanded by those new wonders of old time that waited alert and patient among the desert sands, so her soul also was growing in the stillness of its contemplation. she made no efforts to pry it open, so to speak, to unfold its compacted petals, for it basked in the sun and psychical air that was appropriate to it, expanding daily, silent, fragrant.... philip had not to wait long for his escorting craddock. he mused gleefully over the news of floods in the thames valley, he remembered it was new year's day to-morrow, he kept his eye on the pinkish donkey, and felt confidently daring. the pinkish donkey looked very quiet, except for the twitching ears; he hoped that craddock would approve his choice and not want to mount him on the one that shook itself. craddock had proposed this expedition himself, and for a minute or two philip wondered whether he wanted to talk about anything special, joyce for example. but he felt so well that he did not care just now what craddock talked about, or what happened to anybody. he felt sure, too, that he would be hungry by lunch time. really, it was insane to have let that reynolds hang on the wall so many years and rot like blotting paper in the thames valley. but then he had no notion that he could get five thousand pounds for it. he owed a great deal to craddock, who at this moment came out of the hotel, large and fat and white, reassuring himself as to that point about a whisker.... suddenly he struck philip as being rather like a music-master on holiday at margate who had ordered new smart riding-clothes in order to create an impression on the pier. but he looked rich. as usual he was very, very deferential and attentive, highly approved philip's penchant for the pinkish donkey, and selected for himself a small one that resembled in some essential manner a depressed and disappointed widow. his large legs almost touched the ground on either side of it, he could almost have progressed in the manner of the ancient velocipede. and philip having made it quite clear that if his donkey attempted to exceed a foot's pace, he should go straight home, and give no backshish at all, they made a start as smooth and imperceptible as the launching of a ship. craddock had interesting communications to make regarding the monarchs of the fourth dynasty, but his information was neither given nor taken as if it was of absorbing importance. philip, indeed, was entirely wrapped up in observation of his donkey's movements, and the satisfaction he felt in not being in the thames valley. "indeed, so long ago as that," he said. "how it takes one back! and even then the nile floods came up here did they? ah, by the way, the thames is in flood. probably my lawn is under water: i should have been a cripple with rheumatism if i had stopped there. don't make those clicking noises, mohammed. we are going quite fast enough. yes, and there were three dynasties before that! i don't find the movement at all jerky or painful, my dear craddock. i should not wonder if i rode again. fancy my riding! i should not have believed it possible. as for you, you manage like a positive jockey. what do i say, mohammed, if i should want to stop?" the positive jockey, whose positiveness apparently consisted in size and weight, decided to slide away from the fourth dynasty to times and persons who more immediately concerned him. "indeed it is difficult to imagine such things as floods and rain," he said, "when we bask in this amazing illumination. i can't express to you my gratitude in allowing me to join your happy harmonious party." philip just waved his fly-whisk in the direction of the sphinx, as if to acknowledge without making too much of its presence. "dear joyce!" he said. "i think it has been and will continue to be a happy time for her. it gave me a great deal of satisfaction to be able to bring her out, though of course it entailed a certain sacrifice. alone, i should have been able to compass the journey, i think, on the interest of what the reynolds picture brought me: with her i have had necessarily to part with capital. still, of what use is money except to secure health and enjoyment for others? she is looking wonderfully well." craddock, who had till now been standing outside his topic, took a sudden header into the very depth of it, rather adroitly. "there is no money i would not spend on miss joyce's health and enjoyment," he said. "there is nothing nearer to my heart than that." this sounded very pleasing and satisfactory, for the more philip saw of craddock, the more he liked him as a prospective son-in-law. but everything seemed slightly remote and unimportant to-day, in comparison with his own sense of comfort and well-being. "my dear friend, i renew my assurance of sympathy and good wishes," he said. "ah, i was afraid my donkey was going to stumble then. but i held it up: i held it up." craddock's habit of attention to philip found expression before he continued that which he had come out to say. "anyone can see you are a rider," he said rather mechanically. "of course you must know that my pleasure in being out here with you consisted largely in the furthering of the hope that is nearest my heart. but since we have been here (i am coming to you for counsel) i have seen so little of miss joyce. often, of course, she is engaged, and that i quite understand. but she has seemed to me rather to avoid me, to--to shun my presence. and hers, i may say, grows every day more dear and precious to me." craddock was really moved. beneath his greed for money, his unscrupulousness in getting it, his absorption in his plundering of and battening on those less experienced than he, there was something that was capable of feeling, and into that something joyce had certainly made her way. the depth of the feeling was not to be gauged by the fact, that, in its service, he would do a dishonourable thing, for that, it is to to be feared, was a feat that presented no overwhelming natural difficulties to him. but his love for joyce had grown from liking and admiration into a thing of fire, into a pure and luminous element. it did not come wholly from outside; it was not like some rainbow winged butterfly, settling for a moment on carrion. it was more like some celestial-hued flower growing, if you will, out of a dung-heap. it might, it is true, have been fed and nourished in a soil of corruption and dishonour, but by that divine alchemy that love possesses, none of this had passed into its colour and its fragrance. it was not dimmed or cankered by the nature of the soil from which it grew, it was splendid with its own nature. and every day, even as he had said, it became more dear and precious to him. "i don't know if you have noticed any of this, i mean any of her avoidance of me." philip was able to console, quite truthfully. he hadn't noticed anything at all, being far too much taken up in himself. "indeed i have seen nothing of the kind," he said, "and i do not think i am naturally very unobservant. besides, joyce, i think, guesses how warmly i should welcome you as a son-in-law. ah, i held my donkey up again! he would have been down unless i had been on the alert. no, no, my dear craddock, you are inventing trouble for yourself. lovers habitually do that: they fancy their mistress is unkind. i recommend you to wait a little, be patient, until we get out of all this _va-et-vient_ of cairo. it is true joyce is much taken up with my mother and her social excesses--i think i am not harsh in calling them excesses at her age. in the romance and poetry of--of luxor and all that--you will find my little joyce a very tender-hearted girl, very affectionate, very grateful for affection. not that i admit she has shunned or avoided you, not for a moment. far from it. don't you remember how pleased she was when she knew you were coming with us? mohammed, stop the donkey: i am out of breath." craddock reined in also: the depressed widow was not very unwilling to stop and he stepped off her, and stood by philip. "this is not too much for you, i hope," he said. "not at all, not at all. i am enjoying my ride, and positively i have not had to use my fly-whisk at all. i was wondering how i should manage it as well as my reins. but there are no flies. no, my dear fellow, don't be down-hearted. joyce likes you very well." "then i shall tempt my fate without waiting any longer," he said. "if i am fortunate, i shall be happiest of men, and, i may add, the cheerfulest of travelling companions. if otherwise, i think i shall go back to england at once. the situation would be intolerable." philip was perfectly aghast. for a moment he could say nothing whatever. "but that would be out of the question," he said. "i do not see how we could get on without you. who would make our arrangements, and settle the hundred little questions that arise when one is travelling. i could not do it: my health would completely break down. perhaps, too, my mother will stay on in cairo: if it suits her fancy, i am sure she will, and joyce is utterly incapable of arranging for our comfort in the way in which you do. i should be left without a companion, for, as you see, joyce has become totally independent of me. and your valet, who, at your direction, is so kind as to look after me, and pack for me, and see to my clothes, no doubt you would take him with you. it was understood, i thought, that you would make the entire journey with us: you can hardly mean what you have just said. it would spoil everything; it would break up our party altogether. pray assure me that you do not mean what you say. the idea agitates me, and any agitation, as you know, is so bad for me. besides, of course this is the root of the whole matter--that is why i state it to you last after those minor considerations--your best opportunity, your most favourable chance, is when we are alone and quiet up the nile. we are living in a mere railway station here: none of us have a minute to ourselves." till he heard this rapid staccato speech, craddock felt he had never really known what egotism meant. here it was _in excelsis:_ almost grand and awe-compelling in this gigantic and inspired exhibition of it.... "i am very much agitated," said philip, haloing and crowning it. "do not leave my donkey, mohammed." in spite of the danger of prolonging this agitation craddock was silent for a moment, and philip had one more remark to make. "it would be very selfish," he said, "and very unlike you. and i am sure it would not be wise." craddock hesitated no longer. he had received a certain assurance--though he could not estimate its value--that his interpretation of joyce's bearing towards him was mistaken; he had been recommended, a course which seemed sensible, to wait for the comparative quiet of luxor, where the relations of their party would naturally be more intimate and familiar; he had also had ocular evidence that philip was perfectly capable of having a fit, if he precipitated matters unsuccessfully, and returned home. all these considerations pointed one way. "certainly i will continue your journey with you," he said. "it is delightful to me to find how solidly you have been counting on me. and from my point of view--my own personal point of view--i think you have probably indicated to me the most promising course. i exceedingly regret the agitation i have caused you." philip mopped his forehead. "it is nothing," he said. "i will make an effort, and become my own master again. but i do not think i feel up to continuing our ride. let us turn. perhaps to-morrow i shall feel more robust. i should like to rest a little before lunch. and take heart of grace, my dear man: i felt just like you once, and how happily it turned out for me." this was not true: philip had never been in love with anybody. joyce's mother, however, had soon overcome his somewhat feeble resistance to her charms, and had led him a fine life for the few years that she was spared to him. * * * * * our party had designed to stay in egypt two months altogether, and a month being now spent and lady crowborough being at length a little fatigued by her whirl of gaiety in cairo, it was settled that day at lunch that they should proceed southwards up the nile in a few days' time, going by steamer all the way, in order to save philip's nerves the jar and jolting of the ill-laid line. lady crowborough's flirts came in flocks to see her off, bringing bouquets and confectionery enough to fill both her cabin and joyce's, and she made a variety of astounding speeches in a brilliant monologue to them all, addressing first one and then another. "all you young men are trying to spoil me," she said, "and it's lucky i've got my grand-daughter with me to play chaperone and see you don't go too far. and are these chocolates for me, too? joyce, my dear, put them in my cabin, and lock them up; i shall have a good blow-out of them as soon as we start. as for you, mr. wortledge, i daren't stop in cairo a day longer because of you. you'd be coming round for me in a cab and driving me off to a mosque or a synagogue or some such heathen place of worship, to be married to you, under pretence of showing me the antiquities, and what would mr. stuart do then? i never saw such roses, mr. stuart. joyce, my dear--oh, she's gone with the chocolate. i shall wear a fresh one every day, that's what i shall do, and make pot-pourri of the leaves, and put it among my clothes, if that'll content you. and there's a note attached to them, i see. i shan't open that till i'm alone, so that no one shall see my blushes. and i'll be bound you'll all be flirting with some other old woman the moment my back's turned, because i know your ways." a shrill whistle warned her that this court _de congé_ must draw to an end, and she began shaking hands with them all. "you've all made my stay in cairo uncommonly pleasant," she said, "and i thank you all with all my heart. you're dear nice boys, all of you, and i'm really broken-hearted to say goodbye to you. goodbye all of you." and this charming old lady, with real tears in her eyes, put up all her veils, and kissed away handfuls of her delicious little white fingers, as the boat began to churn the green nile water into foam. then she went to her cabin, had a good blow-out of chocolate, and slept the greater part of the three days' voyage up to luxor with intervals for food, and a few expeditions to temples on donkey-back. she had bought ropes and ropes of ancient egyptian beads in the bazaars, with which she adorned herself, and when a professor of antiquities (otherwise promising) hinted that they were modern and came from manchester, she told him he knew nothing about it, and was dead cuts with him ever afterwards. craddock, now that he was committed not to separate himself from the party, was in no hurry to put his fortune to the test. in spite of philip's assurance, he still fancied he had been right regarding joyce's avoidance of him, and until their stay was beginning to draw to an end and philip had begun to fuss about having a sufficiency of warmer underclothing put in his steamer trunk, so that even when the weather grew colder as they sailed northwards again across the mediterranean, he should be able to sit out on deck without risk of chill, devoted himself to restoring joyce's confidence in and ease of intercourse with him. many times, it so happened, he was alone with her, going on some expedition that philip declared himself not equal to, while lady crowborough's appetite for antiquities had proved speedily satiated. indeed, she announced when she had been at luxor a week that the sight of any more temples would make her sick. thus he was often joyce's only companion and, while waiting his time, made himself an admirable guide and comrade. he had studied the eighteenth and nineteenth dynasties before, and with the air of a friendly tutor interested her in the history and monuments. he soon saw how apt she was to learn and appreciate, and by degrees re-established unembarrassing relations with her, winning her back to frank intercourse with him. with his knowledge and his power of vividly and lightly presenting it, he succeeded in weaving their true antique charm about the temples and silent tombs, and joyce found herself taking the keenest enjoyment in their long sunny days together. to her immense relief, he seemed to have banished altogether his yearning for another relationship, and she told herself she must have been quite wrong in imagining that he would approach her again, and this time with fire. yet she had been so convinced of it, and here he was with day-long opportunities at his disposal, plunging her to her infinite satisfaction in the heresies of amenhotep, and the elizabethan rule of hatasoo. he unfolded the stories of the carven walls for her, with their hawk-faced gods or adoring kings. he traced for her the merchandise that the queen's expedition to the land of plenty brought back with it, ivory and apes, as in the days of solomon, and gold weighed in the balances by overseers. he told her of sen-mut the architect of deir-el-bahari, to whom the queen showed all her heart, and entrusted with the secrets of her will, and how thothmes, on his mother's death, erased from the inscriptions all mention of the low-born fellow.... then day by golden day went on, and joyce's confidence increased, and her debt of pleasant hours to him grew heavier and was less felt by her. but never did she quite get out of her mind that it was he who had said, she knew not quite what, to her father, speaking evil of the boy who painted beside the weir. could she have been wrong about that, too? if so, she had indeed wronged this large kindly man, who was never weary of his pleasant efforts to interest her. her manner to him changed as her confidence returned, and with the changing of her manner, he drew nearer to confidence in himself. but it must not be imagined that all life's inner workings, with regard to craddock, were centred in this successful charming of joyce to comradeship with him, nor in restraining himself from attempting to pluck the fruit while clearly unripe. week by week there came to him the most satisfactory accounts from the box-office with regard to the reaped and ever-ripening harvest, so to speak, of "easter eggs." but against that solid asset he had to set, not indeed a positive loss, but a sacrifice of what might have been a tremendous gain. for "the long lane that had five turnings"--was there ever so insolently careless a title?--had appeared early in january, and all london rocked with it. akroyd had clearly made the biggest hit of his industrious career, and the author had leaped at this second spring over the heads of all other dramatists. critics, even the most cautious of them, seemed to have lost their heads, and "sheridan redivivus" was among their less extravagant expressions. his informant as to all this was frank armstrong himself, who very thoughtfully sent him a stout packet of these joyful cries, as supplied to him by a press-agency, and with it a letter that seemed to touch the pinnacles of impertinence. "you have often told me," wrote this amiable young man, "of the great interest you take in my work, and so i am certain you will be pleased to hear of the success of the play. i have to thank you also for the hint you so kindly gave me about screwing akroyd up to favourable terms, and i made a bargain for myself about the scale of royalties that really was stupendous. about the play itself--it is not being a very good theatrical season generally, and even peter, i hear, isn't panning out very well, but you should see the queues at the pall-mall. golly! it's the same in the stalls and boxes. mrs. fortescue has taken a box every night next week, and i think i have persuaded akroyd to raise prices. he says it is illegitimate, but i rather think he will do it. after all the rule of supply and demand must affect prices. i'm afraid 'easter eggs' is bound to suffer; indeed, it was distressingly empty the other night, but the box office says it will recover again ... i see there is a flat vacant just below yours in berkeley square. i am thinking of taking it. it will be nice to be near you. i can never forget what you did for me over my first play.... also, after an unpropitious beginning, i have struck up a friendship with charles lathom. he has told me, in confidence, how you played providence to him. i hope you will do well over him. i should think you would, people are talking about him, and he has several sitters. i tried to tell him all you have done for me, but the recollection was too much. the words wouldn't come, so i pretended to burn my finger over a pipe i was lighting, and said 'damn!' was not that clever and dramatic? "i enclose quantities of press-notices, and i wish i could see your delight over them. it was very vexing that you were not here for the first night, for i should have liked to have seen what you said. but perhaps when i saw it, i shouldn't have liked it, as i remember you didn't think very much of the play when i read it to you. perhaps i shall take a long holiday now, not write again at all for a year or two. i am besieged with repeats, of course." that threat did not much alarm craddock. he felt as convinced, as he felt with regard to the rising of the sun, that the young man could not keep off it. but there was the very scorpion of a sting in the sentence immediately preceding, in which he was reminded of his own rejection of the play. his wits must have been wandering that night; his _flair_ for anticipating public taste had never betrayed him with so desperate a lapse of perception. and somehow it gave him unease to think that an assured enemy of his, sharper than a serpent's tooth, should have thus leaped into affluence as well as prominence. nor did he like this growing friendship between charles and the other--he did not like any of the letter, nor any of the press notices. his evening was completely spoiled and mr. wroughton beat him at bézique. but next morning, with that power which was not the least of his gifts, he switched his mind off these disturbances and fixed himself heart and soul on that which lay before him here and now. * * * * * thus passed for them at luxor a complete moon, which among other celestial offices had magically illumined for them an hour of night among the ruins of karnak. then, too, they had gone about, and there up till then had come the hardest struggle in restraint for him. all the spell of the starry-kirtled night was woven round them while the huge monoliths and spent glory of the columned hall reminded him, urgently, insistently, how short life was, how soon for the generations of men nothing but the hard granite of their work remains, no joy, no rapture any more, for eyes are closed and mouths dumb, and the soft swift limbs laid to rest, where at the most they can but feel the grasses that wave over their graves, or, more horribly, injected and wrapped in cero-cloth and bitumen to be preserved as a parody and mocking of what they once were. and this--these few years--was his time, his innings before the silence that preceded closed in on him again. all he wanted stood in front of him now, as joyce leaned on a fragment of wall white and tall in the moonlight, and let her great eyes wander over the outlined columns, with young fresh mouth a little parted, and hand almost resting on his. "yes, it is all later than----" he heard his voice saying, and suddenly he stopped, feeling that to talk here and now and to her of egyptian kings was a mere profanity, in this temple which his love had built, so much holier than all that had ever been made with hands. but at his sudden cessation, he saw joyce withdraw herself a little, instinctively on guard. bitterly he saw that. "it is all so woundingly sad," he said, "this eternal glorious moon and sky, looking down on to what in so few years is but ruin and decay. and yet they thought that their houses would endure for ever----" joyce instantly recovered her confidence, and flowed to meet him on this. "oh, yes, oh yes," she said, "all this month that has been haunting me. i think i hate the moon to-night. it is like some dreadful imperishable governess, always presiding and watching us poor children." that broke the tension. "oh, mistress moon," said craddock laughing. "but she is a governess of remarkable personal attractions...." then the last day of their sojourn came. joyce, immensely reassured by her own mistaken conviction that he was going to speak that night at karnak, and slightly ashamed of herself, had nothing left of the trouble she had anticipated at cairo, and with regard to retrospect, that which had also been a conviction to her, though not absolutely vanished, was as remote as the imperishable governess. that day the two companions had settled to spend not in detailed study, for indeed they had gathered a most creditable crop, nor even in farewell visits to shrines, but in a general out-door survey and assimilation of river and temple and desert and sky, a long exposed photograph, so to speak, of panorama to take back to the fogs of a northern february. soon after breakfast they took ferry over the nile, and joining their donkeys there, rode straight away from the river, going neither to the right nor left, up the narrow path between fast-rising stretches of lengthening crops, past the two great silent dwellers on the plain, who, looking ever eastward, wait for the ultimate dawn that shall touch mute lips again to song, through the huddled mud-houses of gûrnak, and up and beyond and out till the level green was left below them, and they met the sand-dried untainted air of the desert. here on the brow of the sandstone cliffs they dismounted, while josef bestowed their lunch in a cool shadow of a rock in this thirsty land. joyce sat down on this bluff. "we can't dispose of the flesh-pots of egypt yet," she said, nodding at the provision basket. "may we sit here a little, mr. craddock, and will you let me say my eighteenth dynasty catechism, and then----" joyce turned to him. "we must plan out this day so carefully," she said, "as it is the last. i want to sit here quite silent for about half-an-hour, and if it isn't rude, out of sight of you, and everybody, and just look, look, get all that--the river, the crops, the sky, the temples, right deep down. then let us have lunch, and then let us go a long ride out into the desert, where there isn't anybody or anything. and then, oh, oh, we shall have to go back, and the last day will be over. i promised father to go and call on the chaplain after tea with him. chaplain! he's a dear man, but think--chaplain on the last day!" joyce's desired menu of the mind was served to her. she said her eighteenth dynasty kings, and then strolled along the edge, of the cliffs till she was out of sight and sound of donkey and donkey-boy and craddock. the magic of the land indeed had made its spell for her, and now she wanted just to look, to absorb, to be wrapped in it. then, just because she had planned this her mind grew restive and fidgetty.... she had determined on her own account to speak a grateful word to mr. craddock to-day for all he had done for her, and she felt she must thank him too for his unremitting attention to her father. he, she felt sure, would not do so, and joyce felt that the family must discharge that indebtedness. it seemed a simple task enough to perform, but she could not in imagination frame a suitable sentence, either about that or her own debt to him, and insensibly beginning to worry about it, she lost the mood that she had come here to capture. craddock and her imminent acknowledgment to him "drave between her and the sun" and her half hour alone proved a not very satisfactory item. she went back to him at the end of it, and found that he had already spread their lunch. "and you have had a 'heart-to-heart' talk with egypt?" he asked. "i thought i heard sobs." joyce laughed. "they were sobs of rage then," she said. "my plan broke down. i could think of everything under the sun except egypt. just because i meant to gaze and meditate, i could not meditate at all. but i am so hungry; that is something. how good of you to have made ready!" hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches, however hungry the attack, do not need much time for their due disposition, and in a quarter of an hour craddock had lit a cigarette, preparatory for their ride into the desert. and this seemed to joyce a very suitable moment for the dischargal of her thanks and compliments. "i've had a burden on my mind so long, mr. craddock," she said, "and that is to let you know just in so many words how i appreciate all that you have done for us. your presence has made the whole difference to my father----" she had begun to speak, not looking at him, but at the hot sand at her feet. but here a sudden movement of his, a shifting of his place so that he sat just a little nearer her, made her look up. at the same moment she saw that he flung away the cigarette he had only just lit. then she looked at his face, and saw that his mouth was a little open, and that his breath came quickly. and she knew the moment she had feared a month ago, but had allowed herself to think of as averted, hovered close to her. "and has my presence made any difference to you?" he asked. joyce knew the futility of fencing, as everybody does who knows a crisis is inevitable. but until the end of the world everybody will continue to fence. "of course it has," she said. "i was just going to speak of that and thank you for it all." he drew himself quite close to her. "there is just one way, and no more in which you can thank me," he said, "and it is by letting me offer for your acceptance all my services and all my devotion." the fire, the authentic primal need was there, and though she shrank from it, though instinctively she hated it, she could refuse it neither with respect nor sympathy. she could not interrupt him, either: what he had to say must come: it was his bare right to speak. he took up her hand, and clasped it with both of his, enclosing it, as it were, in a damp dark cavern. at that, without being able to help it, she drew back a little. "o stop: don't," she said. he seemed not to hear. "i offer you much more than i knew was mine to offer last june," he said. "you were so right, joyce, to refuse me. but it is so different now. you have woke in me, or created in me, a power for love which i did not know was mine. surely you know that. you created it: it is yours. take it, for what you made is me." he paused a moment; then seemed suddenly to realize that he had said all that could be said.... a little wind drove upwards from the plain below, fluttering the papers which had held their sandwiches. joyce hated herself for noticing that. then she tried to withdraw her hand. "oh i am so sorry, so sorry," she said. "it is quite impossible, more impossible than ever. i mean--i don't know what i mean. but i can't." she knew very well what she meant when she said "more impossible than ever." and mixed with her regret which was wholly genuine, was a sort of nausea of her soul.... once more she felt she knew who had spoken to her father of charles. the motive, too, was as clear as the sunshine. she loathed this continued contact. but it only lasted a second more. the tone of her reply would have carried conviction to the most ardent of lovers. he dropped her hand. "i have done," he said. he got up, and walked a few paces away, and stood there with his back to her. a quantity of disconnected pictures went through the blank impassivity of his mind. he remembered the look of the green packet of tickets for their passage down the nile to-morrow, which he had seen on his table before he went out this morning. he heard philip's voice say, "take care of my little joyce!" he felt himself licking the envelope which contained mr. ward's cheque for five thousand pounds. he had the vision of another cheque for ten thousand and one hundred pounds. he saw the sketch of joyce that had stood beneath the lamp in her room on the evening the chimneys smoked at the mill house. he heard himself console charles for the "queer note" philip wroughton had written him. collectively, these presented their whole case, his whole connection with the wroughtons, succinctly and completely. and the curtain fell on them. he went back to joyce, who was sitting by the side of the fluttering paper with her head in her hands. "what would you like to do?" he said. "shall we take our ride into the desert or go home?" joyce got up. "oh, let us go home," she said. "please call mohammed. and do realize i am sorry, i am very sorry." but there was nothing in him now that could respond to or help the girl's evident distress. it seemed that the wonderful flower that grew out of him had been plucked.... only the soil out of which it grew remained, and that was exactly what it had always been. that night when lady crowborough went up to bed, she was not surprised to hear joyce's tap on her door a moment afterwards. she had felt the constraint that had hung over dinner like a thunder-cloud, though philip, flushed with victory at the ideal disposition in the packing of his underclothing which had occurred to him as he dozed or slept,--he thought "slept,"--before dinner, had been unconscious of all else. "come in, my dear," she said, "and tell me all that's happened." "oh, granny, he has proposed again," said joyce. "lor', my dear, do you think i didn't guess that? and you needn't trouble to tell me that you refused him. well, joyce, i can't say i'm sorry, though i suppose he's rich and agreeable enough, for i never could stand stout white men myself. give me one of my cigarettes, dear, and sit down and have a talk. there's nothing i enjoy more than a cigarette and a talk about love just before going to bed. gives such pleasant dreams." joyce could not help giggling. but she knew well the golden heart that beat behind these surprising flippancies. "but i'm sorry, granny," she said, "but--but i'm afraid i'm not sorry enough." "no, my dear," said this astute old lady, "if you were sorry enough you'd say 'yes' instead of 'no.' let me see, this is the second go, isn't it?" "yes." "well, then i hope this time that you made it plain. the man whom you don't mean to have gets tedious if he goes on. i used to tell them so." joyce had come here to do much more than merely announce the event to her grandmother. there was so much more she wanted to say, but she felt it would be easier if it came out in answer to questions. probably grannie was wise enough to ask the right questions.... "i think i made it plain," she said. "i said it was quite impossible: more impossible than ever." lady crowborough in the dusk allowed herself to beam all over her face. "and what did you mean by that, my dear?" she said. "to me it sounds as if there was nobody else last june, but somebody else now." "oh, grannie, it means just that," said joyce in a whisper. "and was it any of my flirts in cairo?" asked lady crowborough, who liked a little joking even when her heart was most entirely tender and sympathetic. quite truly, she believed it "helped things out" to grin over them. joyce grinned. "no, not in cairo," she said. "then it was that flirt of mine down at the mill house, who's going to paint my picture," she exclaimed. "don't deny it, my dear. a nice boy, too, though he ain't got a penny. however, we'll talk about the pennies afterwards. now do you think he fancies you at all? don't be so silly, joyce, hiding your face like that." "yes, grannie, i think he does. i can't be sure, you know i--i haven't had any experience." "lor', my dear, what do you want with experience over that sort o' thing?" asked lady crowborough. "and if you're too modest to say, i'll say it for you. he does like you and you know it. i saw him, the wretch, looking at you in the right way. so i don't understand what all the fuss is about. you like him, and he likes you. eh?" the cleverest of grandmothers could not guess the further confidence that joyce wanted to make. she had to open it herself. "but--but there's a difficulty, grannie," she said. "somebody has told father that he's not--not nice, that he isn't the sort of person he would like me to know. father wouldn't let him come down to see his copy of the reynolds while we were there because of that. and i feel sure i know who it is who told him that, and why he said it." "that craddock?" asked lady crowborough quickly. "yes: and i can't believe it is true. i don't believe it. oh, grannie, dear, what a comfort you are." lady crowborough's shrewd little face entirely ceased to beam. "and i don't believe it either, my dear," she said. "he seemed as decent a young fellow as i ever saw. but you can leave that to me. i'll find out, if it was your craddock who said it first of all. it's only your suspicion as yet, joyce, and whatever you do, my dear, don't you go through life suspecting anybody, and then not doing him the justice to find out if you're right. and then after that we must find out if there's any truth in it, and what the truth is." "oh, but will you, can you?" asked joyce. "yes, my dear, unless i die in the night, which god forbid. i'll craddock him! and here am i doing just the same as you, and treating your suspicions as true before i know. lor, but it does seem likely, don't it? and now about what has happened to-day? are you going to tell your father or is he?" "mr. craddock thought we had better say nothing about it at present," said joyce. "i expect he is quite right. he said he thought father would be very much upset. that was as we rode back. oh, grannie, fancy saying that! i think he meant it as a sort of final appeal. or perhaps he meant it quite nicely. i'm sure father wanted me to marry him. but that didn't seem a good enough reason." lady crowborough began to beam again. "not with your mr. lathom waiting for you," she said. "well, now, my dear, you must let me go to bed. i'm glad you told me all about it, and i can tell you now i should have thought very poorly of you if you had accepted this mr. craddock. did he kiss you, my dear?" joyce again felt an inward bubble of laughter. "no, thank goodness," she said. "that's a good thing. you wait till you get back to town. there's somebody there--bless me, how i keep getting ahead. now send me my maid, joyce, and don't give way, my dear. and when i say my prayers i'm not sure i shan't give thanks that you ain't going to be mrs. craddock. i don't like the man and i don't like the name, and that's sufficient." * * * * * in spite of this distaste, lady crowborough did craddock the justice to admit that he behaved very well next day. his invaluable gift for "switching off" stood him in good stead, his manner was perfectly normal again, and sitting on the deck of the northward going steamer after lunch he talked to her about the exhibition of old masters at burlington house, which was now open. "there are a dozen fine reynolds there," he said, "but none finer, i think, than the one that used to be at the mill house." lady crowborough affected a very skilful carelessness. "but what prices for a bit of canvas and a daub of paint," she said. "i can't see a bit of difference between it and the copy. that was a nice young fellow who did it too. i was sorry that you had to give so bad a report of him to my son." craddock hardly paused. he assumed that philip had said something to his mother about it, and though he would not have chosen that his name should have been mentioned as informant, he felt it was useless to deny it. nor did he wish to: jealousy, impotent and bitter, took hold of him. "yes, a loose young fellow, i am afraid," he said. "but i am doing what i can for him, for his gift is perfectly marvellous. indeed, i should not wonder if he is some day known among the greatest english masters. as i was saying, there are some very fine reynolds in the exhibition. i had the pleasure of getting hold of one or two for them. you must see it...." "oh, drat the exhibition," she said. she explained that a sudden twinge of neuralgia had visited her, and put on several veils. chapter viii. one morning towards the end of march frank armstrong was sitting in charles' studio with a writing-pad on the table in front of him, a sucked out pipe upside down between his lips, a corrugated forehead, rumpled hair, and an expression of the wickedest ill-humour on his face. beside him on the floor a waste-paper basket vomited half sheets of futile manuscript, and other crumpled up and rejected pages strewed the floor. at the far end of the studio charles was encamped, he and his manuscript on the model's stand, painting, as he had done in the portrait of his mother, from a position above the sitter. it gave an opportunity of subtle foreshadowing which was a holy joy if you could do it right, which he was quite convinced he could. an expression of vivid and absorbed content--absorbed he was by the sight of frank wrestling with his work, and cursing and swearing at his difficulties--pervaded his face. to him, from the artistic point of view, that angry scowling countenance was a beatific vision. frank had come earlier than he had expected that morning, bringing his work with him as desired, and charles, half dressed only in loose shirt and flannel trousers, had hopped on to his seat immediately, for frank with scarcely a word of greeting had sat down at once to struggle with a troublesome situation. seated there, with his sheaf of spear-like paint-brushes, and his young and seraphic face, he looked like some modern variation of st. sebastian. frank had already remarked this with singular annoyance. charles smiled and stared and painted. "if you could manage to put that pipe out of your mouth for five minutes, frank," he said tentatively. "but i couldn't." "it doesn't matter a bit," said charles cordially. frank instantly took it out, and charles had to stop painting for a moment, for he was so entertained by the brilliance of his own guilefulness that his hand trembled. but in a moment he got to work again, and began whistling under his breath. "oh, do stop that row," said frank. the picture had been begun a month ago, and was nearing completion. at present charles was pleased with it, which is saying a good deal. his mother on the other hand thought mr. armstrong was not quite such a bear as that. and mr. armstrong had said "you don't know much about bears." charles' first request to paint him had met with a firm refusal. but very shortly after frank had said, "you can do a picture of me if you like, charles. but on one condition only, that you let me buy it of you in the ordinary way." this time the refusal came from the artist. but a second attempt on frank's part met with better success. "you don't understand about the picture," he said. "i really want it for mercantile reasons. i'll pay you whatever mrs. fortescue paid, and i shall think i've made an excellent bargain, just as she does. people are talking about you. you'll get double these prices next year. then i shall sell my picture and buy some more beer and perhaps give you a tip. i'm as hard as nails about money: don't you think i'm doing you a favour. and as a word of general advice, do get rid of a little of your sickly humility. you're like uriah heep. isn't he mrs.--mrs. heep?" mrs. lathom looked up at him very gravely. "there is something in what you say, master copperfield," she observed. * * * * * this morning, after charles' whistling had been thus peremptorily stopped, the work went on in silence for some quarter-of-an hour. then frank gave a great shout. "i've got it," he said, and began scribbling and reading as he scribbled. "it isn't that you don't believe me, it's that you are able not to believe me. yes: that's it, and the british public won't understand the least what it means, so we'll put 'long pause.' and then they will give a great sigh as if they did. now it's plain sailing." his face cleared, as the pen began to move more rapidly, and when charles looked up at him again, the st sebastian air left him altogether. "you are perfectly useless if you smile in that inane manner," he said. "perfectly useless: perfectly useless," said frank absently. but soon his inane smile left him: he was in difficulties again, and charles greatly prospered. * * * * * frank got up and yawned. "i'm worked out," he said. "charles, it's a dog's life. and all the time i'm not doing it for myself: there's the rub. i've been grinding here all morning, and have done a couple of pages: if i sit and grind every day like this for a couple of months perhaps i may get it done. and then i shall go with my hat in my hand, on bended knee to that old fat cross-legged buddha, who sits there sniffing up the incense of our toil, and say 'please, mr. craddock, will this do? will you deign to accept this humble token from your worshipper?'" "i can hear you say it," said charles, half shutting his eyes to look at his work, and not attending to frank. frank jumped up onto the model stand, putting his hand on charles' shoulder to steady himself. "no you can't," said frank, "because i never shall say it. charles, i'm sure that's libellously like me. shall i bring an action against you for it, or shall i merely topple you and the stool over onto the floor?" "whichever you please. it is pretty like you, you know." charles looked up at him. "but not when you look like that. why this unwonted good temper?" "it will soon pass. i think it's because i've done a good bit of work. oh, lord, it will soon pass. all for craddock, you know. i wish to heaven i could infect you with some of my detestation of him." charles frowned. "oh, do give up trying," he said. "it's no use arguing about it. of course he's making the devil of a lot of money out of you, and it's very annoying if you look at that fact alone. but where would you have been if he hadn't put on 'easter eggs' for you? sleeping beneath the church-yard sod as like as not. and i daresay he's going to make something out of me. well, where would i have been if he hadn't bought that picture of reggie, and come to look at my things? in the sidney street garret still. instead of which----" and charles waved a paint brush airily round his studio. frank relit his pipe, and began gathering up the débris of his rejected manuscript. "you oughtn't to be allowed about alone," he said. "you say 'kind man!' too much. you're like a fat baby that says 'dada' to everybody in the railway carriage. i tell you people aren't kind men. they want to 'do' you. they want to get the most they can out of you." "and you out of them," said charles. "within limits. kind craddock hasn't got any limits. besides, i don't humbug people." "nor does----" "well, he tries to. he tried to humbug me, telling me he took such an interest in me and my work. he didn't: he took an interest in the money he thought he could make out of it. oh, it isn't only craddock: it's everybody: it's the way the world's made. i'm not sure women aren't the worst of all. look at the way they all took me up when 'easter eggs' came out. i didn't see why at first. but it's plain enough now. they thought i should make some more successes--just like craddock,--and then i should take them to the theatre and give them dinner----" "oh, bosh," said charles very loud. "it's not bosh. the idea that fellows like you have of women is enough to make one ill. you think they are tender, and self-sacrificing, and helpless and trustful and loving. helpless! good lord. an ordinary modern girl is as well able to take care of herself among men as a dreadnought among fishing smacks. she sidles along just turning her screw and then 'bang, bang!' she blows them all out of the water if she doesn't want them, and sucks them in if she does, and lets down a great grappling iron from her deck and hauls them on board. and when they are married they are supposed to be clinging and devoted and absorbed in their husbands and babies. was there ever such a misconception? why, supposing you find a block of women on the pavement opposite a shop, you may bet ten thousand to one that that shop is a dress-maker's, or a seller of women's clothes. they stand glued to the glass like flies on fly paper, thinking how sweet they would look in that eight guinea walking dress. and when they have to move away they walk with their heads still looking at the windows, stupefied and fascinated, still gazing at some dreadful white corset trimmed with lace, or open-work stockings. and they aren't thinking how ravished their silly dick or harry will be to see them in that new skirt, with the foolish open-work stockings peeping out below it, they are thinking how ravishing they will look when other women see them in it, and how greenly jealous other women will be. if they were thinking of their husbands, they would be imagining how ravishing darling dick or harry would look in that cheviot tweed. but not they!" "oh, put it all into one of your rotten plays," said charles. "not i, thank you. the dreadnoughts would blow me out of the water. but i'm saying it to you for your good. you trust people too much, men and women alike. you go smiling and wagging your tail like a puppy, thinking that everybody is going to be kind and tender and unselfish. especially foolish is your view of women. you've got a sense of chivalry, and a man with a sense of chivalry always gets left. you're just as absurd about men too: you think people are nice to you, because they like you: it is very conceited of you----" "oh, i was uriah heep not long ago," remarked charles. "so you are still. but the truth is that people seem to like one in order to be able to get something out of one. who of all men in the world now is going about saying perfectly fulsome things about me? why, that slimy akroyd, because he is making his fortune out of me. but he tried to 'do' me all right over the play. craddock too: i'm told he is always saying nice things about me. that's because he wants me to put my very best work into the plays i have got to write for him." charles remembered that craddock had said not altogether nice things about frank on one occasion. he often remembered that, but, as often he remembered also that they were expressly meant for his private ear. the fact lurked always in his mind, in the shadow into which he had deliberately pushed it. "and here we are back at craddock," he said. "yes. oh, by the way, charles, i saw a flame of yours last night, a very old flame in fact, lady crowborough. i daresay you would have thought she was being tender and solicitous about you. i thought that she was merely extremely inquisitive." "about me?" said charles. "yes. she wanted to know all i could tell her about you. she reminded me of somebody wanting to engage a servant from a previous employer." charles looked thoroughly puzzled. "lady crowborough?" he asked again. "about me?" "yes, i've already said so. what's the matter?" charles had risen, and came across to where frank sat in the window seat. into his head there had instantaneously flashed the episode of his proposing himself to go down to the mill house to look at his reynolds' copy, and the inexplicable letter of mr. wroughton's. "nothing's the matter," he said, sitting down close to frank. "but please tell me just all you can. did you ask her why she wanted to know?" "not i. it was perfectly clear that somebody had been gently hinting things about you. but i told her a good deal." frank's face grew quite gentle and affectionate. "i told her you were the best chap in the world," he said. "that's about what it came to. i think i made her believe it too." then hurrying away from anything approaching to sentiment, "of course we have to lie on behalf of a friend," he said briskly. "i daresay she wanted to be sure she could trust herself in your studio without a chaperone." charles did not smile at this. "but you think some one has been telling damned lies about me?" he asked. "probably. why not? and what does it matter? don't be upset, charles. i wish i hadn't told you. at least i don't think i do. it may convince you that there's somebody in the world not set to a hymn-tune. now do dress, and you will then come and lunch with me in my flat, and you may be able to hear craddock walking about overhead. that'll make you happy, and you can get a step-ladder and kiss the ceiling!" but there was another idea now that had to be put in the shadow of charles' mind. it was far uglier than the first and had to be poked away in the darkest of recesses. * * * * * as soon as money had begun at all to flow his way last autumn, charles had hounded his mother (as she put it) out of her disgusting rooms (so he put it) in sidney street, and had established her modestly indeed but comfortably in grieve's crescent not far from his new studio. to-night he was going to dine at home, and he looked forward to the serenity that always seemed as much a part of her as her hands or her hair, as a man after a hot and dusty day may look forward to a cool bath. pictures that were candidates for the academy had to be sent in before the end of this week, and he had spent an industrious afternoon working steadily at the background and accessories in his portrait of frank. craddock had advised him to send this, and the portraits of his mother and mrs. fortescue to the august tribunal, and had promised to speak helpful words, if such were necessary, in authoritative ears. but to-day the joy of painting had wholly deserted him, and as he worked, his conscious mind occupied with light and shadow, his unconscious mind had done a great deal of meditation, and the disagreeable objects he had so loyally stuffed away in the dark, seemed gambolling there like cats, active and alert. every now and then one or other seemed to leap out of the shadow and confront him, and with frank's face always before him on the canvas, they seemed in some nightmare sort of fashion to be using their mask of paint to communicate with him. it was as if frank knew all that charles had been so careful not to tell him ... it was as if he said "oh, he warned you against me, did he? that was so like him." worse still frank seemed to say, "and he's warned other people against you. that's why you weren't welcome at the mill house. he wanted to cut you off from the wroughtons. i wonder why: what motive can he have had?... look for a bad one. let me see, wasn't there a girl? why, yes, i bet she is the girl among the forget-me-nots. what a liar you are, charles! you always said it was a picture out of your head. are you a rival, do you think?" all afternoon this sort of vague unspoken monologue rang in his ears. again and again he pulled himself up, knowing that these were conversations internal to himself, not to be indulged in, but the moment his conscious and superficial mind was occupied again with his craft they began again. there were other voices mixed with them ... he almost heard lady crowborough say "five thousand pounds for a lick of paint." he almost heard reggie say "drew a cheque for ten thousand and one hundred pounds."... and again he pulled himself up, he felt that he would be suspecting his mother next for overcharging him for board and lodging. it was all frank's fault, with his cynical false views about the rottenness of mankind. for once charles felt glad that the light was beginning to fail, and that he could honestly abandon work. but before he left his studio he turned joyce's picture round to the light, and stood looking at it for a moment. "i can't and won't believe it," he said. there was still an hour to spare before he need go home to dinner, and he bustled out for a walk in the park in the fading day. spring was languorous in the air, but triumphantly victorious in the spaces of grass, where she marched with daffodils and crocuses for the banner of her advancing vanguard. the squibs of green leaves had burst from their red sheaths on the limes, and planes were putting forth tentative and angled hands, as if groping and feeling their way, still drowsy from the winter's slumber, into the air, under the provocation of the compelling month. all this did charles good: he liked the sense of the silent plants, all expanding according to their own law, minding their own business which was just to grow and blossom, and not warning each other of the untrustworthiness of their neighbours. frank ought to be planted out here, with a gag in his clever mouth, and an archangel or two to inject into his acidulated veins the milk of human kindness.... charles smiled at the idea: he would make a cartoon of it on a postcard and send it to him. and then suddenly his heart hammered and stood still, and out of his brain were driven all the thoughts and suspicions that he had been stifling all day. frank and his cynicism, craddock and his clung-to kindnesses, his art, his mother, his dreams and deeds were all blown from him as the awakening of an untamed wind by night blows from a sultry sky the sullen and low-hung clouds, leaving the ray of stars celestial to make the darkness bright and holy again, and down the broad path towards him came joyce. until she had got quite close to him she did not see him, but then she stopped suddenly, and suddenly and sweetly he saw the unmanageable colour rise in her face and knew that in his own the secret signal answered hers. "oh, mr. lathom," she said, "is it you? grandmamma telegraphed for me to come up this morning: i am here for a night." "not ill, i hope?" said charles. joyce laughed. "no, i am glad to say. she was not in when i got to her house, and i had to come out.... spring, you know." their eyes met in a long glance, and charles drew a long breath. "i discovered it ten minutes ago," he said. "spring, just spring: month of april." for another long moment they stood there, face to face, spring round them and below and above them, and in them. then joyce pointed to the grass. "oh, the fullest wood!" she said. "i don't know why grannie sent for me. i must be getting back. i am late already: is there a taxi, do you think?" charles' ill-luck prevailed: there was, and he put her into it, and stood there looking after its retreat. as it turned the corner not fifty yards away out of the park most distinctly did he see joyce lean forward and look out.... and though not one atom of his ill-defined troubles or suspicions was relieved, he walked on air all the way home instead of wading through some foul resistant stickiness of mud.... the great star, the only star that really mattered, had shone on him again, not averting its light. but though he walked on air, the mud was still there. * * * * * "a visitor to tea, charles. i wish you had been home earlier. three guesses." "mother lies," remarked reggie. "you do--you enjoyed being asked those things. that would never have happened if charles had been at home." this was rather like the uncomfortable though not uncommon phenomenon of feeling that the scene now being enacted had taken place before. charles experienced this vividly at the moment. "my first guess and last is lady crowborough," he said. "right, i fancy." "near enough," said reggie. "and her questions?" charles felt himself descend into the mud again. it closed stiffly about him, and he thrust something back into the darkness of his mind. "perfectly simple," he said. "she wanted to know exactly all about me, as if--as if she was going to engage me as a servant, and was making enquiries into my character." "very clever. how was it done?" asked reggie. "never mind. it is done, isn't it, mother?" "yes, dear, but how did you know?" "it had to be so, that is all. oh, i've had a tiresome day all but about half a minute of it. and my portraits have to go in before the end of the week, and they will all be rejected." "dear, there's not much conviction in your voice," observed mrs. lathom. "aren't you being uriah-ish, as mr. armstrong says?" "probably. but frank was sitting to me this morning, and his tirades put me out of joint. the worst of it is ..." he had stuck fast again in the slough, and again things with dreadful faces and evil communications on tongue-tip looked at him from the darkness. the sight of reggie also had given birth to others: there they stood in a dim and lengthening line, waiting for his nod to come out into the open. "you may as well let us know the worst," said reggie encouragingly. "i can't bear the suspense. what is it akroyd says: 'it--it kills me.' that's over the fourth turning. much the funniest. what did frank tirade about, charles? i wish i had been there. i love hearing his warnings about the whole human race. it makes me wonder, when i can't account for a sixpence, whether you haven't taken it out of my trousers pockets while i was asleep." "i suppose that's the sort of thing you really enjoy thinking about," said charles savagely. "yes: it's so interesting. sometimes i think you are rather bad for frank. he said to me the other day 'you can always trust charles.' i asked him if he didn't feel well. it wasn't like him." mrs. lathom got up. it was perfectly evident that something worried charles, and it was possible he might like to talk alone either with reggie or her. if she took herself upstairs, charles could join her, and leave his brother, or wait with him here, if he was to be the chosen depository. "don't be too long, boys," she said, going out. charles did not at once show any sign of the desire to consult, and reggie, who had left thistleton's gallery in the winter, and obtained a clerkship in a broker's office in the city, politely recounted a witticism or two from the stock exchange, with a view to reconciling his brother to the human race. they fell completely flat, and charles sat frowning and silent, blowing ragged rings of smoke. at length he got up. "reggie, i've been worried all day," he said, "and seeing you has put another worry into my mind." reggie linked his arm in his brother's. "i'm so sorry, charles," he said, "and i've been babbling goatishly on. why didn't you stop me? nothing i've done to worry you, i hope?" reggie went anxiously over in his mind a variety of small adventurous affairs ... but there was nothing that should cause the eclipse of his brother's spirits. "no, it doesn't concern you in any way, except as regards your memory. if you aren't perfectly certain about a couple of points i want to ask you, say so." "well?" "the first is this. do you remember last june an american called ward drawing a cheque at your desk at thistleton's? i want you to tell me all that you remember about it." reggie leaned his arm on the chimneypiece. "ward and craddock came out together," he said after a pause. "ward asked for my pen and drew a cheque for five thousand pounds, post-dating it by a day or two. i'm not sure how long----" "it doesn't matter," said charles. "the cheque----" "the cheque was for some dutch picture he had bought. there was a van der weyde, i think----" "but dutch pictures? you never told me that. are you sure?" "quite. is that all? and what's wrong?" charles was silent a moment. one of the figures in the shadow leapt out of it, and seemed to nod recognition at him. "no, there's one thing more. didn't the same sort of affair happen again?" he asked. "oh, yes, much later: i should say in october. ward did exactly the same thing, drew another cheque out at my desk, i mean, for rather an odd sum. what was it? ten thousand, ten thousand and something--ten thousand one hundred i think. he drew it to craddock as before. yes, i'm sure it was for that. but how does it all concern you? or why does it worry you? may i know, charles?" charles wondered whether his horrible inference was somehow quite unsound, whether to another his interpretation would seem ingenious indeed, but laughably fantastic. he felt he knew what frank would make of it, but to reggie the whole affair might seem of purely imaginary texture. "yes, i'll tell you," he said. "and i can't say how i long to find that you think i am suspicious and devilishly-minded. the facts are these. craddock paid mr. wroughton five thousand pounds for his reynolds, giving him a cheque of ward's who purchased it. but you tell me this cheque was for dutch pictures. the picture did not go to him till much later, i don't know when. and craddock gave me fifty pounds for copying it. do you see? what if--if ward gave craddock a cheque for ten thousand pounds for the picture with a hundred for me for the copy? now, am i worse than frank, more suspicious, more--more awful?" reggie was staring at him with wide-open eyes and shook his head. "no," he said. "it sounds, it sounds--but surely it's impossible." "oh, i'm tired of saying that to myself. by the way, don't say a word to anyone. there are other things too. oh, reggie, can't you think of any explanation that is at all reasonable?" again reggie shook his head. "no," he said. "the first cheque was for some dutch pictures." "well, let's go upstairs," said the other. later in the evening when mrs. lathom went to bed, charles followed her up to her room, and sat down in front of her fire while she brushed her hair. it was not rarely that he did this and these minutes were to him a sort of confessional. generally, the confession was a mere babble of happy talk, concerning his pictures, and his projects, but to-night he sat silent until the hair-brushing was nearly over. then he spoke. "mother, darling," he said, "i saw miss joyce this evening, and--and she was jolly and friendly and natural. it lifted me up out of--what is it--out of the mire and clay. but i've gone back again, oh, much deeper. i want your advice." she instantly got up, and came across to him. he put her in his chair, and sat down on the rug by her, leaning against her knees. "ah, i'm so glad, my darling," she said, "that you want to tell me what's wrong. these are my jewels." "i can't tell you explicitly what is wrong. but i suspect someone whom i have always trusted immensely. who has been very good to me, of--of swindling, and perhaps worse. what am i to do?" she stroked his hair. "oh, my dear, if it is only suspicion dismiss it all from your mind or make a certainty of it one way or the other." "but how?" "i can't be sure without knowing the facts. but if your suspicion is reasonable, if, i mean, you can see no other explanation except the bad one, go as soon as you can to anyone who can give you certain information. but if there's a loophole for doubt----" "i don't see that there is," said charles quickly. "then make certain somehow and quickly," she said. "not in a hurry, of course, for you must not act foolishly, but as soon as you can with wisdom. oh, charles, we can none of us risk keeping suspicion in our minds! there is nothing so poisoning to oneself. it--it shuts the wisdom of your soul: it turns everything sour; it spreads like some dreadful contagion, and infects all within us, so that there is no health left, or sense of beauty, or serenity. it is like walking in a cloud of flies. but, my dear, unless your suspicion is--is terribly well founded, don't give it another thought, if you can possibly avoid it. be very certain that you can't explain things away otherwise." charles turned a shining face to her, shining for her through all his trouble. "thanks, mother darling," he said. "it really is a beastly position. and i'm such a coward." "so are we all, dear," she said. "but most of us don't turn back really. perhaps we aren't such cowards as we think. it is so easy to make the worst of oneself." charles got up. "yes, but i'm pretty bad," he said. "i know, dear. you are a continual sorrow and trouble to me. ah, bless you! and you saw joyce. that's something, isn't it?" "well, a good deal," said he. "good-night. i must get back home." charles had labelled himself coward, and indeed, as in the manner of youth, whose function so clearly in this life is to enjoy, he shrank from pain instinctively, not seeing beyond the present discomfort, but living in the moment. yet it was not his bravery that was here attacked: it was at his trust that the blow at which he cowered was aimed, at the confidence in his fellows which was so natural to him. as he lay tossing and turning that night, he could not imagine himself taking the only step that seemed to be able to decide his suspicions, which was to go to craddock himself with the whole history of them. there was just one other chance, namely, that lady crowborough's purpose in making these inexplicable enquiries about him might declare itself. that in a manner ruthlessly convincing would settle everything, if her purpose was that which he could not but surmise. and at the thought he felt his face burn with a flame of anger, at the possibility of so monstrous an explanation. yet all this agitating thought was just the secret nurture and suckling of suspicion against which his mother had warned him. how right she was: how the poison encroached and spread! frank turned up early next morning for his final sitting, with an evil eye and a brisk demeanour. "a plan at last," he announced, "a real plan, and a good plot for a play. it's all quite serious, and i'm going to do it. it's taken me five months to puzzle it out, and last night it all burst upon me. new play of mine, which i shall begin working at immediately. i'm stale over the other, and this will be a change. i daresay craddock will like it so much that he will ask me to put the other aside a bit. you see it's about craddock. he's an egotist, you see: he will like that." charles was touched on the raw. "oh, do leave him alone, frank," he said with a sudden appeal, as it were, to his own vanished confidence. "we disagree about him, you know, as we settled yesterday. it isn't really very nice of you to abuse a man who's a friend of mine." "nor is it nice of you to stick up for an enemy of mine," remarked frank. "you should respect my dislike just as much as i should respect your affection. as you never do, i shall proceed." charles packed himself on his painting-stool. he could at least try to absorb himself in his work, for the sake of stifling his own thoughts even more than for distracting them from what frank said. "rumple your hair," he said, "and stop still." "i'm going to submit the scenario to craddock this evening if i can see him," he said, obligingly rubbing up his hair. "golly, it's a good plot. i've really only thought out the first two acts, but that will be enough for him to judge by. it's called 'the middleman.' there's a lot in a title." charles sighed. "you needn't groan," he said. "i can tell it you. he's a great big fat chap, popular and wealthy and hearty, engaged to a delightful girl. then it comes out that he sweats young men of genius, you and me, of course, takes them up when they are unknown, and gets options on their future works. isn't that it?" "'where's the plot then?' you don't see the hang of it. one of those young men of genius, that's me, goes to him in the play with a play of which what you have just said is the sketch--hamlet's not in it any more--and says, 'now let me out of these options of yours, or i shall write a play like that.' and then it will faintly dawn on craddock that the play is really happening to him and that in real life, that i shall do exactly what the young man of genius says he will do. do you see? simultaneously another of the young men of genius, that's you--you can be in love with 'the middleman's' girl, says 'i'm going to paint a portrait called the middleman, a great big fat chap, with gold dust on his coat collar. there's a play called the middleman coming out at the same time: you may have heard of it. now will you let me out of your options?' the middleman in a burst of righteous indignation exclaims 'this is a conspiracy.' and they both say 'it is a conspiracy. what then?' he's in rather a hole, isn't he?" charles did not answer. "you're an ungrateful dog, charles," said frank, "it gets you out of your options too. that shall be part of my bargain. i really am going to craddock with that scenario. there's no third act, it is true, but he will give me credit for thinking of something spicy. tranby would take that sort of play like a shot. craddock has 'done' me. why shouldn't i 'do' him? do those whom you've been done by. a very christian sentiment, and an application of abstract justice." charles put down his palette and got off his stool. there was a frank-ish, a fiendish ingenuity about this, which, in ordinary mental weather, so to speak, with a gleam of sun on his own part to give sparkle to the east wind of it, could not have failed to make brisk talking. but to-day with his nightmare of doubt swarming bat-like round him, he found no humour but only horror in it. "sometimes i hardly think you're human, frank," he said. "if you really believe craddock is a swindler, how can you make jokes about it? if it was true, it would be too terrible to speak of. but you believe it is true, and yet you dwell on it, and gloat on it. i think you're a sort of devil, rubbing your hands when you see poor souls damning themselves." "hullo!" said frank, rather startled by this. "it's no good saying 'hullo.' it isn't news to you," said charles, standing in front of the fire, flushed and troubled and looking younger than ever. "i've often told you i hate your attitude towards craddock. it hurts me to hear a jolly good friend of mine abused, and you're continually doing it." it would have required a prodigiously dull fellow not to see that there was something serious at the bottom of this. for all frank's cynicism, for all the armoured hardness with which he met the world, there was just one person for whom he felt an affection, a protective tenderness that he was half-ashamed of, and yet cherished and valued more than any of the other tinned foods, so to speak, in his spiritual larder. it had fragrance, the freshness of dew on it.... he got up, and put his hands on charles' shoulders. "charles, old chap," he said. "you never told me in that voice, you know." charles shook his head. "i know i didn't," he said. "i never felt it in--in that voice before. but i do now. i can't bear the thought of anybody i know cheating and swindling and lying. suppose i found out that you had been cheating me, or blackguarding me, should i be able to laugh about it, do you think, or sketch out a damned little play to read to you, which would show you up?" "yes, but you always say that craddock's been so good to you," said frank. "till now, you have always half laughed at me when i slanged him. and who has been blackguarding you, i should like to know? what does that mean? or ... or are you referring to what lady crowborough asked me? i talked some rot about the explanation being that some one had been abusing you." charles grasped at this rather appealingly. "yes, it was rot, wasn't it, frank?" he said. "of course it was. charles, i never dreamed it would stick in your mind like this--but what has that got to do with craddock and his nimble option?" charles interrupted clamourously. "nothing, nothing at all!" he said. "i've got the blues, the hump, the black cat, what you please. now be a good chap, and don't think any more about it. i want to finish your hair. it won't take long." * * * * * the interrupted sitting had not been in progress many minutes before the telephone-bell stung the silence, and charles went to it where it hung in a corner of the studio. a very few words appeased that black round open mouth and charles put back the receiver. frank noticed that his hands were a little unsteady. "craddock's coming down here almost immediately, frank," he said. "he's bringing a man called ward with him, for whom i copied wroughton's reynolds." "customer, i hope," said frank. "what do you want me to do, charles?" charles flared out at this with the uncontrolled irritability of his jangled nerves. "stop here, and behave like a gentleman, i hope," he said. if any other man in the world had said that he would assuredly have found the most convenient hard object in full flight for his head. "all right, old boy," said frank. * * * * * craddock arrived not a quarter of an hour later, with mr. ward. he was in the height of cheerful spirits, having, only an hour before, disposed of his entire lunatic asylum of post-impressionist pictures to a friend of ward's whose ambition it was to spend as much as possible over the embellishment, in a manner totally unprecedented and unique, of his house in new york. the dining-room was called the inferno; it had black walls with a frieze of real skulls.... the floor of the drawing-room was on a steep slant, and all the tables and chairs had two short and two long legs in order to keep their occupants and appurtenances on the horizontal. it was for this room, brightly described to him by the owner, that the post-impressionists were designed, and craddock, in sympathy with his client's conviction that they were predestined for it, had put an enormous price on them, and the bargain had been instantly completed. after that he cheerfully gave up an hour to do charles this good turn of taking mr. ward down to his studio, and on the way he found himself hoping that the picture of mrs. lathom had not yet gone in to the academy. on the way, too, he gave the patron a short résumé. "i think you never saw young lathom when he was at your work on your reynolds," he said. "you will find him a charming young fellow, and he, as soon as the academy opens this year, will find himself famous. he will leap at one bound to the top of his profession. i strongly recommend you to get him to do a portrait of you now, in fact. his charge for a full length at present is only four hundred pounds. however, here we are, and you will judge for yourself on the value of his work." craddock made himself peculiarly amiable to frank, while ward looked at the portraits in the studio. before the one of charles' mother, he stopped a long time, regarding it steadily through his glasses. he was a spare middle-aged man, grey on the temples, rather hawk-like in face, with a low very pleasant voice. from it he looked at charles and back again. "you may be proud to have your mother's blood in you, mr. lathom," he said, "and i daresay she's not ashamed of you. i wish i'd got you to copy some more pictures for me at a hundred pounds apiece." craddock had given up wasting amiability on that desert of a playwright, and was standing close to the other two. quite involuntarily charles glanced at him, and he had one moment's remote uneasiness ... he could not remember if he had given charles a hundred pounds or not. but it really was of no importance. should charles say anything, what was easier than to look into so petty a mistake and rectify it? but charles said nothing whatever. ward turned and saw craddock close to him. "i was saying to mr. lathom," he said, "that there were no more full length copies to be had for a hundred pounds, any more than there are any more original reynolds of that calibre to be had for what i gave for mr. wroughton's." "what did you give?" asked charles deliberately. he felt his heart beat in his throat as he waited for the answer. "well, don't you tell anyone, mr. lathom," he said, "but i got it for ten thousand pounds. but i've felt ever since as if i had been robbing mr. wroughton." this time charles did not look at mr. craddock at all. "yes, i suppose that's cheap," he said, "considering what an enormous price a fine reynolds fetches." "yes: now i suppose, mr. lathom, that portrait of your mother is not for sale. i am building, i may tell you, a sort of annex, or luxembourg, to my picture gallery at berta, entirely for modern artists. i should like to see that there: i should indeed." charles smiled. "you must talk over that with mr. craddock," he said. "it belongs to him." "you may be sure i will. and now i should be very grateful to you if you could find time and would consent to record--" mr. ward had a certain native redundancy--"to record at full length your impression of my blameless but uninteresting person. your price, our friend tells me, is four hundred pounds, and i shall think i am making a very good bargain if you will execute your part of the contract." * * * * * charles saw craddock, from where he stood, just behind mr. ward, give him an almost imperceptible nod, to confirm this valuation. if he had not seen that it is very likely that he would have accepted this offer without correction. as it was that signal revolted him. it put him into partnership with ... with the man in whose studio he now stood. now and for all future time there could be nothing either secret or manifest between them. "you have made a mistake about the price," he said to ward. "i only charge two hundred for a portrait. i shall be delighted to paint you for that." from a little way off he heard frank make the noise which is written "tut," and he saw a puzzled look cross craddock's face, who just shrugged his shoulders, and turned on his heel. "i am very busy for the rest of this week," said charles, "but after that i shall be free." he glanced at craddock, who had moved away, and was looking at the portrait of mrs. fortescue. "i am changing my studio," said charles in a low voice. "i will send you my new address." craddock did not hear this, but frank did. it seemed to him, with his quick wits, to supply a key to certain things charles had said that morning. he felt no doubt of it. mr. ward involved himself in a somewhat flowery speech of _congé_. "next week will suit me admirably," he said, "and i shall think it an honour to sit to you. the only thing that does not quite satisfy me is the question of price. you must allow me at some future time to refer to that again. the picture i may tell you is designed to be a birthday present for mrs. ward, and though the intrinsic merit of the picture, i am sure, will be such that the donor--" he became aware that he could never get out of this labyrinth, and so burst, so to speak, through the hedge--"well, we must talk about it. and now i see i have already interrupted a sitting, and will interrupt no longer. mr. craddock, i shall take you away to have some conversation in our taxi about that picture of mr. lathom's mother." charles saw them to the door, and came back to frank. "i suppose you guess," he said. "well, you've guessed right." he threw himself into a chair. "he has swindled mr. wroughton," he said. "he has swindled me, me, of a paltry wretched fifty pounds, which is worse, meaner than the other." "and mr. wroughton?" asked frank. "he gave him five thousand for the reynolds, receiving ten. that's not so despicable: there's some point in that. but to save fifty pounds, when he was giving me this studio, getting me commissions, doing everything for me! there's that damned telephone: see who it is, will you?" frank went to the instrument. "lady crowborough," he said. "she wants to see you particularly, very particularly. can you go to her house at three?" "yes," said charles. he got up from his chair, white and shaking. "there may be something worse, frank," he said. "she may have something to tell, much worse than this. good god, i wish i had never seen him." frank came back across the studio to charles. "charles, old chap," he said, "i've often told you there are swindlers in the world, and you've run up against one. well, face it, don't wail." charles turned a piteous boyish face to him. "but it hurts!" he said. he paused a moment "my father killed himself," he said, "because he had gambled everything away, and none of us knew, nor suspected. that's where it hurts, frank. it's not anything like that, of course, but somehow it's the old place." "we've all got an old place," said frank. "wounds? good lord, i could be a gaping mass of wounds if i sat down and encouraged myself. buck up! and if you find there's anything to be done, or talked about, well, ring me up, won't you? now, you're not going to sit here and mope. you are coming straight off with me to have lunch. there's nothing like food and drink when one is thoroughly upset. and afterwards i shall leave you at the house of that very mature siren." suddenly it occurred to charles that joyce was staying with her, or at any rate had done so last night. till then his first outpouring of amazed disgust had caused him to forget that.... and it is a fact that he ate a very creditable lunch indeed. chapter ix. lady crowborough, as has been incidentally mentioned, was in the habit of hermetically sealing herself up in a small dark house in half moon street for the winter months. this year as recounted, she had substituted a process of whole-hearted unsealedness in egypt for a couple of months, but on her return had been more rigorously immured than ever, to counteract, it must be supposed, the possibly deleterious effects of so persistent an exposure to the air, and to fortify her for her coming visits to charles' studio. in the evening, it is true, she often went out to dine, in a small brougham with the windows up, but except for her call yesterday on charles' mother, the daylight of piccadilly had scarcely beheld her since her return. windows in the house were always kept tightly shut, except owing to the carelessness or approaching asphyxia of servants, rooms were ventilated by having their doors set ajar, so that the air of the passage came into them, and dry stalks of lavender were continually burned all over the house, so that it was impregnated with their fresh fragrance. she was a standing protest against those modern fads, so she labelled them, of sitting in a draught, and calling it hygiene, and certainly her procedure led to excellent results in her own case, for her health, always good, became exuberant when she had spent a week or two indoors, her natural vitality seemed accentuated, and she ate largely and injudiciously without the smallest ill-effects. between meals, she worked at fine embroidery without spectacles, sitting very upright in a small straight-backed cane chair. * * * * * the house was tiny, and crammed from top to bottom with what she called "my rubbish," for, without collecting, she had an amazing knack of amassing things. oil paintings, water-colour sketches, daguerrotypes, photographs, finely-shaded pencil drawings, samplers, trophies of arms, hung on the walls, and on chimney-pieces and tables and in cupboards and cabinets were legions of little interesting objects, dresden figures, carved ivory chessmen, shells, silver boxes, commemorative mugs, pincushions, indian filigree-work, bits of enamel, coins, coral, ebony elephants, all those innumerable trifles that in most houses get inexplicably lost. she had just cleared a shelf in a glass case by the fireplace in her minute drawing room, and was busy arranging the beads and doubtful scarabs of "me egyptian campaign" in it when charles entered. upon which she dismissed from her shrewd and kindly old mind all concerns but his. "sit down, my dear," she said. "and light your cigarette. i saw your mother yesterday, as she may have told you. i'm coming to sit for you next week, and so please have the room well warmed, and not at all what these doctors call aired. lord bless me, i had enough air in egypt to last me for twenty years to come." she indulged in these cheerful generalities until she saw that charles was established. then she broke them off completely. "now i sent for you because i wished to see you most particularly, mr. lathom," she said. "no, there's nobody here but me: i sent joyce back to her father this morning, so if you think you're going to see her, you'll be disappointed. now it's no use beating about the bush: there's something i've got to tell you, and here it comes. that craddock--i call him that craddock--told my son philip that you were a disreputable young fellow, that's about what it comes to. i had it from craddock's own lips that he did. joyce knew from her father that somebody had done so, and guessed it was that craddock. so i was as cool as a cucumber, and just said 'i'm sorry you had so bad a report to give my son of mr. lathom.' i said it so naturally that he never guessed i didn't know it was he. and there he was caught like a wasp in the marmalade. i wish he had been one. i'd have had the spoon over him in no time." charles sat quite still for a moment, and in that moment every feeling but one was expunged from his mind. there was left nothing but a still white anger that spread evenly and smoothly over his heart and his brain. he had no longer any regret that craddock had done this, the consciousness that he had sufficed to choke all other emotions. more superficially the ordinary mechanism of thought went on. "i never believed a word of it, my dear," went on lady crowborough, "nor did joyce. but it was my duty, for reasons which you can guess, to find out if it was true or not. well, i got your mother's account of you yesterday, as she may have told you, and your friend mr. armstrong's account, as he also may have told you, and there were several others. so either all these people are liars or else that craddock is. and there ain't a sane person in the land who could doubt which it was. and joyce has gone back home to tell her father." charles got up, still very quietly. "i want to know one thing," he said. "why did craddock do it?" "good lord, my dear," said lady crowborough, "as if that wasn't plain. why the man wanted to marry joyce himself, and proposed to her, too. he guessed, and i don't suppose he guessed very wrong either, that there was somebody in his way. at least," she added with a sudden fit of caution, "it might have been that in his mind. for my part the less i know about craddock's mind the better i shall sleep at night." "and that was why mr. wroughton didn't want me down there last autumn?" he asked. "why, of course. he wanted joyce to marry the man. but joyce will have told him all about it by now, and spoiled his lunch, too, i hope. but if he don't ask you down for next sunday, when i'm going there, too, i'll be dratted if i don't take you down in my own dress basket, and open it in the middle of the drawing room. that's what i'll do. but he'll ask you, don't fear. i sent him a bit of my mind this morning about believing what the rats in the main drain tell him. yes, a bit of my mind. and if he ain't satisfied with that there's more to come." suddenly over the sea of white anger that filled charles there hovered a rainbow.... "lady crowborough," he said flushing a little. "you told me that it was your duty to find out whether these lies were true or not, for reasons that i could guess. did you--did you mean i could really guess them?" "yes, my dear, unless you're a blockhead. but it ain't for me to talk about that, and i ain't going to. now what about this craddock? he's got to eat those lies up without any more waste of time, and he's got to tell philip they were lies. how can we make him do that?" charles looked at her a minute, considering. "i can make him do that," he said. "by punching of his head?" asked lady crowborough. "no, by a very simple threat. you told me once you had seen the cheque that mr. ward paid for mr. wroughton's reynolds, and that it was five thousand pounds. that is so, is it not?" "yes, my dear." "mr. ward paid him ten thousand pounds for it," said charles. "good lord, my dear, do you mean that?" she asked. "mr. ward told me this morning that he paid craddock ten thousand for it," said charles. "and certainly he gave philip mr. ward's cheque for five thousand," said lady crowborough, "for i saw it myself and thought 'what a sum for a picture of a young woman!' well, he's brought a pretty peck of trouble on himself, and i ain't a bit sorry for him. but even that's not so bad as what he did to you, with those nasty mean lies, as he thought could never be caught hold of. and so you'll go to him now, will you, and tell him what you know, and threaten that we'll have the law on him as a common swindler? is that it?" "something like that," said charles, getting up. "i think i shall see frank armstrong first." "aye do, and take him with you. he looks a hard one," said lady crowborough vindictively. "i wish i could come, too, and tell him what i thought about it all. and he wouldn't forget that in a hurry my dear if there's a rough side to my tongue! and you'll let me know, won't you?" "of course." charles paused a moment. then he bent down and kissed her hand. "i can't thank you," he said. "you don't know what you've done for me. it's--it's beyond thanks, altogether beyond it." she drew his brown head down to hers and kissed him soundly. "get along, my dear," she said, "or you'll be calling me an idiot next minute, and then i shall have to quarrel with you. get along and have a talk with that craddock, and mind you shut the door tight when you go out." charles came out into half moon street and the pale sunshine of the spring afternoon, in a sort of black exaltation of the spirit. for the time all thought of joyce, of the magical, the golden possibilities that this detected slander opened in front of him, was utterly obscured by his immediate errand, that hung between him and it like some impenetrable cloud which must first find its due discharge in outpoured storm before the "clear shining" could dawn on him. he felt void of all pity, void even of regret that the man whom he had so completely trusted, for whom he had cherished so abounding a sense of gratitude, should have proved so sinister a rogue. what he should say, and on what lines this scorching interview would develop and fulfil itself, he had no sort of idea, nor to that did he give one moment's thought; he only looked forward with a savage glee to the fact that within a few minutes, if he was lucky enough to find craddock in, he would be face to face with him. all his shrinking from the suspicions which he had so sincerely tried to keep at arm's length was gone, now that the suspicions had turned out to be true, and he only longed to fling the truth of them in the teeth of the man whose integrity, so short a while ago, he had rejoiced to champion. that integrity was blown into blackened fragments, and his belief in it seemed now as incredible to him as the happenings of some diseased dream, which to his awakened senses were a tissue of the wildest rubbish, a mere babble of unfounded incoherence. there could be no regret for the cessation of impressions so false and unreal.... he walked quickly along piccadilly, with colour a little heightened, and a smile, vivid and genial, on his mouth. every now and then his lips pursed themselves up for a bar or two of aimless whistling, and he swung a light-hearted stick as he went. the pavement was full of cheerful passengers, the roadway of briskly-moving vehicles, and all the stir of life seemed full of the promise of this exquisite springtime. then in a flash all recognition of the lively world passed from his consciousness, and he saw only that black cloud of his own exalted indignation and blind anger, which so soon, so soon now was going to discharge itself in god knew what torrent and tempest. or would it quietly dissolve and drain itself away? would there be no explosion, no torrent of storm, only just little trickling sentences and denials no doubt, then more little trickling sentences until there was just silence and no denials at all? he did not know and certainly he did not care. the manner of the affair in no way occupied or interested him. and over his boiling indignation that he knew raged below, there stretched a crust, that just shook and trembled with the tumult within, but showed no sign of giving way. every now and then he said softly to himself, "something's got to happen: something's got to happen," as he whistled his tuneless phrase and swung his stick. frank, who occupied a flat immediately below craddock's, was in, and charles, brisk and gay of face, marched in upon him. "i've seen lady crowborough," he said, "and now we will go to see craddock. he's ... he's amazing. the worst that i suspected, which i didn't tell you, is all soberly true. he has lied about me, he told the wroughtons that i was a disreputable sort of affair. he has lied, lied, to get me out of the way. now he has got to eat his lies. come on, come on, what are you waiting for?" frank sprang up. "tell me about it first," he said. "oh, not now. i'll tell you about it upstairs. by the way, you had some little scheme to get yourself and me out of his hands. we'll take that first: we'll lead up to the grand crash. more artistic, eh? or shall we begin with the grand crash? i don't know. i don't care. let's go upstairs anyhow and see what happens. let nature take her course. let's have a touch of nature. what is it i have got to do according to your plan? oh, yes, just say i'll draw a portrait of the middleman. frank, why the devil am i not blazing with indignation, and chucking things about. you're a psychologist, aren't you? tell me that. you study people and make them have adventures. i'm all for adventures. come on, and let's see what happens. we've such a fine day, too." frank licked his lips. "gosh, i'm on in this piece," he said. "now wait a minute. we'll take my little farce first, just a curtain-raiser. he's got an agreement of yours, i suppose, just as he's got one of mine, that gives him his options. we must get those out of him first of all. then ... then we can proceed with unbiassed minds. ha!" frank gave one mirthless crack of laughter. "we'll get those first," he said, "and then start fair. up we go." craddock was in, and the two were admitted. it appeared that he had been having a little nap, for even as they entered he struggled to a sitting position on his sofa. "sorry to disturb you," said frank, "but i wanted to see you rather particularly. charles also. so we came up together." frank took up his stand on the hearth rug, while charles gracefully subsided into a long low arm-chair. craddock looked from one to the other, not nervously, but with an air of slightly puzzled expectancy. there was something vaguely unusual about it all. "i wanted to speak to you about a play," said frank, "which, under certain circumstances, i shall assuredly write. tranby would be sure to take it. i naturally want to know if it appeals to you." craddock stroked the right side of his face. it was smooth and plump. "my dear fellow," he said, "i should be charmed to hear it, but as a matter of fact i have not very much time this afternoon. perhaps if you left the scenario with me----" "it's not written out," said frank. craddock glanced at the clock. "ah, i see i have half an hour," he said. "that ought to be sufficient. if not, perhaps you can postpone your next engagement. however, you will see, if you think it worth while. i propose to call my play 'the middleman.'" craddock's hand, that was still up to his face, paused a moment. then it began stroking again. "quite a good title," he said, with an absolutely impassive tone. "i thought you would approve. of course he is the hero--shall we say?--of the play. he's large and stout, i want you to picture him to yourself--and wealthy and cultivated, a great judge of pictures and the arts generally. he purchases options on the work of young and unknown men, that's how he gets his money, and makes devilish good bargains." craddock raised his eyebrows slightly, and turned to charles. "and what is your part in this conspiracy?" he said quietly. "it is a conspiracy, i suppose." charles crossed one leg over the other, and put his finger-tips together. "oh, yes, you may call it a conspiracy," he said. "we thought you would. you see, i'm going to paint a portrait of frank's middleman. i know just what he looks like. i could draw him for you on a half-sheet, if you think it necessary. then i shall send it to some gallery or other,--it will be very like--just about the time that frank's play comes out. you might like to exercise your option over it. so i shall paint another one." "not in your present studio," said craddock suddenly. "certainly not in my present studio. i shall never paint anything more in my present studio." craddock grasped the whole situation: indeed it did not require any very great acuteness to enable him to see exactly how he stood, and on the whole he felt up to dealing with it. for a moment there was dead silence, and charles whistled a futile tuneless phrase. "there are such things as libel actions," he said to frank. "for those who feel up to bringing them," said he. once again craddock paused. he got up from his sofa, went to the window and came back again. he rather expected to surprise a consultation of eyes going on between the two young men. but there was nothing of the kind. frank was regarding his own boots, charles was staring vacantly and stupidly, smiling a little, straight in front of him. craddock was by no means a coward, and he felt not the smallest fright or nervousness. "if you think i should hesitate to bring a libel action against you," he said to frank, "if you ever put on anything that could be construed as defamatory to my character, you are stupendously mistaken. i know quite well that you have always disliked me, me, who took you out of the gutter, and gave you a chance of making your talents known. but that is always the way. to befriend a certain type of man means to make an enemy. by all means proceed to write your play, and make it as scandalous and defamatory as you please. i shall make not the smallest protest against it, you can produce it as soon as you like. but mind you it will run for one night only, and you will then find yourself involved in a libel action that will beggar you. incidentally, though i imagine that this will seem to you a comparatively light matter, you will find you have caused to be recorded against you the verdict not of a jury only but of every decent-minded man and woman in england." frank looked at him, and suppressed an obviously artificial yawn. "hear, hear!" he said. "and about my portrait?" said charles from the depth of his chair. craddock turned to him. "all i have said to your friend regarding my line of conduct applies to you also," he said. "you may do any caricature of me you please, and the more you hold me up to ridicule, the sounder will my grounds for action be. but what applies to you only is this. i consider that your conduct is infinitely more treacherous than his. he at least has from the first almost been avowedly hostile to me. you have pretended that you were conscious of the gratitude you certainly owe me. you have made me think that i was befriending a young man who was fond of me, and appreciated my kindness to him. armstrong at any rate has made no such nauseous pretence. how deeply i am hurt and wounded i do not care to tell you. but if it is, as i suppose it must be, a source of gratification to you to know that you have wounded me, you may rest thoroughly well satisfied with what you have done. i congratulate you on the result. i warned you months ago, about your choice of friends. the only possible excuse for you is that you have fallen under the influence of the man i cautioned you against." frank looked up from his boots to charles. "did he caution you against me?" he asked. "you never told me that." "no, frank. i didn't want then to give you another cause for grievance. but he did warn me against you." "you would have been wise to take my advice," said craddock. "as it is, perhaps you will see the propriety of your vacating my studio as soon as is convenient to you. i should think that by to-morrow evening i might hope to find it at my disposal." "certainly," said charles. "i daresay you will soon find some other promising student." craddock turned his back on frank for a moment. "i never should have thought this of you, charles," he said. there was real sincerity in his reproach. bitter as was the injury he had inflicted on the boy, he was very fond of him, and valued the return of his affection. it might be objected that a man does not wilfully and cruelly injure one whom he is fond of. such an objection is mistaken and ignorant. for herein lie three quarters of the tragic dealings of the world, namely, that day by day and all day long men strike and betray their friends. they do not wrong those who are indifferent to them: for where should be the motive of that? "i should never have thought it of myself," said charles, and his voice faltered on the words. craddock turned to frank again. "you have told me about your proposed play," he said, "which i imagine was the object of your coming here, and charles has come about his portrait. i do not know that anything further detains either of you." frank could have applauded the quiet dramatic development of the scene. if he had come across it in a play, he would have watched it with the tensest diligence. and here it was all unplanned: the situation seemed to develop itself without any exterior assistance. craddock, for instance, was taking exactly the line that the drama demanded, and it was quite certain that he had not rehearsed his part. he felt certain also that charles would prove equally discerning. "there is just one more thing," he said. "i require you to destroy, in my presence, the contract i signed giving you an option to purchase three more plays of mine. you have a similar one with regard to pictures by charles. that must be destroyed also." craddock stared at him in amazement. "and is there anything else you would like me to do for you?" he asked. "no, that is all." craddock gave his usual sign of merriment, the laugh that chuckled in his throat, but did not reach outwards as far as his lips, which remained without a smile. it was something of a relief to find that this was the object of their outrageous threats, for he again felt himself quite competent to deal with it. it was not that he had actually feared anything else, but in spite of that he was glad to have the object of their threats avowed. "you are most original conspirators," he said. "you threaten me first, and when you see that your threats do not disturb me in the slightest degree, you produce, somewhat as an anti-climax surely, the object which you hope to gain by your futile menaces. go away and practise: that is what i recommend you to do. get some small handbook about conspiracy and black-mail. you are ignorant of the very rudiments of it. as you have seen i snap my fingers at your threats, indeed, i am not sure whether it would not amuse me if you put them into execution. but to make your demands upon the top of so pathetic a failure is surely what you, armstrong, would call a 'weak curtain.'" "certainly that would be a very weak curtain," said frank, looking at his boots again. there was no need for him to look at charles: it was as certain as if they had gone over the scene till they knew it by heart that charles would pick up his cue. but when charles spoke frank looked up at craddock again. he wanted to see how he would take it. charles neither shifted his position nor cleared his throat. "how much did ward give you for philip wroughton's reynolds?" he asked. frank watching craddock's face saw only the very slightest change pass over it. but for the moment his eyes looked inwards, squinting a little. "that i suppose is your business?" he observed. "yes, in a moment i will tell you how it is," said charles. "but first i may say what i am going to tell you." still craddock's face did not change. "do you mean by that what you have just asked me?" "it is the same thing. it was not in order to get free of your options that i tell you this. that is a very minor concern. what matters is that you have swindled mr. wroughton. and it is my business, because the cheque that was paid you for the reynolds included a certain sum for my copy of the picture. of that you only gave me fifty pounds." then the change came. craddock's face grew a shade whiter and his upper lip and forehead glistened. but in a moment he pulled himself together. "ah, so this is the real threat," he said. "we are going to have a weaker curtain than ever. i entirely decline to discuss my private affairs with you. go and tell whom you please that i have swindled, to use your own word, my very good friend philip wroughton. go down to thorley and see how he will receive you and your news. do you suppose he would listen to you? and do you suppose that i will do so any longer? tell this story and any other you may have been concocting to the whole world, and at the proper time i will very effectually stop you. you and your friend seem to have so much money that libel actions are the only way in which you can get rid of it. but first tell wroughton, whom i have swindled. the--the monstrous suggestion!" for one moment his indignation flared up. the next he had mastered it again. but inflamed by this, or by some underlying emotion, he made an error, and allowed himself to say more, when he had (so rightly) intimated that enough had been said. "it is lucky for me," he said, "with such fellows round me, that i was business-like in the matter. the cheque ward drew me for five thousand pounds i passed straight on to my friend when the purchase was concluded, and have his receipt for it. and as for your miserable fifty pounds, you agreed, as you very well know, to make the copy for that sum. you were glad enough to get it, and your gratitude was quite pretty. and that is all i think. i have no more to say to either of you." he got up and indicated the door. neither charles nor frank moved. and then a second sign escaped him. his indicating hand dropped, and the one word he uttered to charles stuck in his throat. "well?" he said. "you have forgotten," said charles, "that ward gave you a cheque for five thousand pounds in payment for some dutch pictures. there was a van der weyde among them. it was from thistleton's gallery, i may remind you." "you are very copiously informed." "yes. you see my brother was your clerk there. he well remembers the purchase and the drawing of the cheque. that was in june. the cheque was post-dated by a few days." without doubt craddock was listening now, though he had said he would listen no more. frank watched him with the same hard devouring interest with which he would have watched a man pinioned and led out to the execution shed. charles went on in a voice that sounded a little bored. it was as if he repeated some well known tiresome task he had learned. "it was in october," he said, "that another cheque was drawn to you by mr. ward, under the same circumstances. he wrote it, that is to say, at thistleton's gallery, at my brother's desk. this time the cheque was larger, for it was of ten thousand and one hundred pounds. reggie told me of it at the time. i did not connect it then with the reynolds picture." "lies, a pack of lies," said craddock under his breath, but still listening. "no, not a pack of lies," said charles. "you should not say that sort of thing. this morning i asked mr. ward how much he paid for the reynolds. he told me not to tell anyone, but it is no news to you, and so i repeat it. he paid you ten thousand pounds. also he said to me--you heard that--that he didn't suppose i would do many more copies for one hundred pounds each. i drew an inference. and the whole cheque is accounted for." suddenly frank looked away from craddock, and glanced at charles, nodding. "he's done," he said, as if some contest of boxing was in progress. frank was right. during the fall of these quiet words, craddock had collapsed; there was no more fight left in him. he sat hunched up in his chair, a mere inert mass, with his eyes glazed and meaningless fixed on charles, his mouth a little open and drooping. the shame of what he had done had, all these months, left no trace on him, but the shame of his detection was a vastly different matter. but he made one more protest, as forceless and unavailing as the last roll of a fish being pulled to land, dead-beat. "lies," he said just once, and was silent. charles got quickly out of his chair and stood up pointing at him. as yet he felt no spark of pity for him, for there was nothing to pity in a man who with his last effort reiterates the denial of his shame. and the tale of his indictment was not done yet. he spoke with raised voice, and vivid scorn. "you should know a lie when you hear it better than that," he said. "do i sound as if i was lying? did you lie like that when you lied about me to philip wroughton last autumn? not you: you let your damned poison just dribble from you. you just hinted that i was a disreputable fellow, not fit to associate with him and his. you said it with regret--oh, i can hear you do it--you felt you ought to tell him. wasn't it like that? go on, tell me whether what i am saying now is lies, too! you can't! you're done, as frank said. there's a limit even to your power of falsehood. now sit there and just think over what's best to be done. that's all; you know it all now." no word came from craddock. he had sunk a little more into himself, and his plump white hands hung ludicrously in front of him like the paws of a begging dog. a wisp of his long black hair that crossed the crown of his head had fallen forward and lay stuck to the moisture on his forehead. the two young men stood together away from him on the hearth-rug, looking at him, and a couple of minutes passed in absolute silence. then an impulse, not yet compassionate for this collapsed rogue, compassionate only for the collapse, came to charles. "you had better have a drink," he said, "it will do you good. shall i get it for you?" he received no answer, and went into the dining room next door. the table was already laid for dinner, and on the side-board stood syphon and spirit decanter. he poured out a stiff mixture and brought it back to him. and then as he held it out to him, and saw him take it in both his hands, that even together were scarcely steady enough to carry it to his mouth, pity awoke. "i'm awfully sorry, you know, mr. craddock," he said. "i hate it all. it's a miserable business." craddock made no answer, but sip by sip he emptied the glass charles had brought him. for a few minutes after that he sat with eyes shut, but he smoothed his fallen lock of hair into its place again. "what do you mean to do, either of you?" he asked. charles nodded to frank to speak. "i don't know what charles means to do," he said, "because we haven't talked it over. for myself, i mean to have back my contract with you, or to see it destroyed. when that is done, i shall have nothing more to ask from you." he thought a moment. "you mustn't do unfriendly things, you know," he said. "you mustn't systematically run down my work in your papers. that wouldn't be fair. i intend, i may tell you, to hold my tongue about you for the future. i shan't--i shan't even want to abuse you any more. as for what i have heard about you in this last hour, it is quite safe with me, unless you somehow or other provoke me to mention it. i just want my contract, and then i shall have done with you." craddock got up, and unlocked a pigeon-holed desk in the corner of the room. there were a quantity of papers in it. of these he took out one from the pigeon-hole a, another from that of l. he glanced at these and handed one to each of the young men. frank read carefully over what was written on his, and then folded it up, and put it in his pocket. "thank you, that is all," he said. charles stood with his contract in his hand, not glancing at it. instead he looked at the large white-faced man in front of him. "we have more to talk about," he said. "shall we--wouldn't it be better if we got it over at once? if you wish i will come in later." the uncontrolled irritability of nerves jangled and overstrung seized craddock. "for god's sake let us have finished with it now," he said, "unless you've got some fresh excitement to spring on me. what do you want me to do? and why does he wait there?" he said pointing to frank. charles nodded to frank. "i'll go then," he said. * * * * * charles' anger and hot indignation had burned itself out. of it there was nothing left but ashes, grey feathery ashes, not smouldering even any longer. it was impossible to be angry with anything so abject as the man who sat inertly there. it was impossible to feel anything but regret that he sat convicted of such pitiful fraud and falsity. he saw only the wreck of a year's friendship, the stricken corpse of his own gratitude and loyalty. here was the man who had first believed in and befriended him, and it was not in his nature to forget that. it had so long been to him an ever-present consciousness that it had become a permanent inmate of his mind, present to him in idle hours, but present most of all when he was at work, and thus wrought into the web of his life and his passion. in the extinction of his anger, this reasserted itself again, tarnished it might be, and stained, but existent. and with that awoke pity, sheer pity for the man who had made and marred it. he waited till frank had closed the door. "it's wretched," he said, "absolutely wretched." even to craddock in the shame of his detection, and in his miserable apprehension of what must yet follow, the ring of sincerity was apparent; it reached down to him in the inferno he had made for himself. and the pity was without patronage; it did not hurt. "thank you for that," he said. "now tell me what you want done. or perhaps you have done what you wanted already ..." he broke off short and charles waited. he guessed how terribly difficult any kind of speech must be. "there is just one thing i should like to tell you," said craddock at length. "i--i lied about you to philip wroughton, but my object was not to injure you. i didn't want to injure you. but i guessed that you were in love with joyce. i guessed also that she--that she liked you. you stood in my way perhaps. my object was to reach her. that is all." there was no justification attempted: it was a mere statement of fact. he paused a moment. "but i was not sorry," he said, "even when i found that i had not advanced my own suit." "i didn't seem to matter, i suppose," said charles in a sudden flash. "exactly that," said craddock. "but i ask your forgiveness. i always liked you." charles did not answer at once, because he did not know whether he forgave craddock or not. certainly he did not want to injure him, he felt he could go no further than that "i intend to forgive you," he said. "that will have to do ..." even as he spoke all the innate generosity of the boy surged up in rebellion at this shabby speech, and the shabbier hesitation of thought that had prompted it. "no, that won't have to do," he said quickly. "i should be ashamed to let that do. forgive you? why yes, of course. and now for the rest. you owe mr. wroughton five thousand pounds. there is no reason, i suppose, why you should see him and explain? i take it that you will send him his money. is that so?" "that shall be done." "right. about me, what you said about me, i mean. you must write to him, i think. you must withdraw what you said. perhaps you had better do that at once." "yes." charles got up. "i will go then," he said. "my properties shall have left your studio by to-morrow evening. there is nothing more to settle, i think." he held out his hand. "goodbye," he said. "i--i can't forget we have been friends and i don't want to. you have been awfully good to me in many ways. i always told frank so. goodbye." craddock was perfectly capable, indeed he had proved himself so, of the depths of meanness and falsity. but he was not in natural construction, like the villain of melodrama, who pursues his primrose path of nefarious dealing, calm and well-balanced, without one single decent impulse to clog his tripping feet. and when this boy, for whose gifts he had so profound an admiration, who knew the worst of him, could not forget as he said that they had been friends, he felt a pang of self-abasement that shot out beyond the mire and clay in which his feet were set. "i wonder if you can possibly believe i am sorry," he said. "i know it is a good deal to expect.... if that is so, may i ask you, as a favour which i should so much appreciate, that you do not take your things away from my studio just yet anyhow? won't you do that as a sign of your forgiveness? i won't come there, i won't bother you, or embarrass you with the sight of me. it isn't so very much to ask of you, charles." charles had an instinctive repulsion from doing anything of the sort. he wanted to wash his hands clean of the man and of all that belonged to him, or could awaken remembrance of him. but, on the other hand, craddock was so "down"; it was hardly possible to refuse so humble a petition. besides he had said that he forgave him, and if that was not fully and unreservedly done, he might at least prop and solidify what he desired should be true in material and compassable ways. his mind needed but a moment to make itself up. "but by all means, if you wish," he said. "i should be very glad to.... and perhaps soon, not just yet, but soon, you will come and see my work, if i ring you up? do! or when you feel you would like to see me again, you will tell me.... goodbye." craddock heard him go downstairs, from frank's door, and continue his journey. not till then did he see that charles had left on the edge of the chimneypiece the contract concerning options which he had given him back. for half-a-second the attitude of mind built and confirmed in him by the habit of years asserted itself, and he would have put it back into the dark from which he had taken it half an hour ago. but close on the heels of that came a more dominant impulse, and he tore it to bits, and threw the fragments into the fender. then he sat down at his table, drew out his cheque-book and wrote a cheque payable to philip wroughton for five thousand pounds. there was no difficulty about that; mr. ward's amazing friend who had carried off the complete nightmare decoration of post-impressionists from the walls of thistleton's gallery had enabled his banking-balance to withstand an even larger call on its substantiality than that. but there was a letter to be written with it.... an hour later his servant came in to remind him that in half an hour he expected two friends to dinner. already the waste-paper basket was choked with ineffectual beginnings, implying palliations, where no palliation was possible, telling half the truth and hinting at the rest, and still craddock sat pen in hand, as far as ever from accomplishing this epistolary effort. and then an illuminating idea occurred to him: he would state just what had happened, neither more nor less, saying it in the simplest possible manner.... it took him a full half-hour always to dress for dinner, but he was ready to receive guests who were almost meticulously punctual, so short a time had his note taken him. philip wroughton had become, so he often said to himself and joyce, a perfectly different man, owing to his salutary wintering in egypt, and in consequence (thinking himself, perhaps a differenter man than he really was) had just been knocked flat by an attack of lumbago, owing to a course of conduct that a few months ago he would have considered sheer insanity for one so physically handicapped as himself. in consequence it was joyce's mission to take his letters and morning-paper up to him, after breakfast, hear his account of himself, and any fresh comments on the origin of this painful attack which had occurred to him during the night, open his letters for him--there was seldom more than one--and entertain him with such news out of the paper as she thought would interest him. to-day the pain was a good deal better, and he had remembered a new and daring action of his own which quite accounted for his trouble. "no doubt it was what i did on thursday evening," he said, "for if you remember you called me to the window after dinner, saying what a beautiful night it was, and that the moon was full. i am not blaming you, my dear, i only blame myself for my imprudence, because if you remember i went out on the gravel path, in thin evening shoes, and dress-clothes, and stood there i daresay a couple of minutes. i remember i felt a little chilly, and i took a glass of hot whiskey and water before i went to bed. i had already had a glass of port at dinner, which in the old days was sufficient to give me a couple of days of rheumatism, and the whiskey on the top was indeed enough to finish me off. do you not think that it was that, joyce? sometimes i feel that you are not really interested in this sort of thing, which means just heaven or hell to me; i am sure if a mere look at the moon and a glass of whiskey and water, without sugar, put you on your back for three days in agony and sleeplessness, i should show a little more curiosity about it. but i suppose you are accustomed to my being ill; it seems the natural state of things to you, and i'm sure i don't wonder considering that for years that has been my normal condition. well, well, open the paper and let us try to find there something which appeals to you more than your father's health; aviation in france, perhaps, or the floods in the netherlands." poor joyce had not at present had a chance of speaking. "but i am interested, father," she said, "and it was rather rash of you to take port, and then a stroll at night and the whiskey. i don't know what dr. symonds will say to you if you tell him that particularly when you told him yesterday that it was the draught in church on sunday." "it all helps, joyce," said her father, now contentedly embarked on the only interesting topic. "as dr. symonds himself said, these attacks are cumulative, all the little pieces of unwisdom of which one is guilty add to the pile, and at last nature revenges herself. i wonder if coffee should go too: i should miss my cup of coffee after dinner. but i used to take it in egypt without the slightest hint of ill-effects. perhaps if i had saccharine instead of sugar.... i will ask dr. symonds. what letters are there for me?" "only one. i think it's from mr. craddock." philip wroughton frowned. "really what you told me when you came down from town yesterday about his slandering that young lathom," he said, "seems to be quite upsetting, if true, if true. certainly it took away my appetite for lunch; at least if i had eaten my lunch i feel sure it would have disagreed and so, briefly, i left it. but on thinking it over, joyce,--i thought a great deal about it last night, for i slept most indifferently--i do not see why we should let it influence our bearing to craddock. after all, what has happened? he said that young lathom was not a very nice young fellow, and my mother has heard from his mother and his great friend that he _is_ a very nice young fellow. what would you expect his mother and his friend to say? it is craddock's word against theirs. as for flying out, as you did, into a state of wild indignation against craddock (it was that which upset me for my lunch, i feel convinced) that is quite ludicrous.... and your grandmother's letter to me, giving me what she called a piece of her mind, i can only--now i am better--regard as the ravings of a very old and lunatic person. and on the top of that tirade, saying that she wishes to come down here next week, and bring her precious young lathom with her! luckily this attack gives me ample excuse for putting off a proposed visit from anybody." "you need only see them as much as you feel inclined," said joyce. "on the contrary," said philip with some excitement, "when one is ill, and there are visitors in the house, one is always meeting them when one does not want to. as you know, i do not take my hot bath till the middle of the morning; i am sure to meet one or other of them in the passage. and my mother invariably uses up all the hot water in the boiler.... it would all be very inconvenient. besides, as i say, it was all hearsay about young lathom being not quite steady; it is equally hearsay that he is. he may be as steady as a rock or as unsteady as--as that steamer from marseilles to port said for all i care." "but you acted on the report of his unsteadiness," said joyce, "in not letting him come down to see his copy of your reynolds." philip put a fretful hand to his face and closed his eyes. "you are very persistent and argumentative, joyce," he said, "and you know i am not up to these discussions. and this morning only i was planning that as soon as i could move, we would go and spend a fortnight at torquay: i see they have been having a great deal of sunlight there. pray let us not continue. i think you said there was a letter from craddock, to whom you never did justice. you disappointed me very much, and him too of course. please take his letter and see what he has to say." joyce tore open the envelope and took out the contents. "there seems to be a cheque enclosed," she said. philip raised himself in bed, and put out his hand. an unexpected cheque by post is a pleasant excitement to all but the most apathetic croesus. "give it me," he said. "i wonder what that can be for." he glanced at it. "good god, how slow you are, joyce," he exclaimed, "read his letter. i don't know what it means." joyce read. "i enclose my cheque for five thousand pounds, which is the balance of what i actually received from mr. ward, for your reynolds. with regard to your subsequent proceedings i throw myself unreservedly on your mercy. i have also to tell you that the statements i made to you about the character of charles lathom are entirely unfounded. i unreservedly withdraw them." philip made a quicker movement than he had done since . a.m. three mornings before, the same being the moment when the lumbago stabbed him. "five thousand pounds!" he exclaimed. "why, the man's a thief! joyce, five thousand pounds. a liar too! he acknowledges he told lies about that young lathom. i've never had such a shock in my life. and the interest on all this money. doesn't he owe me that as well? is it that he means by throwing himself on my mercy? i am not sure that i am inclined to be merciful about that...." then he made an enormous concession. "joyce, we must certainly show young lathom that--why, i am sitting quite upright in bed, and felt nothing when i moved--as i say young lathom must certainly be told that he may come down to see his copy. it would not do to be less generous than craddock about that. but i am very much shocked: i hardly know what to say. anyhow i will have my bath at once. and you might look up the trains to torquay, my dear. your grandmother and young lathom must come down after we get back. really, even when i move, i feel no pain at all, only a little stiffness. they say a great shock sometimes produces miraculous results...." joyce never quite determined the nature of this shock: sometimes it seemed only reasonable to suppose it was the shock of joy at this unexpected and considerable sum of money, sometimes she construed it into a shock of horror at this self-revelation of their travelling companion. but certainly the lumbago ceased from troubling, and two days afterwards they started for torquay. chapter x. it was the day of the private view of the academy; all morning and afternoon a continuous stream of public persons had been flowing in and out of the gates into piccadilly and the mysterious folk who tell the press who was there, and how they were dressed, and to whom they were seen talking, must have had a busy day of it, for everybody was very nicely dressed, and was talking rather more excitedly than usual to everybody else. in fact there was hubbub of a quite exceptional kind, connected, for once in a way, with the objects which, nominally, brought these crowds together. the crowd in fact was not so much excited with itself (a habit universal in crowds) as with something else. indeed the sight of akroyd, who had just been knighted, talking to tranby (who just hadn't) roused far less attention than usual, and all sorts of people whom he was accustomed to converse with on the day of the private view hurried by him as he stood in an advantageous position in front of an extremely royal canvas at the end of the third room, catalogue in hand, scrutinizing not him, but the numbers affixed to the pictures. for a little while he was inclined to consider that a tinge of jealousy, perhaps, or of natural diffidence, more probably, prompted these inexplicable slights, but before long he became aware that there was something in the air besides himself. opportunely enough, craddock made his appearance at the moment, and sir james annexed him. "something up: something up, is there, craddock?" he asked. "yes: many thanks, my lady is very much pleased about it. but surely, there is an unusual animation--how de do?--an unusual animation about us all this morning. is it a picture, or a potentate, or a ballerina? ah, there is young armstrong. armstrong, i hope you will come to the hundredth night this evening. i shall say something about you at the call. no doubt your friends in front will demand you also." frank looked craddock full in the face for a moment, and decided to recognize him. "hullo, craddock," he said. "what'll you give me for my portrait, or don't you do business in these sacred halls? no, i'm afraid no amount of demand will produce me this evening, akroyd. goodbye: i'm going to stand by my portrait again: it's the biggest lark out. charles is up on top, isn't he, craddock?" charles certainly was up on top, for it was he, and he alone, who was causing all this crowd to forget itself, in its excitement about him and his work. he had risen, this new amazing star, on the artistic horizon, and all eyes were turned towards it. in vain, for the moment anyhow, had mr. hoskyns conceived and executed his last masterpiece "angelic songs are welling," in which a glory of evening sunlight fell through a stained glass window onto the profiled head of a girl with her mouth open, sitting at an organ, while four stupefied persons gazed heavily at her, in a room consisting of marble and polished woodwork and mother of pearl. in vain were acres of heather and highland cattle interspersed with birch trees and coffee-brown burns; in vain did the whole gamut of other portraits, from staid railway directors in frock coats, and maps spread on the table by them, down to frisky blue and white youngest daughters of somebody esquire, frown or smile or frolic on the walls. there were just three focusses of interest, one in the second room, one here among the masterpieces of the masters, a third in the room just beyond. here was the portrait of "the artist's mother," in the room beyond mrs. fortescue gallantly maintained her place by the presentment of herself, and received congratulations; in the second room, frank scowled and wrestled with his play. it was a boom, in fact, everybody wanted to see charles' pictures without delay, and having done so, told everybody else to go and do likewise. craddock had made what is known as a good recovery after the painful operation recorded in the last chapter. he had suffered, it is true, one relapse, when, on giving lady crowborough a choice of three nights on which to come to dine with him, he had received a third-person note regretting (without cause assigned) her inability to do so, but it soon became apparent to him that nobody, not even she, had any intention of making the facts of his operation known to the world. and with his recovery there had come to him a certain shame at what he had done. true, that shame was inextricably mixed with another and less worthy kinsman, shame at his detection, but it was there, in its own right, though no doubt detection had been necessary to bring it forth. it had come, anyhow, cowering and crying into the world. this morning, more especially, his shame grew and throve (even as his recovery grew) when he looked on those three superb canvases before which the whole world was agape. there was little under the sun that he reverenced, but his reverence was always ready to bow the knee before genius, and it seemed to him that of all the "low tricks" that his greed or his selfishness had ever prevailed upon him to accomplish, the lowest of all was when he let fall those little efficacious words about charles. he had mocked and cheated the owner of the gift that compelled obeisance, the gift to which he, in all his tortuous spinnings, had never failed in homage. surrounded as these three stars were now, with the smooth dark night, so to speak, of mere talent and more or less misplaced industry, it was easier to judge of their luminous shining, but he did not seek to excuse himself by any assurance of previous hesitation or doubt in his verdict of their quality. he had known from the first, when one summer morning close on a year ago he had stood by thorley weir that a star was rising.... he felt as if he had been picking velasquez' pocket. and yet the temptation at the time had been very acute. just as there was no mistaking charles' genius for any second rate quality, so there had been no mistake in his telling himself that he had been in love with joyce, when he had succeeded, so easily and meanly, for the time, in removing from his path what undoubtedly stood materially in his way. he had cleared the path for himself, so he had hoped, but the path, when cleared, led, so far as he was concerned, nowhere at all, and he might just as well have left it cumbered to his passage and himself encumbered of his monstrous meanness. joyce still stood impenetrably barred from him, no longer only by the barrier he so rightly had conjectured to be there, but by the fact of his own detection in its attempted removal. but he had accepted the second rejection of himself as final, and since his return from egypt had forbade himself to dally with the subject of domestic happiness. consolation of all sorts could be brought to play, like a hose, on a burning place; given time the most awkward wielder of it could not fail to quench the trouble, and--the house of life had many windows into which the sun shone, without risk of provoking internal conflagrations. only, sometimes, his subtly-decorated and sumptuous flat seemed to him now a little lonely. there was no longer any thought of a girl's presence abiding there, turning it into that strange abode called home, and there came there no longer that eager and divinely-gifted boy, whose growth during this last year had been a thing to love and wonder at. he might have kept him: that at any rate had been in his power. instead, he had grasped at a little more money, which he did not, except from habit, want, he had lied a little in the hope of entrapping that wild bird, love, and he had gained nothing whatever by it all. a certain morality, born perhaps of nothing higher than experience, had, in consequence, begun to make itself felt in him. * * * * * the crowd surged and thickened about him, and he found himself the bureau of a myriad of inquirers. all this last winter and spring london had vaguely heard of this amazing young genius who was going to burst on the world, and craddock in this room, and mrs. fortescue, looking nearly as brilliant as her portrait, in the next, were seized on as fountains of original information. elsewhere lady crowborough, in a large shady hat trimmed with rosebuds and daisies, could give news of her own portrait now approaching completion, and mr. ward, who had marked down half a dozen pictures as suitable for his new york luxembourg, followed, faint but pursuing, wherever he could get news of craddock having passed that way, to tempt him with fresh offers for the mother portrait. round that the crowd was thickest, and there, those who could see it were silent. there were no epithets that seemed to be of any use in the presence of that noble simplicity and tenderness. once in a shrill voice mr. ward exclaimed, "well, he's honoured his mother anyhow!" but even that, though on the right lines, savoured of inadequacy, a fault to which she was mostly a stranger. or, now and then, a critic would point out the wonderful modelling of the hand, or the high light on the typewriter, or even shrug a fastidious shoulder, and wonder whether the quality of the brush-work was such----but for the greater part, there was not much talking just in front of it. somehow it lived: to criticise or appreciate was like making personal remarks to its face. it took hold of you: you did not want to talk. * * * * * charles had not intended to appear on this day of private view, but considering how deep and true was the knowledge that his portrait showed of his mother, it was strange that it had not occurred to him that it was absolutely certain that she would insist on going herself and would not dream of considering any escort but his. she called for him in fact, at his studio about twelve, dressed and eager with anticipation, and charles had the sense not to waste time in expostulation over so pre-ordained a fact, as he now perceived his visit to be, but accepted the inevitable and put on his best clothes, while his mother brushed his hat. it was thus about a quarter to one, when the galleries were most crowded and the ferment over the three portraits was at its highest, that they entered. probably until that moment there were scarce fifty people out of all the multitude who knew charles by sight, scarce five who knew his mother. but even as they went their way up the steps and met the opposing crowd of out-goers, she was aware of eager unusual glances directed at her, she heard little whispered conversations beginning "why surely"--she knew that people stopped and looked after them as she passed, and all the exultant pride uprose triumphant, and laughing in the sheer joy of its happiness, even as when first she knew she had borne a child. vague and wild were the conjectures at first, but every chattering group that passed them, recognising suddenly, confirmed it, and from conjecture she passed to knowledge. why did they all stare at her with her quiet unremarkable face, who always passed about so private and unobserved, unless something had happened to make her thus suddenly recognised and stared at? she cared not at all for the little accesses of shyness and timidity that kept breaking over her, making her sweet pale face flush like a girl's, for all her conscious self was drowned and forgotten in her son, in him who in an hour had caused her face to be famous and familiar. and how she longed that no inkling of this might reach charles, so that her triumph might be prolonged and magnified, how she encouraged him to consult his catalogue, and tell her who this picture and that was by, fixing his attention by all means in her power on anything rather than the crowds that more and more openly stared and whispered about her. well she knew that if once he guessed the cause of the whispers and glances, a horror-stricken face and flying coat-tails would be the last she would see of him. for the recognition of her she saw, just led to the recognition of him, and with ears pricked and eager, she could catch the sequels--"that must be he ... what a handsome boy ... but surely he's so young...." it was sweeter than honey and the honeycomb. they had passed in through the sculpture-gallery into the third room where, as she knew, her own portrait hung, and with infinite craft, prolonging the time, she had immediately caught sight of something on the opposite wall, that claimed her instant attention. from one picture she passed to another, and furtively saw how dense a crowd was congregated on the other side of the room, and knew what it was that so absorbed them. and charles was getting interested now in showing her what he had seen on that his first historic varnishing day, and was eager with speech and pointed finger. "look at that sargent," he said, "it makes you hate to look at that sunshine. how on earth does he do it? isn't it magic? just blue and yellow, same as we've all got in our paint-boxes. but he sees so splendidly! that's half the battle, seeing----" this was capital: at this rate her triumph would last all up the long wall, round the top of the room, and nearly half way down the other. alas, it was already nearly over. charles looked up and saw the mass of people round the place where undoubtedly his picture was. "let's go and look at you, mother," he said, "as you said you wanted to see it hanging. i say, what a lot of people there are. there's a gorgeous thing of lavery's hanging next it: it was rather bad luck, that, on me, though it's a miracle getting on to that wall at all. come across: we'll get that over, and then can enjoy the rest." they crossed the room and wedged themselves into the inter-shouldered crowd. very slowly indeed those in front of them cleared away, and at length they stood opposite it. then as they looked, those round them recognizing her, and making the infallible guess at charles' identity, stood a little back for them, and still a little more back. charles, still childlikely unconscious, was intent on his picture's neighbours: his mother knew exactly what was happening, and despite herself felt a gathering dimness in her eyes. in all her tale of unselfish years she had never felt so big with personal pride, into which not one atom of self entered. "well, if you've _finished_ looking at yourself, mother dear," said he in rather a high voice. he turned and horror glazed his eyes. it was quite impossible to mistake what that half-circle of pleasant well-dressed folk were staring at, not the picture's neighbours, not his picture itself this moment. "for heaven's sake, let's get out of this," he said, blushing furiously. and the knot of people round his picture turned, smiling and pleased at the boy's modesty, and the mother's superb pride. charles in his retreat, with his mother in his wake, ran straight into craddock. this was no great embarrassment, for craddock had been to the studio not long before: also his mother knew nothing, except that charles a month ago had been greatly upset in connection with craddock. she might have guessed more, but charles had told her no word. and at the moment in his confusion, any known face was a harbour of refuge. "hullo, mr. craddock," he said, "my mother wanted to come and look at herself. so i brought her. here she is. what a jolly show." craddock made his answer to mrs. lathom. "are you proud?" he said. "are you more than proud, satisfied?" she shook hands with him. "i am even that," she said. "and what am i to do with this foolish boy?" "lead him about, show him to everybody: he has got to get used to it. i expected a great deal myself, but i have yet to get used to this." charles' eyes went back to the crowd in front of his picture again. "what has happened?" he asked. "is it--do you mean it's a huge success, huge, you know?" "walk up and down again with your mother, my dear fellow, and judge." charles became wild-eyed again. "but it's a dream," he said. "it's--oh, lady crowborough." lady crowborough was sufficiently moved to recognize craddock. "how de do, mr. craddock?" she said. "well, charles, my dear, you've gone and done it. there ain't an artist here but what's cursing you. there never was such a private view, and i've seen somewhere about eighty of them. now, i'm going to have my lunch. there's nobody as can say a sensible word this morning all along of your pictures. and don't you forget to be at paddington in good time to-morrow afternoon for the train down to thorley. and if you get there before me, lay hold of an empty carriage and put the windows tight up." charles was instantly and completely diverted by this new topic. "oh, mr. wroughton does expect me?" he asked. "yes, he told me to tell you. and if you find you're enjoying yourself we'll stop over till tuesday. i hate those saturday to monday things, running away again before you get your boxes unpacked. i daresay you'll find enough to amuse you till tuesday. you can bring down your paint-box if you want something to occupy you, and make a drawing of me or my maid or joyce or something." and with a very broad grin on her face she moved away. frank descended next on them. "libel-action imminent, charles," he said, looking firmly at craddock (this he found inevitable). "i've been standing in front of my portrait for an hour, and listening. two timid little people come up to it and say 'good gracious, what a dreadful-looking young man. who is it? turn up a hundred and seventy-five, jane.' 'sunrise on the alps! it can't be! youngest daughter of lady jellicoe. no, a hundred and seventy-five! oh, mr. frank armstrong, is it? fancy! and we liked "easter eggs" so much.' i'll have damages for that sort of thing. you've spoiled my public." "lord, if i had wished to libel you," said charles, "i wouldn't have let you off like that." "your mother too," said frank. "why, it's the kid seething its mother in its own vitriol. i haven't seen it yet, i was too occupied. libellous fellow! what does she say to it all?" mrs. lathom turned to him. "she doesn't say much, mr. frank," she said. "but--but she's having rather a happy morning." "well, then take me to have a look at you, and i'll take you to have a look at me. after that, charles' brass band which i've ordered will be ready. 'see the conquering,' you know." charles lingered with craddock. "now tell me really," he said, "without chaff i mean, like lady crowborough and frank." "they have told you really," he said. "if you want it in other words, say that your price for a full-length is a thousand pounds. that's practical, isn't it?" charles shook his head. "but i still don't understand," he said. then all the boyish spirits surged high, high too surged all his true artistic ambitions and passions, rising to that splendid point of humility which must always accompany triumphant achievement and its recognition. the utter surprise and the shock of this last quarter of an hour which had unsteadied and bewildered him cleared away: what had happened began to be real. "but what gorgeous fun!" he cried. "and how i must work. there's everything to learn yet." craddock wondered whether he would find at thorley that which should be the centre and the sun of his wakening. almost he hoped that he would, for so radiant a completeness burned envy away, or at the most left a little negligible dross. joyce a centre sun, loving and loved, and her lover this splendid star.... with that inspiring bliss what was there that this young hand and eager eye might not see and accomplish. the love of a son for his mother, the comradeship of a friend, the mere presence of a pretty woman, a brother's well-made limbs in act to spring, had been sufficient to bring forth the work of just one astounding year. what when the love-light of man and woman flashed back and forth between him and the exquisite girl down by the riverside? might that not open a new chapter in the history and records of the beautiful? it did not seem to him an outrageous fantasy to imagine that the possibility was a real one. * * * * * it was seldom that those who were to travel with lady crowborough were privileged to reach the appointed station before her arrival; for no amount of contrary experience convinced her that trains were not capable of starting half an hour or so before their appointed times. also she liked to get a carriage to herself, and dispose on all available seats so enormous a quantity of books, parasols, cloaks, rugs and handbags, that the question whether all these seats were taken could scarcely be ventured on, so heavily and potently were they occupied. consequently on the next afternoon charles found her already in possession, with the windows tightly shut, and a perfect bale of morning and evening papers by her. she had bought in fact a copy of every paper published that day, as far as she could ascertain, with the object of utterly overwhelming philip with all the first notices of the academy, in order to impress him as by a demonstration in force, with charles' immensity. she had attempted to read some of these herself, but being unused to artistic jargon, had made very little of them. still there could be no doubt as to what they meant to convey. "that's right, my dear," she said as he appeared, "and jump in quick, for though there's time yet, you never can tell when they won't slide you out of the station. clear a place for yourself, and then we'll both sit and look out of the window, and they'll take us for a couple on their honeymoon, and not dream of coming in, if they've any sense of what's right. and when we've started you can read all about yourself, and it's likely you'll find a lot you didn't know before. i can't make head or tail of it all: they talk of keys of colour and tones and what not, as if you'd been writing a bundle of music. and leit-motif: what's a leit-motif? they'll say your pictures are nothing but a lot of accidentals next. chords and harmonies indeed, as if you'd put a musical-box in the frames. there's that craddock got a column and a half about your keys and what not. but i was so pleased yesterday i had to pass the time of day with him." "but what have you bought all these papers for?" asked charles. "oh, yes: here's craddock." "don't you mind him. why to let philip see what they all think of you. but that's my affair, my dear. i'm going to stuff them under his nose one after the other. you'll see. and there we are off. now don't expect me to talk in the train. you just read about yourself, and if you see me nodding, let me nod. there's half an hour yet before we need be thinking of putting my things together." great heat had come with the opening of may, and spring was riotous in field and hedgerow, with glory of early blossom and valour of young leafage. all this last month charles had been town-tied among the unchanging bloomlessness of brick and stone and pavement--it had scarcely seemed to him that winter was overpast, and the time for buds and birds had come. already on the lawn by the water-side the summer-batswing tent had been set up, and across the grass joyce and the unbrothered huz came to meet them, with a smile and a tail of welcome. a faint smell of eucalyptus had been apparent as they passed through the house and lady crowborough drew an unerring conclusion. "well, joyce, my dear, here we are," she said, "and i won't ask after your father because i'll bet that he has got a cold. i smelt his stuff the moment i set foot in the house." "yes, darling grannie," said joyce, "but it's not very bad. he's really more afraid of having one than--than it. how are you, mr. lathom?" lady crowborough's maid was standing a little way behind, looking like tweedledum prepared for battle, so encompassed was she by a mass of miscellaneous objects. prominent among them was the file of to-day's papers. "you'll find out how he is, my dear," said lady crowborough, "when you've dipped into that little lot. he's just a grand piano of keys and harmonies." "ah, i read the notice in the 'daily review,'" said joyce. "i was so pleased. i long to see your pictures." "well, then, you'll have to wait your turn, my dear," said lady crowborough. "we all took our turns like a peep-show. drat that dog; he's always licking my hand. now take me and give me my tea at once, and then he'll get something else to lick. are we to see your father?" "yes, he's coming down to dinner, if he feels up to it. shall we have tea in the tent?" "well, it ain't so cold for the country!" said lady crowborough, as if the arctic region began at the four mile radius. "it's broiling, grannie. and do you want quite all those cushions and wraps? they'll hardly go into the tent." "yes, i want them every one. and i want my tea after my journey. go back to the house, charles, my dear, and tell them to bring it out." she waited till charles had passed beyond earshot on his errand. "now, joyce," she said, "i don't want to see any fiddle-faddling between that boy and you, and talking about the moon and the stars and mr. browning's poetry and what not, as if that had anything to do with it." "grannie, darling," said joyce with an agonized look at tweedledum. "she don't hear," said lady crowborough, "who could hear through that lot of cushions and veils. and what i say to you, joyce, i'm going to say to him." joyce grew suddenly grave. "oh, indeed, you mustn't do anything of the kind, grannie," said she. "why how could i look him in the face, and have a moment's ease with him, if i thought you had?" lady crowborough's face smiled all over. "very well, then," she said. "i don't want you not to look at the face. but you take my advice, joyce. lord, if i were seventy years younger i'd take it myself, in less than a jiffy. you make up your mind you're going to have him and let there be no nonsense about it. mercy on us all, girls get red in the face and look away, and think one's a shocking old woman, when one advises them to do exactly what they want to do. you keep all the stuff about the moon and poetry till afterwards, my dear. it'll serve to talk about then, only i expect you'll find you've plenty else to say. he's a nice clean clever young fellow, with a good head and a good heart, and they're not too many of that sort going about. lord, you should have seen all the girls and women, too, staring at him yesterday at the picture-show. i thought somebody would catch him up and marry him under my very nose. they'll be at him now like wasps round a jam-pot. but you get in first, my dear, and we'll put the lid on. well, here he comes! don't you look shocked. i've talked very good sense. you haven't got a mother, but if you had she'd tell you just the same, with no end of beautiful words scattered about like the flowers on a dinner-table, just to hide the victuals as she always did. but the victuals are there just the same: it wouldn't be much of a dinner without 'em." * * * * * any intercourse, flippant or nugatory, or concerned with what lady crowborough summed up under the head of the "moon and mr. browning's poetry" is sufficient cover for the hidden approach of two souls that are stealing towards each other; any channel sufficient to conduct the conveyance of such streams; and when not long after, lady crowborough left them to go indoors to make her salutations to philip, and get out of the "nasty damp draught" that was blowing up from the river, it was under the most insignificant of shelter that they crept nearer, ever nearer. but, for they talked over the happenings little and not so little, that concerned them jointly in the past, it was as if they gathered in the store that should so soon burst the doors of its granary, or sat telling their beads in some hushed sacred place before it blazed out into lights and music and banners.... all this was below, as leaven secretly working, on the surface a boy and girl by the thames-side talked as comrades talk with laughter and unembarrassed pauses. "wonder if it'll be a june like last year," said charles, sliding from his chair onto the grass. "i was camped up there, half a mile away, for three weeks of it and there was never a drop of rain. oh, except one night for half an hour: it smelt so good." "i know: the best watering carts in a dusty street," said she. "you were doing that picture of the weir and your brother." "and then one afternoon you punted up with craddock. and that's how it all began." "all what?" asked joyce, knowing he could give only one answer, but longing for the other answer. "my career, large c," said charles with pomp. "he came and bought the picture next morning. i couldn't believe it at first. i thought--i thought he was a fairy." "mr. craddock does not answer my idea of a fairy," said joyce after a little consideration. "oh, you left out about reggie--isn't he reggie?--trying to make an omelette, and succeeding only in producing a degraded glue." "i don't think i noticed that," said charles, looking at her. "no, you were staring at us as if we were all fairies. oh, but you did notice it. it made you laugh, and me too." charles went back to a previous topic. "no, strictly speaking, he isn't a fairy," he said. "at least not completely. but it was a fairylike proceeding. oh, yes, grant him something fairylike. he got me the commission to copy your reynolds, and he started me on my feet, and believed in me. i found him a fairy for--for quite a long time." "of course there are bad fairies as well," said joyce, conceding the point. "yes: do you mind my asking you one thing? did you ever----" "of course not," said joyce. "what on earth do you think of me?" "but you don't know what----" "yes, i do. i never, _never_ believed one word. does that show you? talk about something else. i don't want to be sick on such a lovely evening." charles relapsed into laughter. "isn't it so distressing on a wet day?" he asked. "no. do you know, i think what he did to father about the picture wasn't nearly so bad. that only made me feel rather unwell. have you seen him since you knew about it all?" charles made a little conflagration of dry leaves with the match he had just lit before he answered. "yes, once or twice," he said. "i'm rather ashamed of not having seen him oftener. i believe he was sorry, and if people are sorry--well, it's all over, isn't it?" "what a painfully noble sentiment," said joyce. "but i don't think i should caress a scorpion, however grief-stricken. besides, how can you say that it's all over, just because a person is sorry. he has become, to you, a different person if you find out he has done something mean, something--something like that. not that i thought very much of mr. craddock before," she added. "well, i did," said charles. "don't bias me," said joyce. she was silent a moment. "in a way an injury done to oneself is easier to forgive than an injury done to somebody else----" she began. charles rudely interrupted. "painfully noble sentiment?" he enquired. "yes: perhaps it was. let us be careful: we might die in the night if we became more edifying." "and the real point is that mr. craddock's little plot didn't come off," said he. "at least that seems to me the most important thing." for a moment their eyes met, and for that moment the huge underlying reality came close to the surface. she smiled and nodded her assent to this. "leave it there," she said ... "and then, where were we? o, yes: then you came to copy the reynolds. up in my room, do you remember? and dear old buz lay on the sofa and got worse and worse?" she leaned back in her chair so that he could not see her face. "oh, what a coward i was!" she said. "i knew there was only one thing i could do for him, poor darling, and yet i let you do it instead of me." "well, there was no delay," said charles. "it was done." "oh, but you understand better than that," she said. "it was i who failed: now that's a thing hard to forgive oneself. i loved buz best: it was my privilege to help him in the only way possible. yes, i know, the thing in itself was nothing, just to press a syringe. but there was the principle behind it, don't you see--of course you do--that i threw love's right away.... and i don't believe i ever thanked you for picking it up, so to speak. but i was grateful." charles' little conflagration had burned itself out. "poor buz!" he said. joyce sat up. "he didn't have such a bad time," she said, "though why i expect you to be interested in buz i really don't know. but i've confessed. i always rather wanted to confess that to you--penance?" "i think a turn in the punt might do you good," said he, "especially if i take the pole." * * * * * that, for the present, was the end of anything serious. charles exhibited the most complicated incompetence, as regards propulsion, though as a piece of aquatic juggling, his performance was supreme. joyce told him how to stand, and like that he stood, and the juggling began. he thrust his pole into the water and it stuck fast: he pulled hard at it and the punt went a little backwards, but a second wrench landed a chunk of mud and water-weed on his trousers. he pushed again, this time with so firm and vigorous a stroke that they flew into mid-stream, and only by swift antic steps in the direction of the stern did he recover balance and pole. once again he pushed, this time in unfathomable water, plunged his arm up to the shoulder in the astonished flood, and fell in an entangled heap of arms and legs on the top of the stupefied huz. "are we going up or down the river?" asked joyce. charles looked wildly round: the bows of the punt seemed if anything to be pointing down stream. "down," he said. the punt thought not: it yawed in a slow half circle and directed itself up-stream. "that is down-stream, isn't it?" said he ... and they slowly slid into the bank. a swift circular motion began, and a fool-hardy swan coming within range narrowly escaped decapitation. then lady crowborough, having made her visit, appeared at the edge of the lawn, and charles rashly promised to pick her up.... but they moved westward instead into the crimson pools of reflected sunset. joyce had never ached so much in all her healthy life. yet even these inanities brought them nearer.... love has a use for laughter. * * * * * six months ago on an evening of gale and autumn storm, when the chimneys smoked and the rain made fierce tattoo on the streaming window panes, joyce had gone up to her bedroom leaving her father and another guest together, and had felt some wild primæval instinct stirring in her blood, that made her long to go out alone into the blackness and hurly-burly of the streaming heavens, to be herself, solitary and unencumbered by the presence and subtle silent influence of others. and to-night, when she and lady crowborough left philip and charles talking together--philip's cold had miraculously almost, encouraged by eucalyptus, vanished altogether--she again felt herself prey to the same desire. but to-night, it was no pall of streaming blackness that drew her, but the still starry twilight, and the warm scents of spring. but now, even as then, she wanted to be alone, hidden and unsuspected in the deep dusk of the star-shine, to wander through the fresh-fallen dew in the meadows, to finger the new leaves on riverside willows, to lie, perhaps face downwards in the growing hay-fields, to listen to the mysterious noises of the night, to learn--to learn what? she did not know, or at any rate did not formulate the answer, but it was something that the dark and the spring-time were ready to tell her: something that concerned the spirit of life that kept the world spinning on its secular journey, and made bright the eyes of the wild creatures of the wood, and set the rose a-budding, and made in her the red blood leap on its joyous errands.... surely, somehow, in the dark of the spring night she could link the pulse that beat in her with the great indwelling rhythm of the world, make herself realise that all was one, she and the singing-bird whose time was come, and the rose that tingled on its stem with the potential blossoms. she had taken off her dinner-dress and put on a dressing gown, and now, blowing out her light, she went across to her open window, drew up the blind and leaned out into the night. and then in a flash of newly-awakened knowledge, she was aware that she wanted to be alone no longer. she wanted a teacher who also would learn with her, one more human than the star-light, and dearer to her heart than the fragrant hay-fields. but leaning out into the dark, she was nearer him than in the house, and she opened her heart ... it stood wide. * * * * * just below her the gravel path that bordered the lawn was illuminated by the light that came in yellow oblongs of glow from the long windows of her father's study. she heard some little stir of movement below, the sound of voices dim and unintelligible inside, and presently after the tread of a foot-step on the stairs and so along the passage past her room, where her father slept. then the window below was thrown open and charles stepped out onto the gravel. like her, perhaps, he felt the call of the night; she wondered if, like her, he needed more than the night could give him. she could look out without risk of detection: from outside, her window would appear a mere black hole in the wall. he paused a moment, and then strolled onto the dewy lawn. and as he walked away towards the river, she heard him whistle softly to himself, the song he had sung last year to his guitar. "see the chariot at hand here of love...." * * * * * joyce lay long awake, when she got to bed, not tossing nor turning nor even desiring sleep, but very quiet with wide open eyes. she did not seem to herself to be thinking at all, it was no preoccupation that kept her awake: she but lived and breathed, was part of the spring night. but it seemed to her that she had never been alive till then. sometimes for a little while she dozed, nonsense of some sort began to stir in her brain, but the drowsy moments were no more than moments. from the stable-clock not far away she heard the faint clanging of the hours and half-hours, which seemed to follow very rapidly, the one after the other. by her dressing-table in the window there came a very faint light through the unblinded casement from the remote noon-day of the shining stars, the rest of the room was muffled in soft darkness. then she missed the sound of one half-hour, and when she woke again, the light in her room was changed. already the faint illumination by the window had spread over the rest of it, and there was a more conspicuous brightness on the table that stood there. then from outside she heard the first chirruping of one bird, and the light grew, a light hueless and colourless, a mere mixture of white with the dark. more birds joined voices to the first heard in the earliest welcome of the day, and a breeze set some tendril of creeper tapping at her panes. colour began to steal into the hueless light; she could guess there in the east were cloud-wisps that caught the morning. joyce got out of bed and went to the window, and the lure of the sunrise irresistibly beckoned her out. the message the night had seemed to hold for her, though contradicted afterwards, had been authentically transmitted to the dawn--something certainly called her now. she dressed herself quickly in some old boating-costume, went quietly along the passage, and down stairs. at the foot huz was sleeping, but awoke at her step, and found it necessary to give a loud and joyful bark of welcome. it seemed to him an excellent plan to go out. she crossed the lawn with her dog, for the river seemed to beckon, and would have taken her canoe, except that that meant that huz must be left behind. she did not want huz, but huz wanted, and she stepped into the punt, that puzzled victim of charles' aimlessness, and pushed off. the boom of thorley weir--that, or was it something else about thorley weir--determined her direction, and she slid away upstream. it was still not yet the hour of sunrise, and she would be at the weir before that. * * * * * a few minutes before, charles had wakened also. he, too, had slept but little, and his awaking was sudden: he felt as if some noise had roused him, the shutting of a door perhaps, or the barking of a dog. the early light that preceded dawn was leaking into his room, and he got out of bed to draw up the blind. the magic of the hour, breeze of morning, chirruping of birds seized and held him, and into his mind--brighter than the approaching dawn--there came flooding back all that had kept sleep from him. sleep was far away again now, and the morning beckoned. he dressed and went out, and it was in his mind to wrestle with the punt, perhaps, to spring on joyce a mysteriously-acquired adeptness. and then suddenly he saw that steps had preceded him across the lawn, wiping away the dew, and his heart leaped. could it be she who had passed that way already? would they meet--and his heart hammered in his throat--in this pearly and sacred hour, when only the birds were awake? it was not quite sunrise yet; should day, and another day lit by the dawn that from everlasting had moved the sun and the stars, dawn together? but where had she gone, where should he seek and find her? the punt was gone: the canoe lay tapped by the ripples from the mill-stream. right or left? down stream or up? then the boom of thorley weir decided him--that, or something else, some quivering line that she had left to guide him. the imperfect chirrupings were forming themselves into "actual song"; on the smooth-flowing river reflections of the blue above began to stain the grey steel-colour, and the willow leaves were a-quiver with the breeze of morning. he hardly noticed these things as he plied his paddle round bend and promontory of the stream. louder sounded the boom of the outpoured weir, and the last corner was turned, and on the spit of land where a year ago his tent had been pitched stood joyce. she had just tied her punt to the bank and stood looking up towards the weir itself. huz was by her and hearing the splash of the paddle, turned and waved a welcoming tail that beat against joyce's skirt. at that she turned also, and saw him. but she gave him no word of welcome, nor did he speak to her. in silence he ran the boat into the soft ground beside the punt, and stepped ashore. he had left his coat in the canoe and came towards her, hatless like herself, bare-armed to the elbow. she looked at him, still silent, yet flooding him with her self, and his own identity, his very self and being, seemed to pass utterly away from him. he was conscious of nothing more than her. "it had to be like this," he said.... "joyce, joyce." still she did not answer, but, quivering a little, bent towards him, as a young tree leans before the wind. then her lips parted. "oh, charles," she said, "have you come to me? i was waiting for you." multitude and solitude by john masefield author of "the everlasting mercy," "the widow in the bye street," "the daffodil fields," "captain margaret," etc. new york the macmillan company to my wife multitude and solitude i what play do they play? some confounded play or other. let's send for some cards. i ne'er saw a play had anything in't. _a true widow._ roger naldrett, the writer, sat in his box with a friend, watching the second act of his tragedy. the first act had been received coldly; the cast was nervous, and the house, critical as a first-night audience always is, had begun to fidget. he watched his failure without much emotion. he had lived through his excitement in the days before the production; but the moment interested him, it was so unreal. the play was not like the play which he had watched so often in rehearsal. unless some speech jarred upon him, as failing to help the action, he found that he could not judge of it in detail. in the manuscript, and in the rehearsals, he had tested it only in detail. now he saw it as a whole, as something new, as a rough and strong idea, of which he could make nothing. shut up there in the box, away from the emotions of the house, he felt himself removed from time, the only person in the theatre under no compulsion to attend. he sat far back in the box, so that his friend, john o'neill, might have a better view of the stage. he was conscious of the blackness of john's head against the stage lights, and of a gleam of gilt on the opposite boxes. sometimes when, at irregular intervals, he saw some of the cast, on the far left of the stage, he felt disgust at the crudity of the grease paint smeared on their faces. sometimes an actor hesitated for his lines, forgot a few words, or improvised others. he drew in his breath sharply, whenever this happened, it was like a false note in music; but he knew that he was the only person there who felt the discord. he found himself admiring the address of these actors; they had nerve; they carried on the play, though their memories were a whirl of old tags all jumbled together. it was when there was a pause in the action, through delay at an entrance, that the harrow drove over his soul; for in the silence, at the end of it, when those who wanted to cough had coughed, there sometimes came a single half-hearted clap, more damning than a hiss. at those times he longed to be on the stage crying out to the actors how much he admired them. he was shut up in his box, under cover, but they were facing the music. they were playing to a cold wall of shirt-fronts, not yet hostile, but puzzled by the new mind, and vexed by it. they might rouse pointed indifference in the shirt-fronts, they might rouse fury, they would certainly win no praise. roger felt pity for them. he wished that the end would come swiftly, that he might be decently damned and allowed to go. towards the middle of the act the leading lady made a pitiful brave effort to save the play. she played with her whole strength, in a way which made his spirit rise up to bless her. her effort kept the house for a moment. that dim array of heads and shirt-fronts became polite, attentive; a little glimmer of a thrill began to pass from the stalls over the house, as the communicable magic grew stronger. then the second lady, who, as roger knew, had been feverish at the dress rehearsal, struggled for a moment with a sore throat which made the performance torture to her. roger heard her voice break, knowing very well what it meant. he longed to cry out to comfort her; though the only words which came to his heart were: "you poor little devil." then a man in the gallery shouted to her to "speak up, please." half a dozen others took up the cry. they wreaked on the poor woman's misfortune all the venom which they felt against the play. craning far forward, the author saw the second lady bite her lip with chagrin; but she spoke up like a heroine. after that the spell lost hold. the act dragged on, people coughed and fidgeted; the play seemed to grow in absurd unreality, till roger wondered why there was no hissing. the actors, who had been hitherto too slow, began to hurry. they rushed through an instant of dramatic interest, which, with a good audience, would have gone solemnly. the climax came with a rush, the act ended, the last speech was spoken. then, for five, ten, fifteen, twenty fearful seconds the curtain hesitated. the absurd actors stood absurdly waiting for the heavy red cloth to cloak them from the house. something had jammed, or the flyman had missed his cue. when the curtain fell half the house was sniggering. the half-dozen derisive claps which followed were intended for the flyman. the author's box happened to be the royal box, with a sitting-room beyond it, furnished principally with chairs and ash-trays. when the lights brightened, roger walked swiftly into the sitting-room and lighted a cigarette. john o'neill came stumbling after him. "it's very good. it's very good," he said with vehemence. "it's all i thought it when you read it. the audience don't know what to make of it. they're puzzled by the new mind. it's the finest thing that's been done here since poor wentworth's thing." he paused for a second, then looked at roger with a hard, shrewd, medical look. "i don't quite like the look of your leading lady. she's going to break down." "they'll never stand the third act," said roger. "there'll be a row in the third act." at this moment the door opened. falempin, the manager of the theatre, a gross and cheerful gentleman, with the relics of a boisterous vinous beauty in his face, entered with a mock bow. "naldrett," he said, with a strong french accent, "you are all right. your play is very fine. very interesting. i go to lose four thousan' poun' over your play. eh? very good. what so? som' day i go to make forty thousan' poun' out of your play. eh? it is all in a day's work. the peegs" (he meant his patrons, the audience) "will not stan' your third act. it is too--it is too--" he shook his head over the third act. "miss hanlon, pretty little miss hanlon, she go into hysterics." "could i go round to speak to her?" roger asked. "no good," said falempin. "she cannot see any one. she will not interrupt her illusion." "what happened to the curtain?" o'neill asked. "ah, the curtain. it was absurd. i go to see about the curtain. we meet at philippi. eh? there will be a row. but you are all right, naldrett. you know john o'neill. eh? mr. o'neill he tell you you are all right." he bowed with a flourish of gloved hands, and vanished through the stage door. "john," said roger, "the play's killed. i don't mind about the play; but i want to know what it is that they hate." "they hate the new mind," said roger. "they've been accustomed to folly, persiflage, that abortion the masculine hero, and justifications of their vices. they like caricatures of themselves. they like photographs. they like illuminated texts. they decorate their minds just as they do their homes. you come to them out of the desert, all locusts and wild honey, crying out about beauty. these people won't stand it. they are the people in frith's derby day. worse. they think they aren't." "i'm sorry about falempin," said roger. "he's a good fellow. i shall lose him a lot of money." "falempin's a frenchman. he would rather produce a work of art than pass his days, as he calls it, selling 'wash for the peegs.' what is four thousand to a theatre manager? a quarter's rent. and what is a quarter's rent to anybody?" "well," said roger, "it's a good deal to me. let's go round the house and hear what they say." they thrust their cigarettes into ash-trays, and passed through the stalls to the foyer. the foyer of the king's was large. the decorations of mirrors, gilt, marble, and red velvet, gave it that look of the hotel which art's temples seldom lack in this country. it is a concession to the taste of the patrons; you see it in theatres and in picture galleries, wherever vulgarity has her looking-glasses. there were many people gathered there. half a dozen minor critics stood together comparing notes, deciding, as outsiders think, what it would be safe to say. roger noticed among them a short, burly, shaggy-haired man, who wore a turned-down collar. he did not know the man; but he knew at once, from his appearance, that he was a critic, and a person of no distinction. he was about to look elsewhere, when he saw, with a flush of anger, that the little burly man had paused in his speech, with his cigarette dropped from his mouth, to watch them narrowly, in the covert manner of the ill-bred and malignant. roger saw him give a faint nudge with his elbow to the man nearest to him. the man turned to look; three of the others turned to look; the little man's lips moved in a muttered explanation. the group stared. roger, who resented their impertinence, stared back so pointedly that their eyes fell. o'neill's hands twitched. roger became conscious that this was one of o'neill's feuds. they walked together past the group, with indifferent faces. as they passed, the little man, still staring, remarked, "one of that school." they heard his feet move round so that he might stare after them. o'neill turned to roger. "do you know who that is?" "no." "that's o'donnell, of _the box office_. he's the man who did for poor wentworth's thing. i called him out in paris. he wouldn't come." "really, john?" "oh, you're too young; you don't remember. he wrote everywhere. he wrote a vile tract called _drama and decency_. he nearly got wentworth prosecuted." "i've heard of that! so o'donnell wrote that?" "he did." "who are the others?" "obscure dailies and illustrateds." a little grey man, with nervous eyes, came up to roger, claiming acquaintance on the strength of one previous meeting. he began to talk to roger with the easy patronage of one who, though impotent in art himself, and without a divine idea in him, has the taste of his society, its gossip, its critical cant, and an acquaintance with some of its minor bards. "you mustn't be discouraged," he said, with implied intellectual superiority; "i hear you have quite a little following. how do you like the acting? i don't like miss hanlon's acting myself. did you choose her?" as he spoke his eyes wandered over o'neill, who stood apart, with his back half turned to them. it was evident that he knew o'neill by sight, and wished to be introduced to him. roger remembered how this man had called o'neill a charlatan. an insult rose to his lips. who was this fumbling little city man, with his surrey villa and collection of meryon etchings, to patronise, and condemn, and to bid him not to be discouraged? "yes," he said coldly. "i wrote the play for her. she's the only tragic actress you've had here since miss cushman." the little city man smiled, apparently by elongating his eyes. he laid up, for a future dinner table, a condemnation of this young dramatist, as too "opinionated," too "crude." "yes?" he answered. "by the way--my daughter is here; she wants so much to talk to you about the play. will you come?" roger had met this daughter once before. he saw her now, an anæmic girl, in a liberty dress, standing with her nose in the air, amid a mob of first-nighters. she, too, wished to patronise him and to criticise the oracle. the superiority of a girl of nineteen was more than he could stand. "thanks," he said. "afterwards, perhaps. i must be off now with my friend." he gave a hurried nod, caught o'neill's arm, and fled. two men collided in his path and exchanged criticism with each other. "hullo, old man," said one; "what do you think of it?" "i call it a german farce." "yes; rather colourless. it opened well." further on, a tall, pale, fat woman, with a flagging jowl, talked loudly to two lesser women. "i call it simply disgusting. i wonder such a piece should be allowed." "i wouldn't mind its being disgusting so much," said one of her friends; "but what i can't stand is that it is so uninteresting. there's no meaning. it doesn't mean anything. it has no criticism of life." "they say he's killing himself with chloral," said the third woman. at the entrance to the smoke-room, they were stopped by the crowd. a lady with fine eyes fanned herself vigorously on the arm of her escort. "it's very interestin'," she said; "but, of course, it isn't a play." "no. it's not a play," said her friend. after a pause, he defined his critical position. "y'know, i don't believe in all this talk about ibsen and that. i like a play to be a play." the smoke-room was full of men with cigarettes. nearly all had a look of the theatre about them, something clean-shaven, something in the eye, in the fatness of the lower jaw, and in the general exaggeration of the bearing. something loud and unreal. the pretty girls at the bar were busy, expending the same smile, and the same charm of manner, on each customer, and dismissing him, when served, with an indifference which was like erasure. the friends lighted fresh cigarettes and shared a bottle of perrier water. the pretty, weary-faced waitress looked at roger intently, with interested sympathy. she had seen the dress-rehearsal, she was one of his admirers. matches scratched and spluttered; soda-water bubbled into spirits; the cork extractors squeaked and thumped, with a noise of fizzing. a pale, white-haired man, with an amber cigarette-holder nine inches long, evidently his only claim to distinction, held a glass at an angle, dispensing criticism. "it's all damned tommy-rot," he said. "all this tosh these young fellers write. it's what i call german measles. now we've got a drama. you may say what you like about these scandinavian people, and hauptmann, and what's the name of the french feller, who wrote the book about wasps? they're all. you know what i mean. every one of them. like the pre-raphaelites were; but put them beside our english dramatists; where are they?" some one with an irish voice maintained in a lull, rather brilliantly, that shakespeare had no intellect, but that coriolanus showed a genuine feeling for the stage. a friend without definite contradiction offered, in amendment, that: "none of the elizabethans were any good at all; coriolanus was a latin exercise. english drama dated from ." a third put in a word for romeo and juliet. "of course, in all his serious work, shakespeare is a most irritating writer. but in romeo and juliet he is less irritating than usual. i like the tomb scene." the irish voice replied that the english had the ballad instinct, and liked those stories which would be tolerable in a ballad; but that intellectual eminence was shown by form, not by an emotional condition. this led to the obvious english retort that form was nothing, as long as the thought was all right; and that anyway our construction was better than the french. the talk closed in on the discussion, shutting it out with babble; nothing more was heard. the two friends, sipping perrier water, were sensible of hostility in the house, without hearing definite charges. an electric bell whirred overhead. glasses were hurriedly put down; cigarettes were dropped into the pots of evergreens. the tide set back towards the stalls. as they paused to let a lady precede them down a gangway, they heard her pass judgment to a friend. "of course, it may be very clever; but what i mean is that it's not amusing. it's not like a play." a clear feminine voice dropped a final shot in a hush. "oh, i think it's tremendously second-rate; like all his books. i think he must be a most intolerable young man. i know some friends of his." wondering which friends they were, roger naldrett took his seat in his box an instant before the curtain rose. four minutes later, when the house found that the cap fitted, a line was hissed loudly. it passed, the actors rallied, miss hanlon's acting gathered intensity. as the emotional crisis of the act approached, she seemed to be taking hold of the audience. the beauty of the play even moved the author a little. then, at her finest moment, in a pause, the prelude to her great appeal, a coarse female voice, without natural beauty, and impeded rather than helped, artificially, by a segment of apple newly-bitten, called ironically, "ow, chyce me," from somewhere far above. the temper of the house as a whole was probably against the voice; but collective attention is fickle. there was a second of hesitation, during which, though the play went on, the audience wondered whether they should laugh, following the titterers, or say "sh" vigorously in opposition to them. a big man in the stalls decided them, by letting his mirth, decently checked during the instant, explode, much as an expanded bladder will explode when smitten with a blunt instrument. "ow, charlie!" cried the voice again. everybody laughed. the big man, confirmed in what had at first alarmed him, roared like a bull. when the laughter ended, the play was lost. no acting in the world could have saved it. for a moment it went on; but the wits had been encouraged by their success. a few mild young men, greatly daring, bashfully addressed questions to the stage in self-conscious voices. whistles sounded suddenly in shrill bursts. somebody hissed in the stalls. a line reflecting on england's foreign policy, or seeming to do so, for there is nothing topical in good literature, raised shouts of "yah," and "pro-boer," phrases still shouted at advanced thinkers in moments of popular pride. at the most poignant moment of the tragedy the gallery shouted "boo" in sheer anger. the stalls, excited by the noise, looked round, and up, smiling. songsters began one of the vile songs of the music-halls, debased in its words, its rhythms, and its tune. their feet beat time to it. the booing made a monotony as of tom-toms; whistles and cat-calls sounded, like wild-birds flying across the darkness. people got up blunderingly to leave the theatre, treading on other people's toes, stumbling over their knees, with oaths in their hearts, and apologies on their lips. the play had come to an end. the cast waited for the noise to cease. miss hanlon, the sword at her throat, stood self-possessed, ready with her line and gesture, only waiting for quiet. two of the actors talked to each other, looking straight across the stage at the dim mob before them. roger could see their lips move. he imagined the cynical slangy talk passing between them. he recognised miss hanlon's sister standing in one of the boxes on the other side. the noise grew louder. john o'neill, leaving his seat, came over to him and shouted in his ear. "you're having a fine row," he shouted. roger nodded back to john in the darkness. "yes, yes," he said. he was wondering why he didn't care more deeply at this wreck of his work. he did not care. the yelling mob disgusted him; but not more than any other yelling mob. he wished that it had but one face, so that he might spit in it, and smite it, to avenge brave miss hanlon, the genius cried down by the rabble, who still waited, with the sobs choking her. otherwise, he did not care two straws. he believed in his work. beauty was worth following whatever the dull ass thought. he sat on the edge of the box, and stared down at his enemies, "the peegs." a rowdy in the stalls, drawing a bow at a venture, shouted "author." at that instant the curtain came down, and the lights went up. "author," the house shouted. "yah. author. boo." women paused in the putting on of their opera-cloaks to level glasses at him. he saw a dozen such. he saw the men staring. he heard one man, one solitary friend, who strove to clap, abruptly told to "chuck it." "author," came the shout. "yah. boo. author. gow 'owm." he stood up to look at his enemies. one man, a critic, was clapping him, an act of courage in such a house. the rest were enjoying the row, or helping it, or hurriedly leaving with timid women. those who jeered, jeered mostly at john o'neill, who looked liker an author than his friend (i.e. his hair was longer). "this is nearly martyrdom," said john. "your work must be better than i thought." roger laughed. the people, seeing the laughter, yelled in frenzy. falempin came from behind the curtain. he looked at the house indifferently, stroking his white beard, as though debating over a supper menu. he glanced absently at his watch, and tapped in a bored manner with his foot. he was trying to decide whether he should insult the "peegs," and gloriously end his career as a theatre manager. fear lest they should misunderstand his insult, and perhaps take it as a compliment, restrained him in the end, even more than the thought of what his wife would say. he waited for a lull in the uproar to remark coolly that the play would not go on. after a pause, he told the orchestra to play "god save the king" with excessive fervour, for a long time; which they did, grinning. a few policemen in the pit and gallery directed the religious spirit, thus roused, into peaceful works. the hooters began to pass out of the theatre, laughing and yelling; three or four young men, linking arms, stood across an exit, barring the passage to women. one of them, being struck in the face, showed fight, and was violently flung forth. the others, aiding their leader, fought all down the stairs from the gallery, hindered by the escaping crowd. they suffered in the passage. one of them, with his collar torn off, scuffled on the sidewalk, crying out that he wanted his "'at." he wasn't going without his "'at." meanwhile, in the pit, a dozen stalwarts stood by the stalls barrier, waiting to boo the author as he left his box. the stalls were fast emptying. two attendants, still carrying programmes, halted under roger's box to say that it was a "shyme." roger, at the moment, was writing hurriedly on a programme a rough draft of a note of thanks, praise, and sympathy to miss hanlon. it was only when he came to use his faculties that he found them scattered by the agitations of the night. the words which rose up in his mind were like words used in dreams; they seemed to be meaningless. he botched together a crudity after a long beating of his brains; but the result, when written out on a sheet of notepaper, found in the ante-room, was feeble enough. he twisted the paper swiftly into a tricorne. "come along, john," he said. "we'll go through the stage; i must leave this for miss hanlon." they passed through the ante-room into a chamber heaped with properties, and thence, by a swift turn, on to the stage, where a few hands were shifting the scenery and talking of the row. on the draughty, zig-zag, concrete stairs, leading to the dressing-rooms, the stage-manager stood talking to a minor actor under a wavering gas-jet enclosed by a wire mesh. "quite a little trouble, sir," he said to naldrett. "too bad." "they didn't seem to like it, did they? which is miss hanlon's room?" "in number three, sir; but there's her dresser, if you've a note for her, sir. there's some ladies with her." outside the stage door, in the alley leading to the street, several idlers waited idly for an opportunity for outrage. in the street itself a crowd had gathered at the theatre entrance. a mob of vacant faces stood under the light, staring at the doors. they stared without noise and without intelligence, under the spell of that mesmerism which binds common intellects so easily. policemen moved through the mob, moving little parts of it, more by example than by precept. the starers moved because others moved. in the road was a glare of cab lights. light gleamed on harness, on the satin of cloaks, on the hats of footmen. "when did the age of polish begin?" said roger. "when the age of gilt ended," said john. "it's a base age; you can't even be a decent corpse without polish on your coffin. here we are at the masquers; shall we sup here, or at the petits soupers?" ii what, do we nod? sound music, and let us startle our spirits... ay, this has waked us. _the poetaster_. the act of sitting to table changed john's mood. the lightness and gaiety passed from him. it seemed to roger that he grew visibly very old and haggard, as the merry mood, stimulated by the excitement of the theatre, faded away. at times, during supper, john gave his friend the impression that the spiritual john was on a journey, or withdrawn into another world. he spoke little, chiefly in monosyllables, making no allusion to the play. he was become a shell, almost an unreal person. he gave no sign of possessing that intellectual energy which made his talk so attractive to young men interested in the arts. roger's fancy suggested that john was a kind of john the baptist, a torch-bearer, sent to set other people on fire, but without real fire of his own. he felt that john had lighted an entire city, by some obscure heap of shavings in a suburb, and had now dashed out his torch, so that the night hid him. he realised how little he knew this man, intimate as they had been. nobody knew him. nobody knew what he was. there were some who held that john was the wandering jew, others that he was a nihilist, a carlist, a balmacedist, a jacobite, the heir to france, king arthur, anti-christ, or parnell. all had felt the mystery, but none had solved it. here was this strange, enigmatic, brilliant man, an influence in art, in many arts, though he practised none with supreme devotion. he had wandered over most of the world; he spoke many tongues; he had friends in strange asian cities, in western mining towns, in rubber camps, in ships, in senates. no one had ever received a letter from him. but his rooms were always thronged with outlandish guests from all parts of the world. looking at him across the table, roger felt small suddenly, as though john really were a spirit now suddenly lapsing back into the night, after a spectral moment of glowing. he felt the man's extraordinary personality, and his own terrible pettiness in apprehending so little of it. something was wrong with him, something was the matter with the night. or had the whole unreal evening been a dream? or were they all dead, and was this heaven or hell? for life seemed charged with all manner of new realities. he had never felt like this before. something was changing in his brain. he was realising his own spiritual advances, in one of those rare moments in which one apprehends truth. it occurred to him, with a sudden impulse to violent laughter, that john, sitting back in his chair, mesmerised by the fantasy of the smoke from his cigarette, was also in a mood of spiritual crisis, attaining long-desired peace. john watched his cigarette till the ash fell, when the truth seemed fully attained, the soul's step upward made good. he glanced up at roger like a man just waking from a dream, like a man, long puzzled, at last made certain. "what are your plans?" he asked suddenly. "you'll go on writing?" "yes. i shall go on writing," roger answered. he was puzzled by the abruptness and detachment of john's manner. "i've got that louis quatorze play finished. i shall start on another in a day or two. i've a novel half finished; i told you the fable, i think. i've not done much since the rehearsals began." "you'll have a great success some day," said john, half to himself. "you'll be all that wentworth might have been had he lived. you know wentworth's work?" "yes," roger said. the question surprised him. john was speaking to him as though he were a stranger. they had discussed wentworth's work a score of times. "what sort of man was he?" he added. "a great genius in himself. in his work i don't think he was that, though of course he did wonderful things. you told me once that you were in love. how does that go on?" "i see her sometimes. i can't ask her to marry me. my prospects--well--i live by writing." "she is rich, i think you said? she lives in ireland?" "yes." "love is the devil!" said john abruptly. "i'm going abroad to-morrow, on account of my lungs. i was wondering if i should see you settled before i left." "good lord! you never told me." "wentworth used to say that, socially, the body does not exist. i thought of telling you. but there, there were other reasons. things which i can't tell you about." "but where are you going?" "to a place in south spain. i can't tell you more. listen. i believe that i am on the verge of discovering a great secret. it is an amazing thing; i've been working at it with centeno, that young spaniard who comes to my rooms. i am going to spain so that i may work with him in a warm climate." he rose from his seat excited by the thought of the discovery. he gulped the last of his wine, as though in a sudden fever to be at work. he flung on hat and coat in the same feverish preoccupation. roger, who had seen him thus before, knew that he was forgotten. his friend was already in those secret rooms at the top of a house in queen square. his spirit was there, bowed over the work with the spanish scholar; the earthly part of him was a parcel left behind in a restaurant to follow as it might. words from nowhere floated into roger's mind. it was as though some of john's attendant spirits had whispered to him: "your friend is busy with some strange doctrine of the soul," said the whisperer. "this world does not exist for him. you are nothing to him; you are only a little part of the eternal, dragging a caddis-worm's house of greeds. he is set free." he looked up quickly to see john deep in thought, with a waiter, standing beside him, offering an unnoticed bill. roger paid the bill. in another minute they were standing in the glare of the circus, amid tumult and harsh light. something in the unrhythmical riot broke the dreamer's mood. he looked at roger absently, as though remembering an event in a past life. a fit of coughing shook him, and left him trembling. "your play is a fine thing," he said weakly, as he hailed a hansom. "you are all right. i can't ask you to come round to my rooms; for i am working there with centeno. i work there far into the night, and i am in rather a mess with packing to-night." he seemed to pass into his reverie again; for he did not notice roger's hand. he was muttering to himself, "this is an unreal world; this is an unreal world," between gulps of cigarette smoke. a sudden burst of energy made him enter the cab. roger gave the cab-man the address, and closed the cab's aprons. his friend lifted a hand languidly and sank back into the gloom. the last that roger saw of him was a white, immobile mask of a face, rising up from the black pointed beard, which looked so like the beard of an assyrian king. the cab was hidden from sight among a medley of vehicles before roger realised that his friend was gone. it struck roger then that the evening had brought him very near to romance. he had seen his soul's work shouted down, by the minotaur. now the man whom he had worshipped was going away to die. more than the pain of losing the friend was the sharpness of jealousy; for why could not he, instead of centeno, help that spirit in the last transmutation, in the last glory, when the cracking brain cell let in heaven? he felt himself judged, and set aside. for an instant an impulse moved him to creep in upon the secret, up the stairs, through the corridor piled with books, to the dark room, hung with green, where the work went forward. he longed to surprise those conspirators over their secret of the soul, and to be initiated into the mystery, even at the sword's point. he put this thought from him; but the shock of john's parting brought it back again. his spirit seemed to flounder in him. he felt stunned and staggered. he crossed shaftesbury avenue wondering how life was to go on with no o'neill. he had no thought for his play's failure; this sorrow filled his nature. he paused for an instant on the western sidewalk of the avenue so that he might light a cigarette. as he bent over the flame, some one struck him violently between the shoulders. he turned swiftly, full of anger, to confront a half-drunken man whose face had the peculiar bloated shapelessness of the london sot. the man unjustly claimed, with many filthy words, that roger had jostled against him, and that he was going to--well, show him different. a little crowd gathered, expecting a fight. when the man's language was at its filthiest, a policeman interfered, bidding the drunkard go home quietly. the man asked how any one could go home quietly with ---- toffs running into him. the policeman turned to roger. roger was sickened and disgusted. charging the man, and causing him to be imprisoned or fined, was not to be thought of. the man was not sober; he had passed into a momentary fury of passion, and had butted blindly like an enraged bull. the mistake, and the foul talk, and the sudden attentions of the crowd at such a moment when he hoped to be alone, gave roger a feeling of helpless hatred of himself and of modern life. he turned abruptly. his enemy dogged him for a few steps, dropping filthy names, one by one, while some of the crowd followed, hoping that there would be an assault. the pursuit ended with a snarl. the drunkard turned diagonally across the street, so nearly under two motor-cabs that the crowd lost interest in roger from that instant. roger remembered that a few yards away there was a german restaurant, where some of his friends used to play dominoes over steins of lager. he entered the restaurant, hoping to meet some one; hoping, too, that the kindly foreign feeling which made the place restful and delightful might help him to forget his sorrow and distaste for life. he ordered coffee and cognac, and sat there, sorrowfully smoking, scanning those who entered, but seeing no friend among them. as he smoked the memories of the evening assailed him. he saw his work hooted from the stage, and john passing from his life, and the sot's bloated mouth babbling filth at him. his nerves were all shaken to pieces by the emotional strain of the past fortnight. he was in a child's mood; the mood of the homesick boy at school. he was as dangerously near hysteria as the drunkard. he longed to be over in ireland, in the house of that beautiful woman whom he loved, to be in the presence of calm and tenderness and noble thought, away from all these horrors and desolations. the thought of ottalie fawcett calmed him; for he could not think of that beautiful woman and of himself at the same time. memories of her gave his mind a sweet, melancholy food. one memory especially, of the beautiful lady, in her beautiful, early victorian dress, with great hat, grey gauntlets, and old pearl earrings, bending over a mass of white roses in the garden, recurred again and again. to think of her intently, and to see her very clearly in a mind acutely excited, was like communion with her. her image was so sharply outlined in his heart that he felt an exultation, as though their hearts were flowing into each other. one tingling thought of her was like her heart against his. it made him sure that she was thinking of him at that instant, perhaps with tenderness. he tried to imagine her thoughts of him. he tried to imagine himself her, looking out under that great hat, through those lively eyes, a beautiful, charming woman, exquisite, guarded, and infinitely swift of tact. it ended with a passionate longing to get away to ireland to see her, cost what it might. his heart turned to her; he would go to her. he could not live without love. the play had ended before ten o'clock. it was now half-past eleven. roger paid his bill, and turned into shaftesbury avenue, thinking that within thirty-six hours he would be set free. this dusty tumult would be roaring to other ears. he would be by the waters of moyle, among magical glens, knocking at his love's door, walking with her, hearing her voice, sitting with her over the turf fire, in that old house on the hills, looking over towards ailsa. that would be life enough. it would give him strength to begin again after his failure and the loss of his friend. his mind was full of her. he turned, as he had so often turned, late at night, to look at the windows of the little upper flat which his love shared with her friend agatha carew-ker. they were seldom in town to use the flat. they came there for flying visits generally in the spring and winter, when passing through london to the continent. it was a tiny flat of four living-rooms, high up, on the south side of shaftesbury avenue; a strange place for two ladies to have chosen, but it was near the theatres and shops. as roger walked towards it he recalled the last time he had been there, seven months before. he had had tea alone with ottalie, one misty october evening. for nearly half an hour they were alone in the flat, sitting together by the fire in the dusk, talking intimately, even tenderly; for there was something magical in the twilight, and the companionship was too close, during that rare half-hour, for either to light the lamp. he had known ottalie since childhood; but never before like this. her tenderness and charm and grave beauty had never been so near to him. two minutes more in that dusk would have brought him to her side. he would have taken her hands in his. he would have asked her if life could go back again, after such communion, to the old frank comradeship. then agatha came in, with her hardness and bustle and suspicion. the spell had been broken. agatha rated them for sitting in the dark. when he lighted the lamp, he was conscious of agatha's sharp critical eye upon him, and of a certain reproachful jealousy in her tone towards ottalie. there were little hard glances from one face to the other; and then some ill-concealed feminine manoeuvring to make it impossible for him to stay longer. he stayed until agatha became pointed. that was the last time he had seen ottalie. he had heard from her from time to time. he had sent her his last novel and his book of tales. she had sent him a silver match-box as a christmas present. agatha, in a postscript, had conveyed her "love" to him. he paused on the north side of the avenue to look at the flat windows high up on the opposite side. he was startled to see a light in ottalie's bedroom, a long gleam of light where the curtains parted, a gleam dimmed momentarily by some one passing. for five seconds he saw the light, then it was blown out. some one was in the flat, possibly ottalie herself. he might, perhaps, see her early the next morning. she might be there, just across the road. she might have been within three hundred yards of him for this last miserable hour; but it was strange that she had not written to tell him that she was coming to town. it could hardly be ottalie. it might be agatha, or some friend to whom they had lent the flat for the season. he was eager now for the next day to dawn, so that he might find out. he was utterly weary. he hailed a cab and drove to his rooms in westminster. the cabman, thinking him an easy subject, demanded more than the excess fare given to him. roger told him that he would get no more, and entered the house. the cabman, becoming abusive, climbed down and battered at the knocker, till the approach of a policeman warned him that any further attempts might lead to a summons. he drove away growling. roger lived in chambers in one of the old houses of westminster. he rented a little panelled sitting-room, a bedroom, also panelled, rather larger, and a third room so tiny that a clothes-press and a bath almost filled it. he lit his lamp to see what letters had come for him. there were five or six, none of them from ottalie. a telegram lay on the table. it was from an evening paper asking for the favour of an interview early the next morning. the row at the theatre was bearing fruit. he opened his letters; but, seeing that they were not amusing, he did not read them. he went into his bedroom to undress. on the mantelpiece was a rehearsal call card, which had given him a thrill of pleasure a fortnight before. now it seemed to grin at him with a devilish inanimate malice. an etched portrait of o'neill looked down mournfully from the wall. a photograph of ottalie on the dressing-table was the last thing noticed by him as he blew out the lamp. in the next house a member of parliament lived. his wife was musical, in a hard, accomplished way. she sang cleverly, though her voice was not good. she sang as her excellent masters had taught her to sing. she had profited by their teaching to the limits of her nature. in moments of emotion, when she recognised her shortcomings, she quoted to herself a line from abt vogler, "on the earth a broken arc, in the heaven a perfect round." she was an irregular, eccentric lady, fond of late hours. this night some wandering devil caused her to begin to play at midnight, when roger, utterly exhausted by the strain of the evening, was falling to a merciful sleep. a few bars was enough to waken roger. the wall between them was not thick enough to dull the noise. the few melancholy bars gathered volume. she began to sing with hard, metallic, callousness, with disillusion in each note. poor lady, the moment was beautiful to her. she could not know that she, in her moment of delight, was an instrument of the malevolent stars next door. roger sat up in bed with a few impatient words. he knew the lady's song; he had heard ottalie sing it. hearing this other lady sing it was instructive. it confirmed him in a theory held by him, that refinement was a quality of the entire personality; that delicacy of feeling, beauty of nature, niceness of tact, were shown in the least movement, in the raising of a hand, in the head's carriage, in the least sound of the voice. ottalie sang with all the beauty of her character, giving to each note an indescribable rightness of value, verbal as well as musical, conveying to her hearers a sense of her distinction of soul, a sense of the noble living of dead generations of fawcetts; a sense of style and race and personal exquisiteness. this lady sang as though she were out in a hockey field, charging the ball healthily, in short skirts, among many gay young sprigs from the barracks. she sang like the daughter of a _nouveau riche_. her song was a brief liaison between leipzig and a vulgar constitution. two minutes of her song put all thought of sleep from roger's mind. he lit his lamp and searched for some cigarettes. something prompted him to take down wentworth's _tragedy of poppaea_. he would read it over until the lady's muscles tired. he lit a cigarette. propping himself up with pillows he began to read, admiring the precise firmness of the rhythms, and that quality in the style which was all fragrance and glimmer, a fine bloom of beauty, never too much, which marked the artist. the choruses moved him by their inherent music. they were musical because the man's mind, though sternly muscular and manly, was full of melody. they were unlike most modern verse, which is reckoned musical when it shows some mechanical compliance with a pattern of music already in the popular ear. roger, as a writer not yet formed, was curious in all things which showed personal distinction and striving. this exquisite verse, this power of fine, precise intellectual conception, was reward enough, he thought, for the misery which this poet had suffered from his fellows. roger wondered how many ladies like the singer on the other side of the wall had asked poor wentworth to their "at homes" for any but a vulgar reason. he remembered how wentworth, a strict moralist soured by a life of suffering, had spoken to one lady. "you will buy my books and lay them on your tables. you will ask me to dinner to amuse yourself with my talk. you have won a reputation for wit by repeating my epigrams. and for which of my ideas do you care two straws, for which would you sacrifice one least vanity, for which would you outrage one convention? i will come to your 'at home.'" the cigarette was smoked out. the lady, having finished some four songs, now toyed with a little grieg, a little bach, a little schumann, like a delicate butterfly flying by the finest clockwork. roger, who was now in no mood for sleep, found the music of some value as an accompaniment to _poppaea_. it was like the light and excitement of a theatre, added to the emotion of the poetry. he read through to the end of the second act, when his eyes began to trouble him. then he rose, hurriedly dressed, wrapped himself in a chinese robe, embroidered with green silk dragons, and passed through his sitting-room window on to the balcony above the street. it was a narrow, old-fashioned balcony, big enough for three people, if the people were fond of each other. structurally it was a part of the balcony of the member's house, but an old straw trellis-work divided the two tenancies at the party wall. roger placed a deck-chair with its back against the trellis, which shut off the member's balcony from his. he was sheltered from above by a green verandah canopy, and from the street by another trellis about five feet high. he would not sleep now, until four; he knew his symptoms of old. he could not read. it was useless to lie tossing in bed. he sat in the deck-chair mournfully munching salted almonds. he was in a state of unnatural nervous excitement. the music came through the house delicately to him, softened by two walls, one of them honestly built in the late seventeenth century. he thought that john o'neill would be distant music to him henceforth. perhaps the dead look on the living souls as notes in a music, and play upon them, making harmony or discord, according to the power of their wills and the quality of their nature. he could imagine john, who had stricken so many living souls to music, playing on in death, not hampered by the indifference of any one note, but playing upon it masterly, rousing it to music, by striking some kindred note, reaching it through another, as perhaps our dead friends can. but life would be terrible without john. he remembered how lamb walked about muttering "coleridge is dead." a great spirit never expresses herself perfectly. she needs many lesser spirits to catch those glittering crumbs and fiery-flung manna seeds. when the bread passes, the disciples serve scraps and preach bakery. he finished his salted almonds regretfully, remembering that he was out of olives. he lighted another cigarette, and lay there smoking, trying to get calm. it was very still but for the music; for davenant street was as quiet as dean's yard. the windows were all blank and dark; people were sleeping. big ben's noble tone told the quarters. a policeman went past softly, feeling at the doors. something went wrong in the street lamp a few yards from roger's perch. it fluttered as though some great moth were struggling in the flame. it died down to a few flagging points of light, leaving the dark street even darker. big ben, lifting a solemn sweet voice, tolled two, with noble melancholy, resigned to death, but hungry for the beauty of life, like the spirit of raleigh speaking. ottalie was asleep now, the grey eyes shut, the sweet face lying trustful. john was with the pale young spaniard, doing what? in the room high aloft there, over queen square. london was about to take its hour of quiet. only the poets, the scholars, and the idlers were awake now. in a little while the may dawn would begin. even now it was tingeing the cherry blossom in aleppo. the roses of sarvistan were spilling in the heat. the blades of green corn by troy gleamed above the river as the wind shook them. tenedos rose up black, watching the channel, now showing steel. roger lighted another cigarette from the embers of the last. it was too quiet to strike a match. the stillness gave him an emotional pleasure. it gave him a sense of power, as though he were the only living spirit in the midst of all this death. he was sorry when the music stopped, for it had made the stillness more impressive. if his thoughts had not been calmed by it, they had at least been made more beautiful, chaotic as they were. the bitterness of the night worked less bitingly. he was conscious of an exaltation of the mind. up there in the quiet, his devotion to john, his passion for ottalie, and his love of all high and noble art, seemed co-ordinated in a grand scheme in which he was both god and man. standing up, he looked over the trellis into the street, deeply moved. he was here to perfect that magnificent work of art,--himself. john, who had pointed the way, was gone now. ottalie, who had inspired him, was waiting with her crown; or perhaps only showing it to lure him, for nature, prodigal of dust and weed, gives true beauty sparingly. it was for him to follow that lure and to gather strength to seize it. the world was a little dust under his feet. in his soul was a little green seed bursting. it would grow up out of all the grime and muck of modern life, among all the flying grit of the air, into a stately tree, which would shelter the world with beauty and peace. he would be a supreme soul. he would dominate this rabble which hooted him. he lit another cigarette. john was like a man sent from god. john was unreal. john had marched before him with a torch. now that ghostly master of his had thrust the torch into the road, pointing him forward with a gesture. the way to perfection lay further on, along a path too narrow for two. far up the path he could see ottalie, a glimmer of fragrant beauty, half hidden in a whirling dust-storm which almost swept him off the ledge. the dust should not keep him from her. he would climb to her. they would go on together. at this instant, as the melancholy intensity of the bells tolled the quarter-hour, the window-door opened on the other side of the straw trellis. a lady came out on to the balcony. she hummed one of heine's songs in a little low voice, which left the music full of gaps. roger recognised the singer's voice. he wondered if her husband were with her. he supposed that he must be at the house, and that she was waiting for him. her skirts rustled as she moved. a faint scent of violet attracted roger to her. it was faint, exotic, and suggestive. there is an intoxication in perfumes. she stood there for a full ten seconds before she divined his presence beyond the screen. her song stopped instantly. two seconds more convinced her that the person was male and alone. a third suggested that he was a burglar. "who is there?" she said quietly. her voice was anxious rather than fearful. "i'm so sorry," said roger. he did not know what else to say. "i live here." he thought that it would be polite to go indoors. he turned to go. to his surprise she spoke again. "can you give me a cigarette?" she said. she still spoke quietly. she spoke as if a maidservant were in the room behind her. roger was flustered. he was a man of quick blood in a condition of excited nerves. "yes," he said. "will you have russian, or american, or turkish?" she appeared to debate for an instant. "give me a russian," she said. "give it to me through this hole in the matting. thanks." "have you a match?" roger asked. "no," she answered. "give me a light from yours, please. don't set the mat on fire, though." he thrust his burning cigarette through the hole in the matting. he felt the pressure of her cigarette upon it. he heard her quickened breathing. he saw the glow brightening through the mat as the tobacco kindled. "thanks," she said softly, with a little half-laugh. "how did the play go?" "the play?" roger stammered. "it was---- do you mean---- which play do you mean?" "your play; _the roman matron_. you are mr. naldrett, aren't you? i met you once for a moment at a house in chelsea. at mrs. melyard's, three years ago. i was just going." he remembered that hectic beauty mrs. melyard. she was like a green snake. she used to receive her intimates (she had no friends) in a room hung with viridian. there were green couches, green-shaded lights, a gum burning greenly in a brazier with green glass sides. she herself was dressed in green, glittering, metallic scales, which made a noise like serpent's hissing as she glided. "nothing is really interesting except vice," was the only phrase which he could remember of mrs. melyard's conversation. she was a feverish character, explained by inherited phthisical taint. melyard collected tsuba, and fenced archæologically at the foil club. he was the best rapier and dagger man in england. "you are mrs. templeton?" he asked. "i remember a lady at mrs. melyard's." "i wasn't married then," she said quickly. "how did the play go?" "it was booed off." "i'm sorry," she said. she meant "i am sorry that i asked." roger wondered how he could get away. it depended on the lady. "can't you sleep?" she asked suddenly. "no." "i can't. will it bore you to come in to talk to us?" he was used to unconventional people. he saw nothing strange in the woman's invitation. most of the women known to him would have acted as simply and as frankly in the same circumstances. he knew that templeton seldom went to bed before two. he took it for granted that templeton was in the sitting-room; possibly within earshot. "i'm not very presentable," he said. "let me change this robe." "we shan't mind," she said, reassuring him. "come on." "will you let me in?" "we'll pull down this screen." they pulled down the old matting with two vigorous jerks. roger stepped across the partition into the further balcony. "come in," she said, passing through the window. "it's dark inside here. take care of the chair there." she put out a hand to pull the chair away. she did it roughly, making a good deal of noise. "you sit here," she said. "that chair's comfy. i'll sit here, opposite; here's an ash-tray." "could i light a lamp or candle?" roger asked, taking out his match-box. "no, thanks," she said. "don't light up just yet; i'm sick of light. i wish we could live in the dark, like wild beasts." "london is on your nerves," said roger. "the noise and worry are upsetting you. you are tired of london, not of light." he was disappointed by being asked to sit in darkness. he began to lose interest in the lady. she was only a modern dramatic heroine, i.e. a common woman overstrained. he had heard similar affected silliness from a dozen empty women, some of them pretty. he had heard that mrs. templeton was pretty. as she refused light, he decided that fame had lied. "she must be a blonde," he thought, "and this room is lit by electricity." he wished that templeton would come. templeton would make the situation easier, and his wife's talk more sensible. the lady was silently trying to sum him up. "no; i'm not tired of london," she was saying. "only one cannot _live_ in london." "london is on your nerves," roger repeated. "london is a feverish great spider. it sucks out vitality, and leaves its own poison instead. look at the arts. a young artist comes up here full of vitality. unless he is a truly great man, london will suck it all out of him, and make him as poisonous and as feverish as herself." "yes, that is quite true," she answered. "i wish we could all be simple and natural, and have time to live. life is so interestin'. the only really interestin' thing." "what kind of life do you wish to live?" "i wish to live my own life. i want to know my own soul. to live. in london one is always livin' other people's lives, goin' dinin', doin' things because other people do them. but where else can you meet interestin' people?" "people are not essential to true life," said roger. "i believe that all perfect life is communion with god, conversation, that is, with ideas; 'godly conversation.' people are to some extent like thoughts, like living ideas; for the inner and the outer lives correspond." "you mean that life is a kind of curve?" the lady interrupted. the question was a moral boomerang. she often used it defensively; she had once felled a scientist with it. "life is whatever you like to make it." "i'm thinkin' of goin' to live in ireland," said the lady. "the people must be so exquisitely charmin'. such a beautiful life, sittin' round the fire, singin' the old songs. and then their imagination!" "their charm is superficial," said roger. "taking the times together, i've lived in ireland for seven years. i have a cottage there. i do not think that you will sit round many fires, to sing old songs, after the first fine careless rapture, which lasts a month. i'm an englishman, of course. when in ireland i'm only one of the english garrison. i may be wanting in sympathy; but i maintain that the irish have no imagination. imagination is a moral quality." "i don't think an englishman can understand the irish," said the lady. "when an irishman is great enough to escape from the littleness of his race, he becomes a very splendid person," roger answered. "but until that happens he seems to me to be wanting in any really fundamental quality." "oh," said the lady, "you are talking so very like an englishman. you aren't interested in life, i see. you are only interested in morals. but you cannot say that the irish have no imagination. they have wonderful imagination. look at the way they talk. and their writers: swift, goldsmith, sheridan. and their own exquisite irish poets." "i'd give the whole company for one act of addison's _cato_," said roger. "swift had a limited vision and a diseased mind. he diagnosed his own diseases. goldsmith wrote some pretty verses. but i do not think that you have read them. have you? sheridan wrote a comedy at the age of twenty-four to prove that a sot is nobler than a scholar. later, he tried to prove it in his own person. i do not read irish. i have read translations from it. its distinctive quality seemed to me to be just that kind of windy impersonality which one hears in their talk." "that is so english of you," said the lady, laughing. "i think that i ought to be very thankful for my celtic blood." "are you a celt?" "yes; from cornwall. i think it gives me an instinctive love of the beautiful." "those who love beauty make it. i, too, have been a celt. i was a celt from my twenty-second till my twenty-fifth year. then i discovered a very curious fact--two facts." "what were they?" "first, that the celt's love of the beautiful is all bunkum. second, that the people of these islands are mongrels, bred from the scum of europe. you can call yourself an anglo-saxon, or a celt, or an aryan, or a norman, or a long-barrow palæolith; but if you came from these islands, you are a mongrel, a mongrel of a most chequered kind." at this instant the door opened suddenly, and the electric light was turned on. in the doorway stood templeton--a tall, bald, thin-faced man, with foxy moustache and weak eyes. his face showed amazed anger. "what is this?" he said. "let me introduce you," said the lady. "my husband, mr. naldrett." roger, standing up under the angry gaze of templeton, was conscious of looking like a fool, in his robe of green silk dragons. "i don't understand," said templeton. "i asked mr. naldrett here to talk to me," said the lady. "so i presume," said templeton. "have you had an interesting sitting?" roger asked. templeton did not answer. he was glaring at his wife. his opera hat was tilted back; his overcoat was unbuttoned; an unlighted cigarette drooped from his mouth. "archie," said the lady suavely, "mr. naldrett is my friend. i asked him here to talk to me." "so i see," said templeton. "to talk to me," the woman repeated, flaring up, "while you were with mrs. liancourt at her flat in st. anne's mansions. i know when the house rose, and where you went afterwards. if you're goin' to have your friends, i'm goin' to have mine." templeton seemed to gulp. he turned to roger. "perhaps you will go," he said. "yes, i think i had better," said roger. "i am sorry that i came." he rose to go. mrs. templeton turned to him. "a quarter to three," she said sweetly. "you will remember that?" roger looked hard at mrs. templeton. never again would he speak civilly to a woman with high cheek-bones, steel eyes, and loose mouth. he bowed to her. "i didn't deserve it," he said quietly. he walked to the window-door, feeling like some discovered lover in a play. as he entered the balcony, templeton slammed to the door behind him with a snarl of "now," as he opened fire on his wife. templeton's flanks were turned. he was blowing up his ammunition wagons before surrendering. for a moment roger felt furious with templeton. then he blamed the lady. she had played him a scurvy trick. lastly, as he began to understand her position, he forgave her. he blamed himself. he felt that he had mixed himself with something indescribably squalid. as he undressed for bed he blamed the world for its vulgarity, and dreariness, and savagery. the world was too much with him. it was thwarting, and blighting, and destroying him. he longed to get away from the world. anywhere. to those irish hills above the sea, to his beautiful friend, to some peaceful, gentle life, where the squalor of his night's adventures would be unknown and unremembered. he felt contaminated. he longed to purify himself in the sea below his love's home. he thought of that water. he saw it lit by the sun, with tremulous brown sea-leaves folding. sand at the bottom, six feet down, made a wrinkled blur of paleness, across which a lobster crawled. he would go there. in fifteen hours he would be tearing towards it through the night, past the great glaring towns, on into the hills, to the sea. a thought of the shaking of the train, and of the uneasy sleep of the people in the carriage, merged gradually into the blur which precedes unconsciousness. before big ben tolled four he was asleep, in that kind of restless nightmare which chains the will without chaining the intelligence. in that kind of sleep which is not sleep he dreamed a dream of ottalie, which awakened him, in sudden terror, at seven. iii i prythee, sorrow, leave a little room in my confounded and tormented mind for understanding to deliberate the cause or author of this accident. _the atheist's tragedy_. he thought, as he sat up, that an instant before his true self had walked in the spiritual kingdom, apprehending beauty. now, with the shock of waking, the glory wavered, like a fire of wet wood, fitfully, among the smoke of the daily life flooding back in his brain's channels. the memory of the beauty came in gleams, moving him to the bone, for it seemed to him that the spirit of his love had moved in the chambers of his brain, bringing a message to him, while the dulnesses of his body lay arrested. a dream so beautiful must, he thought, be a token of all beauty, a sign, perhaps, that her nature was linked to his, for some ecstatic purpose, by the power outside life. her beauty, her sweetness, her intense, personal charm, all the sacredness that clothed her about, had walked with him in one of the gardens of the soul. that was glory enough; but the dream was intense and full of mystery; it had brought him very near to something awful and immortal, so strange and mighty that only a heart's tick, something in the blood, had kept him from the presence of the symbol-maker, and from the full knowledge of the beauty of the meaning of life. the vision seemed meaningless when pieced together. words in it had seemed revelations, acts in it adventures, romances; but judged by the waking mind, it was unintelligible, though holy, like a mass in an unknown tongue. he had found her in the garden at her home, among flowers lovelier than earthly flowers, among flowers like flames and precious stones. that was the beginning of it. then in the sweetness of their talk he had become conscious of all that her love meant to him, of all that it meant to the power which directs life, of all that his failure to win her would mean, here and hereafter. life had seemed suddenly terrible and glorious, a wrestle of god and devil for each soul. with this consciousness had come a change in the dream. she had gone from him. that was the middle of it. then that also changed. she had left him to seek for her through the world. suddenly she had sent a message to him. he was walking to meet her. delight filled him as wine fills a cup. he would see her, he would touch her hand, her eyes would look into his. he had never before been so moved by the love of her. his delight was not the old selfish pleasure, but a rapturous comprehension of her beauty, and of that of which her beauty was the symbol. he knew, as he walked, that the beloved life in her was his own finer self, longing to transmute him to her brightness. a word, a touch, a look, and they would be together in nobleness; he would breathe the beauty of her character like pure air, he would be a part of her forever. so he had walked the streets to her, noticing nothing except the brightness of the sun on the houses, till he had stood upon the stair-top knocking vainly at the door of an empty house. it came upon him then with an exhaustion of the soul, like death itself, that he had come too late. she had gone away disappointed, perhaps angry. the door would never open to him; he would never meet her again; never even enter the hall, dimly seen through the glass, to gather relics of her. within, as he could see, lay a handkerchief and a withered flower once worn by her, little relics bitterly precious, to be nursed in his heart in a rapture of agony, could he only have them. but he had come too late; he had lost her; his heart, wanting her, would be empty always, a dead thing going through life like a machine. in his vision he could see across to ireland, to her home. he could see her there; sad that she had not seen him. he had tried to wade to her through a channel full of thorns, which held him fast. from the midst of the thorns he could see a young man, with a calm, strong face, talking to her. shaken as he was by grief, and prepared for any evil, he realised that this youth was to be her mate, now that he had lost her. lastly, at the end of the dream, he had received a letter from her, with the postmark athens across the greek stamp. the letter had been the most real part of the dream. it was her very hand, a dashing, virile hand, with weak, unusual f's, t's crossed far to the right of their uprights, and a negligent beauty in some of the curves of the capitals. the letters were small, the down-strokes determined but irregular, never twice the same. it was the hand of a vivid, charming, but not very strong character. he could not remember what the letter said. only one sentence at the end remained. "i have read your last book," it ran; "it reads like the diary of a lost soul." there was no signature; nothing but the paper, with the intensely vivid writing, and that one sentence plainly visible. it was even sound criticism. the book of sketches had been self-conscious experiments in style, detached, pictorial presentation of crises, clever things in their way, but startling, both in colour and in subject, the results of moods, not of perfected personality. the sketches had been ill-assorted; that was another fault. but he had not thought them evil. sitting up in bed, with the damning sentence still vivid, he felt that they must be evil, because she disliked them. he had created brutal, erring, passionate, and wicked types, with frank and natural creative power. at this moment he felt himself judged. he felt for the first time that the theories of art common to the little party of his friends, were not so much theories of art as declarations of youthful independence, soiled with personal failures of perception and personal antipathies. he was wrong; his art was all wrong; his art was all self-indulgence, not self-perfection. an artist had no right to create at pleasure, ignoble types and situations, fixing fragments of the perishing to the walls of the world, as a keeper nails vermin. ottalie's fair nature was not nourished on such work. great art called such work "sin," "denial of the holy ghost," "crucifixion of our lord." he reached for the offending book; but the words seemed meaningless; some of the intricate prose-rhythms were clever. but anybody can do mechanics and transcribe. style and imagination are the difficult things. he put the book aside, wondering if he would ever do good work. he was haunted by the dream until he was dressed. then the memories of the night before came in upon him, the yells of the mob, hooting his soul's child, the bloated face of the sot, his friend's farewell that had had neither warning nor affection, the indignity of the visit to the templetons', till the world seemed to be pressing its shapeless head upon his windows, shrieking insults at him, through yielding glass. he began to realise that he had had the concentrated torment of months suddenly stamped upon him in a night. his work, his person, his affections, his social nature had all been trampled and defiled. he wondered what more torments were coming to him with the new day. some forethought of what was coming crossed his mind when he saw his breakfast-table. beside his teacup were three or four daily papers, in which, in clear type, were set forth the opinions of britain's moral guardians concerning their immoral brother. there were letters first, some of them left from the night before. an obscure acquaintance, a lady in somersetshire, sent some verses, asking for his criticism, and for the address of "a publisher who would pay for them." one of the poems began "hark! hark! hark! 'tis the song of the lark, dewy with spangles of morn." a second letter from the same lady enclosed a "poem on my cat peter," which had been accidentally omitted from the other envelope. his agent sent him a very welcome cheque for £ , for his newly completed novel. next came a letter from a stranger, asking for permission to set some verses to music. a charitable countess asked for verses for her new bazaar book. an american news cutting bureau sent a little bundle of reviews of his book of sketches. the wrapper on the bundle bore a legend in red ink:-- "we mail you clippings of _the handful_. has your agency sent you that many? if you like our way of business, mail us $ . , and we will continue to collect clippings under your name." he disliked their way of business. he flung the clippings unread into the fireplace. the next letter asked him to lecture to the torchbearers' guild, who, it seemed, admired "the virile manliness" of his style. last of all came a letter from an unknown clergyman denouncing the pernicious influence of _the handful_ in words which, without being rude, were offensive beyond measure. he took up the papers. the first paper, _the daily dawn_, treated him _d'haut en bas_, as follows:-- "m. falempin's latest theatrical adventure, _a roman matron_, by mr. roger naldrett (whom we suspect, from internal evidence, to be a not very old lady), was produced last night at the king's theatre. as far as the audience permitted us to judge, before the piece ended in a storm of groans, we think that it is entirely unsuited to the modern stage. the character of petronius, finely played by mr. danvers, showed some power of psychological analysis; but mr. (or miss) naldrett would do well to remember that the aristotelian definition of tragedy cannot be disregarded lightly." the criticism in the second paper, _the dayspring_, was written in more stately prose than that of _the dawn_. "an unreasonable amount of excitement was begotten by the entourage," it ran; "but the piece, which was dull, and occasionally disgusting, convinced us that the new drama, about which we have heard so much lately, would do better to adequately study a drama more germane to modern ideas, such as we fortunately possess, than libel the institutions from which our glorious constitution is derived," which was certainly a home-thrust from _the dayspring_. the third paper, _the morning_, in its news column, referred to a disgraceful _fracas_ at the king's theatre. "the police," said _the morning_, "were soon on the spot, and removed the more noisy members of the audience. neither m. falempin, the manager of the theatre, nor miss hanlon, who took a leading part in the offending play, would consent to be interviewed, when waited on, late last night, by a representative of this paper." the fourth paper, _the day_, said savagely that _the matron_ should never have passed the censor, and that its production was an indelible blot on m. falempin's (hitherto spotless) artistic record. roger had written occasional reviews for _the day_, about a dozen, all told. on the same page, and in the column next to that containing the "dramatic notes," was a review signed by him. roger turned to this review, to see how it read. it was a review of a worthless book of verse by a successful versifier. the literary editor of _the day_ had asked roger to write a column on the book. as the book deserved, at most, three scathing words in a dunciad, roger had written a column about poetry, a very pretty piece of critical writing, worth five thousand such books fifty times over. its only fault was that, being about poetry, it had little reference to the book of verse by the successful poet. so the literary editor had "cut" and "written in" and altered the article, till roger, reading it, on this tragical morning, found himself self-accused of despicable truckling to mammon, and the palliation of iniquity, in sentences the rhythms of which jarred, and in platitudes which stung him. he flung down the paper. he would never again write for _the day_. he would never write another word for any daily or weekly paper. he remembered what d'arthez says in _les illusions perdues_. he blamed himself for not having remembered before. he ate very hurriedly, so that he might lose no time in getting to the flat in shaftesbury avenue, to find out if ottalie were really there. ottalie; the sight of ottalie; the sound of her voice even, would end his troubles for him. the thought of her calmed him. the thought of her brought back the dream, with a glow of pleasure. the dream came and went in his mind, seeming now strange, now beautiful. his impression of it was that given by all moving dreams. he thought of it as a kind of divine adventure in which he had taken part. he felt that he had apprehended spiritually the mysterious life beyond ours, and had learned, finally, forever, that ottalie's soul was linked to his soul by bonds forged by powers greater than man. a cab came clattering up. there came a vehement knocking at the outer door. "ottalie," he thought. selina, the house-maid, entered. "a lady to see you, sir," she said. he stood up, gulping, expecting ottalie. the lady entered. she was not ottalie. she was a total stranger in a state of great excitement. "are you mr. naldrett, sir?" she said. "yes. yes. what is it?" "mrs. pollock's compliments, sir, and will you please come round at once?" "what's the matter?" "it's mr. pollock, sir. he's had a fit or somethink. he's lying in the grate with all the blood gone to his apalex." "right," said roger, stuffing his letters into his pockets. "i'll come. when did it happen?" "just now, sir. he'd just gone into the studio, to begin his painting. then there came a crash. and the missus and i rush in, and there he was in the grate, sir." "yes. yes. have you sent for a doctor?" "no, sir. the missus said to go for you." they galloped off in the cab together. pollock with the bloody apalex was a young artist whose studio was in vincent square. roger was fond of him. he had shared rooms with him until his marriage. roger wondered as he drove what was going to happen to the wife if pollock died. she was expecting a child. pollock hadn't made much, poor fellow. "very beautiful paintings, mr. pollock does, sir," said the lady with enthusiasm. "oh, he does them beautiful. but they're not like ordinary pictures. i mean, they're not pretty, like ordinary pictures. they're like old-fashioned pictures." "yes," said roger. "tell me. is his big picture finished? the one with the lady under a stained-glass window." "no, sir. it's got a lot to do yet, sir. o i 'ope nothink's going to 'appen to 'im, sir." "now here we are," said roger, as the cab slackened. "now you drive to the corner there. you'll see a brass plate with dr. collinson on it at the corner house. tell him to get into the cab with you and come round at once. go on, now. see that he comes at once." the door of the flat stood open. roger entered hurriedly. just inside he ran against pollock, who was hastening with a jug of water from the bathroom. "what is it, pollock? are you better?" "i'm all right," said pollock, feeling a bandaged head. "it's kitty. not me. come on in, quick." "but i thought you were having apoplexy." "that heavy frame full of dürers came down. the corner caught me over the eye while i was standing by the mantelpiece. it knocked me out. come on in. i believe kitty's in a bad way." kitty lay on a couch. her face was not like a human being's face. pollock, very white, sponged her brow with cold water. "there, dear," he kept saying, "o god, o god, o god," those words, over and over again. roger ran to the bedroom for pillows. there was a fire in the kitchen. he poked it up, and put water to boil. "where's her hot-water bottle?" he called. not getting any answer he looked for it in one of the beds, which had not yet been made up. he filled the bottle and made up the bed. "now, charles," he said, "we must get her into bed. i wish your girl would bring the doctor." charles looked at him stupidly. "i believe she's dying, roger," he answered. "o god, i believe she's dying. i've never seen any one like this. she used to be so pretty, roger, before all this happened." "dying? nonsense!" said roger. he turned to the patient. "kitty," he said, "we're going to put you to bed. lean on my arm." the laughter stopped; but the limbs crazily made protest. he had never seen anything like it. it was as though the charming graceful woman had suddenly been filled by the spirit of a wild animal, which was knocking itself to pieces against the corners in the strange house. "we shall have to carry her, charles," he said. "no, no," said charles. "she's dying." the doctor, coming in abruptly, took the battle out of his hands. "come, come," he said. "come, mrs. pollock. i was afraid that you were ill. you'll feel a lot better when you get to bed. i want you to rest." he turned to pollock. "get her into bed," he said. "have you got a nurse?" "no," said pollock. "she can't come till july." "bessie here will do for the moment," said roger. bessie and pollock helped her to bed. the doctor and roger talked desultorily. "no. it's nothing serious. so the frame came down and stunned him? i see. and she came in and found him in the grate? yes. a nasty shock. yes. yes. of course, it may be serious. it will be impossible to say till i see her. if she had had other children i should say not. but-- would you say that she is an excitable woman, given to these attacks?" "no. she used to write a little. she is nervous; but not excitable. do you find that occupation has much influence on the capacity to resist shock?" "n-no," said the doctor. "resistance depends on character. occupation only modifies character slightly. life being what it is, one has to be adaptable to survive." pollock entered, looking beaten. "will you come, doctor?" he said. they went. presently pollock returned alone. he sat down. "it's it," he said despondently. "my picture's not done. i shan't have a penny till july. we were counting on its not happening till july. i've not got ten pounds." "you mustn't worry about that," said roger. "you must borrow from me. take this cheque. i'll endorse it. give me yours for half of it. don't say you won't. look here. you must. now about a nurse. look here. listen to me, charles. you can't leave here. i'll see about a nurse. i know the sort of woman kitty would like. i'll settle all that with the doctor. i'll send the best i can. you can't leave kitty, that's certain." pollock pulled himself together. the doctor returned. roger took the addresses of several women, and hurried off to interview them. no cab was in sight. he wasted ten good minutes of nervous tension in trying to find one. he found one at last. as he drove, the desire to be at ottalie's flat made him forget his friend. he thought only of the chance of seeing ottalie. he must waste no time. he wondered if he would be too late, as in his dream. he would have to get there early, very early. he prayed that the first nurse on his list might be a suitable woman. the image of the suitable nurse, a big, calm, placid, ox-eyed woman, formed in his mind. if he could find her at once he would be in time. he was longing to be pounding past whitehall, on the way to shaftesbury avenue. a clock above a hosier's told him that it was nine. no. that clock had stopped. another clock, further on, over a general store, said eight-fifteen. yet another, eight-thirty. his watch said eight-thirty-five; but his watch was fast. mrs. perks, of denning street, was out. would he leave a message? no, he would not leave a message. was it mrs. ford? no, not mrs. ford, another lady. perhaps he would come back. he bade the cabman to hurry. mrs. stanton, the next on the list, could not come. she was expecting a call from another lady. mrs. sanders was out, and "wouldn't be back all day, she said." the fourth, a brisk, level-headed woman, busy at a sewing-machine in a neat room, would come; but was he the husband, and could she be certain of her fees, and what servants were kept? he said that the fees were safe. he gave her two sovereigns on account. then she boggled at the single servant. she was not very strong. she had never before been with any lady with only one servant. she wasn't sure how she would get on. she had herself to consider. "i'm sorry," said roger. "you would have been the very woman. i'll go on to the hospital." "perhaps i could manage," she said. "will you come?" he asked. "is it in a house or a flat?" "it's in a top flat." "i dare say i could manage," she said, still hesitating. roger, remembering suddenly that pollock had a married sister, vowed that another lady would be there a good deal in the daytime. she weighed this fact as she stood by the door of the cupboard about to take her hat. "i don't think i should care to do it," she said suddenly. "i've not been used to that class of work." turning at the door as he went out, he saw that she was watching him with a faint smile. only the hospital remained. it took him a long way out of his way. it was twenty past nine when he reached the hospital. very soon it would be too late for ottalie. his heart sank. he believed in telepathy. he was thinking so fixedly on ottalie that he believed that she must sense his thought. "ottalie, ottalie," he kept saying to himself. "wait for me. wait for me. i shall come. i am coming as fast as i can. can't you feel me hurrying to you? wait for me. don't let me miss you." he discharged his horse-cab, and engaged a motor-cab. two minutes later he had engaged a nurse. she was in the cab with him. they were whirling south. "no," she was telling him. "i don't find much difference in my cases. i don't generally see them after. some are more interesting than others. i like being with an interesting case. i don't mean to say a serious case, and have either of them die, and that. i mean, you know, out of the usual. that's why i like having to do with a first child." she asked if there were any chance of her being too late. roger, with his heart full of ottalie, could not tell her. "i shouldn't like to be too late," she said. "i've never missed a case yet. never. i should be vexed if i were too late with this one. it's a painter gentleman, i think you said it was?" "yes." "i was with a painter's lady once before," she said. "he gave me a little picture of myself." they reached the flat. pollock's sister had arrived. the doctor had sent his son for her. pollock was moodily breaking chalk upon a drawing. the studio was foul with the smoke of cigarettes. "i can't work," he said, lighting a cigarette from the fag-end of the last. "sit down." he flung away his chalk and sat down. "you've been awfully good to me, roger. you've got me out of a tragedy. you don't know what it feels like." "how is kitty?" "pretty well, the doctor thinks. god knows what he would call bad. this is all new to me. i don't want to go through this again. god knows if she'll ever get through it. i shall shoot myself if anything happens to kitty." roger glanced at his watch. it was eighteen minutes to ten. he would have to fly to find ottalie. if she were in town at all, she would be out by ten. he was sure of that. his motor-cab was waiting. he had a quarter of an hour. but how could he leave pollock in this state? "charles," he said, "i want you to come out with me. you've got on shoes, i see. take your hat. kitty is with three capable women and a doctor. you're only in the way, and making a fuss. come with me. i'll leave you at the national gallery, while i see a friend. then we'll go to bondini's, in suffolk street." he called gently to pollock's sister. "mrs. fane," he said, "i'm taking charles to bondini's, in suffolk street." "a very good thing," said mrs. fane. "a man is much better out of the way in times like these." they started. just outside dean's yard gate the cab broke down. roger got out. "what's the matter?" he asked. "nothing much, sir," said the man, already busy under the bonnet. "i won't keep you a minute. get in again, sir." a hand touched roger's arm. he turned. a total stranger, unmistakably a journalist, was at his side. roger shuddered. it was an interviewer from _the meridian_. "mr. naldrett?" said the interviewer, taking a long shot. "i recognised you by your portrait in _the bibliophile_. a lucky meeting. perhaps you didn't get my telegram. i called round at your rooms just now, but you were out. i want to ask you about your play _the matron_. it attracted considerable attention. will you please tell me if you have any particular ideas about tragedy?" "yes," said roger; "i have. and i'm going to express them. i'm in a great hurry; and i must refuse to be interviewed. please thank your editor from me for the honour he has done me; but tell him that i cannot be interviewed." "certainly not, since you wish it," said the journalist. "but i would like to ask you one thing. i am told your play is very morbid. are you morbid? you don't look very morbid." "i am sorry," said roger. "but i am not morbid." "mr. naldrett," said the journalist, "are you going to write any more tragedies like _the roman matron_?" "i have one finished and one half finished," said roger. "i hope, mr. naldrett," said the journalist, "that you have written them for ordinary people, as well as to please yourself. writing to please one's self is very artistic. but won't you consider clapham, and balham, and tooting? how will you please them with tragedies? a good comedy is what people like. they want something to laugh at, after their day's work. they're quite right. a good comedy's the thing. anybody can write a tragedy. what's the good of making people gloomy? one wants the pleasant things of life, mr. naldrett, on the stage. one goes to the theatre to be amused. there's enough tragedy in real life without one getting more in the theatre. i suppose you've studied ibsen, mr. naldrett?" "have not you?" "i don't believe in him. he may be a thinker and all that, but his view of life is very morbid. he is a decadent. of course, they say his technique is very fine. but he has a mind like a sewer." "quite ready, sir," said the chauffeur, swinging himself into his seat. "i must wish you good-bye, here," said roger to the interviewer. "mind your coat. it's caught in the door. mind you thank your editor." the cab snorted off, honking. the interviewer gazed after it. "h'm," he said, with that little cynical nod with which the unintelligent express comprehension. "so that's the new drama, is it?" the car reached trafalgar square without being stopped by the traffic. st. martin's clock stood at a few minutes to ten. roger was in the dismal mood of one who, having given up hope, is yet not certain. he dropped pollock at the gallery, and then sped on, through leicester square, up a little street full of restaurants and french book shops. the car was stopped by traffic at the end of this street. roger leapt out, paid the man hurriedly, and ran into the avenue. within thirty seconds, he was running up four flights of stairs to the door on which he had knocked in his vision. he peered through the glass in the door. as in his dream, something lay in the passage beyond, some glove or handkerchief or crumpled letter, with a shaft of sunlight upon it from an open door. no one came to open to him; but roger, knocking there, was conscious of the presence of ottalie by him and in him; he felt her brushing past him, a rustling, breathing beauty, wearing a great hat, and those old pearl earrings which trembled when she turned her head. but no ottalie came to the door, no agatha, no old mrs. hicks the caretaker. the flat was empty. after a couple of minutes of knocking, an old, untidy, red-faced woman came out from the flat beneath, gasping for breath, with her hand against her side. "no use your knockin'," she said crustily. "they're gawn awy. they i'n't 'ere. they're gawn awy." "when did they go?" asked roger, filled suddenly with leaping fire. "they're gawn awy," repeated the old woman. "no use your knockin'. they're gawn awy." she gasped for a moment, eyeing roger with suspicion and dislike; then turned to her home with the slow, uncertain, fumbling movements of one whose heart is affected. roger was left alone on the stairs, aware that he had come too late. the stairs were covered with a layer of sheet-lead. when the old woman had shut her door, roger grovelled down upon them, lighting match after match, in the hope of finding footmarks which might tell him more. agatha had rather long feet, ottalie's were small, but very well proportioned. mrs. hicks's feet were disguised by the boots she wore. a scrap of brown linoleum on the stair-head bore evident marks of a man's hobnail boots which had waited there, perhaps for an answer. there were other, non-committal marks, which might have been made by anybody. on the whole, roger fancied that a woman had made them, when going out, with dry shoes, that morning. the problem now was, had she left london for ireland or for the continent? with some misgivings, he decided against ireland. on former occasions she had always made her stay in london after her visit to the continent. if she had been staying in london for more than one night, she would have written to him; he would have seen her. as she had not written to him, she was plainly going abroad, probably for a month or six weeks, after resting for one night on the way. he would not see her till the middle of the summer. that she had been in town, for at least one night, was plain from what the woman had said. the thought that only a few hours ago she had passed where he stood, came home to him like her touch upon him. he sat down upon the stair-head till his disappointment was mastered. he took a last look through the door-glass at the crumpled thing, glove, letter, or handkerchief, lying in the passage. then he went out into the avenue. the disappointment was very bitter to him. it was so strong an emphasis upon the prophetic quality of his dream. ottalie had been there, waiting for him. he had come there too late. he had missed her. the thought that he had missed her, suggested the cause. he would have to go back to pollock. he could not leave his friend alone in that wild state of mind. a smaller man would perhaps have felt resentment against the cause. roger was without that littleness. he saw only the tragic irony. he saw life being played upon a great plan. he felt himself to be a fine piece set aside from his own combination by one greater, stronger, more wonderful. it seemed very wonderful that he had been kept (so unexpectedly) from ottalie, by the one thing in the world strong enough so to keep him. nothing but a matter of life and death could have kept him from her. a lively desire sprang up in him to know whither she had gone. this (he thought) he could find out, without difficulty, from a bradshaw. if she were going to greece, she would go by one of two ways. for a few minutes he had the hope that she might not yet have left london, that he might catch her at the station. a bradshaw showed him that this was possible, since, going by one route, she would not have to start till after seven in the evening. but, if she had chosen that route, why should she have closed the flat so early? he saw no answer to the question. still, the uncertainty preyed upon him and flattered him at the same time. she might be there at seven. he would go to the station, in any case. would it were seven! he had nine hours to live through. he walked hurriedly to the national gallery. he remembered, when he entered, that he had made no rendezvous with pollock. he expected to find him before the _ariadne_. he was not there. he was not before his other favourite, _the return of ulysses_. he was not in any of the little rooms opening off the italian rooms. a hurried walk round all the foreign schools showed that pollock was not in that part of the gallery at all. very few people were in the gallery at that hour. there could be no mistake. he tried the english rooms, without success. he described pollock to the keepers of the lower stairs. "no, sir. no one's gone down like that." search in the basement, in the little rooms where the turner water-colours and arundel prints are kept, showed him that pollock was not in the gallery. he wished to be quite certain. he made a swift beat of the french and spanish rooms, and thence, by the dutch and flemish schools, to the italian rooms. here he doubled back upon his tracks, to avoid all possibility of mistake. he was now certain pollock was not in the gallery. very probably he had never entered it. what had become of him? he could hardly have gone to the portrait gallery, he thought. yet it was possible. pollock was in an excited state of mind. he was hardly in a fit state to be out alone. roger felt anxious. he hurried to the portrait gallery. after a long search, upstairs and downstairs, in those avenues of painted eyes, he decided that pollock was not there, either. he must have gone to bondini's. suffolk street was only a quarter of a mile away. roger hurried on to look for him at bondini's. but no. he was not at bondini's. where, then, could he be? by this time, roger was alarmed for his friend. he thought that something must have happened to kitty. he took a cab to vincent square to make sure. pollock let him in. he was smoking a cigarette. his bandage gave him a one-eyed look, infinitely depressing. "i'm sorry, roger," he said; "i couldn't keep away from kitty. she's quieter, but no better. o god, roger, i don't know how men can be unkind to women. i don't know what i shall do without her, if anything happens to her." "you must not lose heart, like this," roger said. "i understand, very well, what you are feeling. but you ought not to expect evil in this way. very, very few cases go wrong, now. i was afraid that something had happened to you. will you come to my rooms for a game of chess? then we could lunch together, and go on, perhaps, to henderson's. he has finished the picture he was working on." pollock was not to be tempted. he would not leave kitty. after talking with him for nearly an hour, roger left him, promising to come back before long, to enquire. when he got outside, into the street, with no definite, immediate object to occupy his mind, he was assailed by the memories of his succession of mishaps. he could not say that one of them hurt more than another. the loss of ottalie, following so swiftly on the dream, made him miserable. the destruction of his play by the critics made him feel not exactly guilty, but unclean, as though the rabble had spat upon him. he felt "unclean," in the levitical sense. he had some hesitation in going to mix with his fellows. he kept saying to himself that if he were not very careful, the world would be flooding into his mind, trampling its garden to mud. it was his duty to beat back the world before it fouled his inner vision. if he were not very careful he would find that his next work would be tainted with some feverish animosity, some personal bitterness, or weakness of contempt. it was his duty as a man and as an artist to prevent that, so that his mind might be as a hedged garden full of flowers, or as a clear, unflawed mirror, reflecting only perfect images. the events of the night before had broken in his barriers. he felt that his old theory, laid aside long before, when he first felt the fascination of modern artistic methods, was true, after all; that the right pursuit of the artist was the practice of christianity. he found in the national gallery, in the battle picture of uccello, in the nobleness of that young knight, riding calmly among the spears, a healing image of the artist. he lingered before that divine young man with the fair hair until one o'clock. he passed the afternoon at a table in the british museum, reading all that he could find about ottalie. there was her name in full in the irish landed gentry. there were the names of all her relatives, and the names of their houses. it was an absurd thing to read these entries, but the names were all stimulants to memory. he knew these people and places. they took vivid shape in his mind as he read them. he had read them before, more than once, when the craving for her had been bitter in the past. he knew the names of her forebears unto the third and fourth generation. a volume of _who's who_ gave him details of her living relatives. a married uncle's recreations were "shooting and hunting." a maiden aunt had published _songs of quiet life_, in . her older brother, leslie fawcett, had published a novel, _one summer_, in . both these volumes lay beside him. he read them again, for the tenth time. both were very short works; and both, he felt, helped him to understand ottalie. neither work was profound; but both came from a sweet and noble nature, at once charming and firm. there were passages in the songs which were like ottalie's inner nature speaking. in the novel, in the chapter on a girl, he thought that he recognised ottalie as she must have been long ago. the volume of the landed gentry gave him pity for the historian who would come a century hence, to grub up facts for his history. ottalie, dear, breathing, beautiful woman, witty, and lovely-haired, and noble like a lady in a poem, would be to such a one " rd dau.," or, perhaps, mere "issue." at five o'clock, he put away his books. he went to drink tea at a dairy, in high holborn. he entered the place with some misgivings, for his two emotions made the world distasteful to him. the memory of the night before made him feel that he had been whipped in public. the thought of ottalie made him feel that the real world was in his brain. he shrank from meeting anybody known to him. that old feeling of "uncleanness" came strongly over him. the stuffy unquiet of the museum had at least been filled by preoccupied, selfish people. here in the tea-shop, everybody stared. all the little uncomfortable tables were peopled by pairs of eyes. he felt that a woman giggled, that a young man nudged his fellow. stepping back to let a waitress pass, he knocked over a chair. the place was cramped; he felt stupidly awkward and uncomfortable. he blushed as he picked up the chair. everybody stared. it seemed to him that they were saying, "that is mr. naldrett, the author of the piece which was booed off last night. they say it's very immoral. millie was there. she said it was a silly lot of old-fashioned stuff. what funny eyes he's got. and look at the way he puts his feet." he sat down in a corner, from which he could survey the room. a paper lay upon the table; he picked it up abstractedly. it was a copy of _the post meridian_. somebody had rested butter upon the upper part of it. he glanced at it for an instant, just long enough to see a leading article below the grease mark. "drama and decency," ran the scarehead. it went on to say that the london public had once again shown its unerring sense of the fitness of things over mr. naldrett's play. he dropped the paper to one side, and wiped the hand which had touched it. he felt beaten to bay. he stared forward at the house so fiercely that a timid lady, of middle age and ill-health, possibly as beaten as himself, turned from the chair opposite before she sat down. there were no friends of his there, except a red-haired, fierce little poet, who sat close by, reading and eating cake. the yellow back of _les fleurs du mal_ was propped against his teapot. he bit so fiercely that his beard wagged at each bite. something of the fierceness and passion of the _femmes damnées_, or of _le vin de l'assassin_, was wreaked upon the cake. there came a muttering among the bites. the man was almost reading aloud. a memory of baudelaire came to roger, a few grand melancholy lines:-- "la servante au grand coeur dont vous étiez jalouse, et qui dort sans sommeil sous une humble pelouse, nous devrions pourtant lui porter quelques fleurs. les morts, les pauvres morts, ont de grandes douleurs, et quand octobre souffle, émondeur des vieux arbres, son vent mélancolique à l'entour de leurs marbres, certe, ils doivent trouver les vivants bien ingrats." he wondered if it would be like that. a waitress brought him tea and toast. he poured a little tea into his cup, thinking of a man now dead, who had drunk tea there with him a year ago. one was very callous about the dead. he wondered if the dead were callous about the living, or whether they had of _grandes douleurs_, as the poet thought. he felt that he would not mind being dead, but for ottalie. he wondered whether ottalie had read the papers. he buttered some toast and laid it to one side of his plate, a sort of burnt offering to the dead. a line on the bill of fare caught his eye. "pan-bos. our new health bread. per portion, d." his tired mind turned it backwards, ".d ,noitrop rep daerb." "i am going mad," he said to himself. "shall i go to ireland to-night?" something warned him that if he went to ireland, ottalie would not be there. with ottalie away, it would be intolerable. there would be her house, up on the hills, and all those sycamores, like ghosts in the twilight, ghosts of old men brooding on her beauty, like the old men in troy when helen passed. no. he could not bear ireland with her away. he thought of the boat train with regret for the old jolly jaunts. the guard with a scotch accent, the carriage in front which went on to dundee, the sound of the beautiful irish voice ("voce assai più che la nostra viva"), and then the hiring of rug and pillow, knowing that one would wake in scotland, among hills, running water, a "stately speech," and pure air. it would not be wise to go to ireland. if he went now, with ottalie away, he might not be able to go later, when she would be there. it would be nothing without her. nothing but lonely reading, writing, walking, and swimming. it would be better not to go. here the poet gulped his cake, rose, and advanced on roger. "how d'you do?" he said, speaking rapidly, as though his words were playing tag. "i've just been talking to collins about you. he's been telling me about your play. i hear you had a row, or something." "yes. there was a row." "collins has been going for you in _the daystar_. he says you haven't read aristotle, or something. have you seen his article?" "no. i haven't seen it." "oh, you ought to read it. parts of it are very witty. it would cheer you up." "what does he say?" "he says that-- oh, you know what collins says. he says that you-- i believe i've got it on me. i cut it out. where did i put it?" "never mind. i'm not interested in collins." "aren't you? he's very good. i suppose your play'll be produced again later?" "i think not." he got rid of the poet, paid his bill, and walked out. outside he ran into hollins, the critic of _the week_. he would have avoided hollins, but hollins stopped him. "ah, naldrett," he said. "i've just been going for you in _the week_. what do you mean by that third act? really. it really was--" it gave roger a kind of awe to think that this man had been damning other people's acts before he was born. "what was wrong with the third act? you didn't hear it." "you must read m. capus," said hollins, passing on. "i shall go for you until you do." a newsboy, with a voice like a bird of doom, flying in the night, held a coloured bill. "drama and decency," ran the big letters. another, offering a copy, shewed, as allurement, "_'ceful fracas_." the whole town seemed angry with him. he crossed into seven dials, and along to st. martin's lane, where he knew of a quiet reading-room. here he hid. iv there's hope left yet. _the virgin martyr_. at seven o'clock he went to the station, hoping (against his better judgment) that he might see ottalie at the train. the train was very crowded. the travellers wore the pleased, expectant look with which one leaves an english city. ottalie was not among them. he went down the train twice, in opposite directions, without success. she was not there. she must have started that morning. he had missed her. he sat down on one of the station benches. his world seemed slipping from him. he told himself that to-morrow he would have to work, or all these worries would destroy him. he felt more lonely than he had ever felt in his life. a week before, he would have had o'neill, pollock, and another friend, now abroad. o'neill was gone, without a farewell. pollock was fighting his own battles, with poor success. ottalie was thundering across france, or, perhaps, just drawing into paris. a longing to see some one drove him out of the station. he walked to soho, to a spanish restaurant, where some of his friends sometimes dined. here, at night, the curious may visit spain, and hear the guttural, lisping speech, and munch upon chuletas, and swallow all manner of strangeness in cazuelas. very bold young men cry aloud there for "mozo," lisping the z. the less bold signal with the hand. the timid point, and later, eat that which is set before them, asking no question, obeying holy writ, though without spiritual profit. on entering the place, he bowed to the scotch-looking, heavily-earringed spanish woman, who sat at the desk reading _blanco y negro_. she gave him a "buenas tardes," without lifting her eyes. then came, from his right, a cry of "naldrett!" two painters, a poet, and proportionable woman-kind, were dining together there, over the evening papers. "how are you?" said one of the painters. "we've just been reading about you," said the other. "reading the most terrible things," said the poet. "shew him _the orb_. _the orb's_ the best." "no. shew him _the planet_. the one who says he ought to be prosecuted." roger, refusing _orb_ and _planet_, shook hands with one of the ladies. she was a little actress, delicate, fragile, almost inhuman, with charm in all she did. she said that she had been reading his book of _the handful_, and had found it very "interesting." she wanted roger to come to tea, to talk over a scheme of hers. it dawned on roger that she was saving him from his friends. "you're the man of the moment," said the poet. "don't you pay any attention to any of them," said the painter who had first spoken. "you may be quite sure that when one has to say a thing in a hurry, as these critics must, one says the easiest thing, and the thing which comes handiest to say. if i paid attention to all they say about me i should be in a lunatic asylum. besides, what does it matter what they say? who are they, when all is said?" the talk drifted into a wit combat, in which the seven set themselves to define a critic with the greatest possible pungency and precision. having done this, to their own satisfaction, they set themselves to the making of a composite sonnet on the critic, upon the backs of bills of fare. one of the painters drew an ideal critic, in the manners, now of tintoret, now of velasquez, now of watteau. the other, who complained that old masters ought to be ranked with critics, because they spoiled the market for living painters, drew him in the manner of rops. after dinner, roger walked home by a roundabout road, which took him past his theatre. a few people hung about outside it, staring idly at a few others who were entering. his play was still running, it seemed, in spite of the trouble. falempin was brave. he walked back to his rooms, wondering why he had not gone to ireland that night. london oppressed and pained him. he thought it an ugly city, full of ugly life. he was without any desire to be a citizen of such a city. he disliked the place and her people; but to-night, being, perhaps, a little humbled by his misfortunes, he found himself wondering whether all the squalor of the town, its beastly drinking dens, its mobs of brainless, inquisitive shouters, might not be changed suddenly to beauty and noble life by some sudden general inspiration, such as comes to nations at rare times under suffering. he decided against it. patience under suffering was hardly one of our traits. on his sitting-room table was a letter from ottalie, bearing the london post-mark across the greek stamps, and underneath them the legend, " d. to pay." by the date on the letter it had been ten days in getting to him. he opened it eagerly, half expecting to find in it the very letter of the dream, though something told him that the dream-letters had contained her essential thoughts, the letter in his hand the worldly covering of those thoughts, translated into earthly speech with its reservations and half-heartedness. he learned from this letter that she had been for a month in greece, and was now coming home. she would be for four days, from the th to the th, at her flat in london. she hoped to see him there, before she returned to ireland. to his amazement the postscript ran: "i have read your last book. it reads like the diary of a lost soul," the very words seen by him in dream. for the moment this did not move him so deeply as the thought that this was the th of the month. she had been in london with him for the last three or four days, and he had never known it. he had seen her light blown out the night before. if he had had a little sense he would have called on her early that morning before he had breakfasted. had he done so, he would have seen her, he would have driven with her to the station, he could, perhaps, have travelled with her to ireland. the bitterness of his disappointment made him think, for a moment, meanly of agatha, who, in his fancy, had kept them apart. he suspected that agatha had held back the letter. how else could it have been posted in london with greek stamps upon it? then came the thought that she had not gone to ireland that morning. he had never known her go back to ireland by the day-boats. she liked to sleep in the train, and save the daylight for life. his knowledge of her told him what had happened. she had taken her luggage to the station, soon after breakfast. having done this, she had passed the day in amusement, dined at the station hotel, and now-- he sat down, beaten by this last disappointment. now she was steaming north in the night express to port patrick. she had only just gone. she was within a dozen miles of him. the train did not start till eight. it was now only fourteen minutes past. if he had not been a fool; if he had only come home instead of going to the station! "selina," he cried down to the basement, "when did this letter come? this letter with the foreign stamp." "just after you'd gone out this morning, sir." five minutes' patience would have altered his life. "a lady come to see you, sir." "what was her name?" "she didn't leave a name, sir." "what was she like? when did she come?" "she came about a few minutes before nine, sir. she seemed very put out at not finding you." "had she been here before?" "i think she was the lady come here one time with another lady, a dark lady, when you 'ad the suite upstairs, sir. i think she come in one evenin' when you read to them." ottalie had been there. it must have been ottalie. "i told her you was gone awy, sir. you 'adn't said where to." he thanked selina. he bit his lips lest he should ask whether the visitor had worn earrings. he went back into his room and sat down. he had not realised till then how much ottalie meant to him. a voice rang in his brain that he had missed her, missed her by a few minutes, through his own impatience, through some chance, through some juggling against him of the powers outside life. all his misery seemed rolled into a leaden ball, which was smashing through his brain. the play was a little thing. the loss of john was a little thing. templeton was farcical, the critics were little gnats, but to have missed ottalie, to have lost ottalie! he tasted a moment of despair. despair does not last long. it kills, or it goads to action. with roger it lasted for a few seconds, and then changed to a passion to be on the way to her. but he would have to wait, he would have to wait. there were all those interminable hours to wait. all a whole night of purgatory. what could he do meanwhile? how could he pass that night? what could he do? work was impossible. talk was impossible. he remembered then, another thing. he opened his bradshaw feverishly. yes. there was another boat-train to holyhead. he could be in dublin a little after dawn the next day; " . from euston." he could just do it. he would catch that second boat-train. it was a bare chance; but it could be done. he could be with ottalie by the afternoon of the next day. but money; he had not enough money. five minutes to pack. he could spare that; but how about money? to whom could he go for money? who would have money to lend upon the instant? it would have to be some one near at hand. every second made his task harder. where would there be a cab? which of his friends lived on the way to euston? who lives between westminster and euston? it is all park, and slum, and boarding-house. big ben, lifting his voice, intoned the quarter. he caught a cab outside dean's yard. he drove to a friend in thames chambers. the friend lent him a sovereign and some loose silver. he had enough now to take him to ireland. he bade the cabman to hurry. the newsboys were busy in the strand. they were calling out something about winner, and disaster. he saw one newsbill flutter out from a man's hand. "british liner lost," ran the heading. he felt relieved that the monkey-mind had now something new to occupy it. the changing of the newsbill heading made him feel cleaner. up to the crossing of holborn, he felt that he would catch the train. at holborn the way was barred by traffic. the euston road was also barred to him. he missed the train by rather more than a minute. he was too tired to feel more disappointment. the best thing for him to do, he thought, would be to sleep at home, catch the boat-train in the morning and travel all day. that plan would land him in ireland within twenty-four hours. he could then either stay a night in port, or post the forty miles to his cottage. in any case he would be with ottalie, actually in her very presence, within forty hours. by posting the forty miles he might watch the next night outside her window, in the deep peace of the irish country, almost within sound of the sea. the thought of the great stars sweeping over ottalie's home, and of the moon coming up, filling the valley, and of the little wind which trembled the leaves, giving, as it were, speech to the beauty of the night, moved him intensely. in his overwrought mood, these things were the only real things. the rest was all nightmare. driving back from euston, he noticed another affiche, bearing the words, "steamer sunk. lives lost." he paid no attention to it. he wondered vaguely, as he had often wondered in the past, what kind of a mind browsed upon these things. a disaster, an attack upon the government, and a column of betting news. that was what god's image brooded upon, night after night. that was what god's image wrote about nightly, after an expensive education. he was very tired; but there could be no rest for him till he had enquired after mrs. pollock. she had given birth to a little girl, who was likely to live. she herself was very weak, but not in serious danger. pollock was making good resolutions in a mist of cigarette smoke. roger was not wanted there. he went home, to bed, tired out. he slept heavily. he was fresh and merry the next morning. he packed at leisure, breakfasted at ease, and drove away to the station, feeling like a boy upon a holiday. he was leaving this grimy, gritty wilderness. he was going to forget all about it. in a few hours he would be over the border, in a new land. that night he would be over the sea, so changed, and in a land so different, that all this would seem like a horrid, far-away dream, indescribably squalid and useless. london was a strong, poisonous drug, to be taken in minute doses. he was going to take a strong corrective. the train journey was long and slow; but after carlisle was passed, his mind began to feel the excitement of it. in a couple of hours he would be in a steamer, standing well forward, watching for the double lights to flash, and the third light, farther to the south, to blink and gleam. the dull, low, scottish landscape, where burns lived and keats tramped, gave way to irregular low hills, indescribably lonely, with boggy lowland beneath them and forlorn pools. he looked out for one such pool. he had often noticed it before, on his journeys that way. it was a familiar landmark to him. like all the rest of that scottish land, it was associated in his mind with ottalie. all the journey was associated with her. he had travelled past those hills and pools so often, only to see her, that they had become a sort of ritual to him, a part of seeing her, something which inevitably led to her. after the hill with the cairn, he saw his landmark. there glittered the pool under the last of the sun. the little lonely island, not big enough for a peel, but big enough, years ago, for a lake-dwelling, shone out in a glimmer of withered grass. a few bents, bristling the shallows, bowed and bowed and bowed as the wind blew. a reef of black rocks glided out at the pool's end, like an eel swimming. roger again had the fancy, which had risen in his mind before a dozen times, when passing the pool, that he would like to be a boy there, with a toy boat. another landmark tenderly looked for, was a little white house rather far from the line, high up on the moor. he had once thought (in passing) that that would be a pleasant place for a week's stay when he and ottalie were married. the tenderness of the original fancy lingered still. it had become an inevitable part of the journey. after a few minutes of looking, it came into view, newly whitewashed, or, it may be, merely very bright in the sunset. a woman stood at a little garden gate. he had seen her there once before. perhaps she looked out for this evening train. it might be an event in her life. she must be very lonely there, so many miles from anywhere. after this, he saw only one more landmark, a copse of spruce-fir by the line. a faint mist was gathering. there was going to be a fog. the boat would make a slow passage. the mist was dim over everything when the train stopped. he got out on to a platform which was wet with mist. wet milk-cans gleamed. rails shone below his feet. a bulk of a mail-train rose up, vacant and dim. people shouted and passed. there was a hot whiff of ship's engine. a man passed, with nervous hurry, carrying two teacups from the refreshment-room. somebody cried out to come along with the mails. an irish voice answered excitedly, with a witty bitterness which defined the owner to roger, in vivid outline. mist came driving down under the shed. a few moist steps took him to a rail of chains, beyond which was motionless sea, a dim, grey-brown under the mist, with a gull or two drifting and falling. a row of lights dimly dying away beyond, shewed him the steamer. the gangway slanted down, dripping wet from the handrail. a man was saying that "indeed, it was," in the curt, charming accent of the hills. he did not recognise the steamer. her name, seen upon a life-belt, was new to him. he did not remember a _lady of lyons_ on this line. he laid his bag in a corner of the saloon, where already timid ladies were preparing for the worst, by lying down, under rugs, with bottles of salts at hand. the smell of the saloon, the smells of disinfectant, oil, rubber, and food, mixed with the sickliness of a place half aired and overheated, drove him on deck again. an elderly man was telling his wife that it had been a terrible business. the lady answered with the hope that nothing would happen to them, for what would poor eddie do? somebody near the gangway, a hills-man by his speech, probably the ticket-collector, or mate, was speaking in the intervals of work. he was checking the slinging-in of crates, and talking to an acquaintance. roger had no wish to hear him. he was impatient for the ship to start. but sitting down there, wrapped in his mackintosh, he could not help overhearing odds and ends of a story among the clack of the winches. something terrible had happened, and tom would know about it, and, indeed, it was a sad thing for the widow o'hara; but it was a quick death, anyway, and might come on any man, for the matter of that. indeed, it was a quick death, and the fault lay in these fogs, which never gave a man a chance till she was right on top of you. what use were sidelights, when a fog might make a headlight as red as blood? she had come right into her, just abaft the bridge, and cut her clean down. they never saw a stim of her. she wasn't even sounding her horn. yes. one of these big five-masted yankee schooners. the _john p. graves_. just out of glasgow. they hadn't even a look-out set. taking her chance. her crowd was drunk. and one of the dead was an english wumman only married that morning. no. the man was saved. like a stunned man. the most of the bodies was ashore to the wast of the light. there was a fierce jobble wast of the light. there had been a collision somewhere. there were always being collisions. roger listened, and ceased to listen, thinking of that "steamer sunk, lives lost" on the london placard. he thought that these vivid, picturesque talkers, professional men; but full of feeling, gave such an event a kind of poetry, and made it a part of their lives, while the paper-reader, very far away in the city, glanced at it, among a dozen similar events, none of them closely brought home to him, or, indeed, to be understood by him, and dismissed the matter with an indifferent "really. how ghastly!" he reproved himself for thinking thus. this collision had affected the men near him in their daily business. londoners were affected by disasters which touched themselves. this disaster, whatever it was, did not touch him. he was in a contrary, bitter mood, too much occupied with himself to feel for others. he was thinking that the men who did most were self-centred men, shut away from the world without. a snail, suddenly stung on the tender horn, may think similarly. it was dark night, but clear enough, when they reached ireland. the lights in the bay shone as before. the lights on the island had not changed. one, high up, which he had often noticed, was as like a star as ever. little glimmers of light danced before him, as he dined in the hotel, attended by a grave old waiter. the hotel was fuller than usual at that time of year. it was full of restless, anxious, sad-looking people, some of whom had been with him in the boat. they gave him the fancy that they had all come over for a funeral. after supping, he went hurriedly to bed. in the morning, at breakfast, there were the same sad-looking people. they sat at the next table, talking in subdued voices, drinking tea. they were breakfasting on tea. an old woman with that hard, commercial face, assumed by predatory natures without energy, mothered the party. her red eyes, swollen by weeping, emphasised the vulpine in her. a late-comer rustled up. "alice won't come down," she said. "she'll have some tea upstairs." the old woman, calling a maid, sent tea to alice. a pale girl, daughter to the matron in all but spirit, snuffled on the perilous brink, worn out by grief and weariness. the old woman rebuked her. "we shall have to be starting in a minute." she had that cast-iron nature limited to itself. roger wondered whether in old rome, or puritan england, that kind of character had been consciously bred in the race. he changed his table. the waiter brought him a newspaper. he fingered it, and left it untouched. he was not going to open a paper till he could be sure that the uproar about him had been forgotten. he was a timorous, hunted hart. the hounds should not follow him into this retreat. he debated as he ate, whether he should bicycle, take the "long car," a forty-mile drive, or take train. finally, seeing that the roads were dry, and the wind not bad, he decided to ride, sending his baggage by the car. he liked riding to ottalie. it was a difficult ride, he thought, owing to the blasts which beat down from the hills, but there came a moment, as he well remembered, rather near to the end of the journey, when the hills gave place to mountains. here the road, topping a crest, fell away, shewing a valley and a stretch of sea. hills and headlands rolled north in ranks to a bluish haze. the crag beyond all rose erect from the surf, an upright, defined line in the blueness. from ottalie's home, high up, he could see that great crag. with an opera-glass he could see the surf bursting below it. it was now eight o'clock. the morning boat was coming in. he would start. by lunch-time he would be in his little cottage above the sea. he would swim before lunch. after lunch he would climb through the long grey avenue of beeches to ottalie's home. the old excitement came over him to give to his ardour the memory of many other rides to her. riding through the squalid town he found himself reckoning up little curious particular details of things seen by him on similar journeys in the past. the clatter of the "long car" behind him made him spurt ahead. it was a point of vanity with him to beat the car over the forty-mile course. the last thing noticed by him as he cleared the town was a yellow affiche, bearing the legend: "loss of the 'lord ullin' "coroner's verdict." v one news straight came huddling on another of death, and death, and death. _the broken heart_. the sun was golden over all the marvel of ireland. the sea came in sight from time to time. beyond a cliff castle a gannet dropped, white and swift, with a splash which faintly came to him a quarter of a mile away. turning inland, he rode into the hills. little low rolling green hills, wooded and sunny, lay ahead. on each side of him were pastures unspeakably green, sleepily cropped by cattle. he set himself to ride hard through this bright land. he spurted up the little hills, dipped down, and again climbed. he was eager to reach a gate on a hilltop, from which he could see the headland which shut him from the land of his desire. as he rode, he thought burningly of what that afternoon would be to him. ottalie might not be there. she might be away. she might be out; but something told him she would be there. with ottalie in the world, the world did not matter greatly. the thought of ottalie gave him a fine sense, only properly enjoyed in youth, of his own superiority to the world. with a thumping heart, due not to emotion, but to riding uphill, he climbed the gate, and looked out over the beautiful fields to the distant headland. there it lay, gleaming, fifteen miles away. beyond it was ottalie. protesters, in old, unhappy far-off times, had painted a skull and cross-bones on the gate, as, in other parts, they dug graves at front doors, or fired with lucky slugs from cover. the bones were covered with lichen, now; but the skull grinned at roger friendly, as it had often grinned. riding on, and glancing back over his shoulder, at risk of going into the ditch, he saw the skull's eyes fixed upon him. the last part of the ride was downhill. he lifted his bicycle over a low stone wall, and vaulted over after it. the sea was within fifty yards of him, in brimming flood. norah kennedy, the old woman who kept house for him, was there at the door, looking out. "indeed, mr. naldrett," she began; "the blessing of god on you. i was feared the boat was gone down on you. it's a sad time this for you to be coming here. indeed, i never saw you looking better. you're liker your mother than your da. he was a grand man, your da, of all the folks ever i remember. indeed, your dinner is just ready for you. will i wet the tea, sir?" the old woman rambled on from subject to subject, glancing at each, so lightly, that one less used to her ways would not have suspected the very shrewd and bitter critic hidden beneath the charm of the superficial nature. roger felt somehow that the critic was alert in her, that she resented something in his manner or dress. he concluded that he was late, or that she, perhaps in her zeal for him, had put on the joint too early. as usual, when she was not pleased, she served the dinner muttering personal remarks, not knowing (as is the way with lonely old people, who talk to themselves) that they were sometimes audible. "i'll do you no peas for your supper, my man," was one of her asides, when he helped himself sparingly to peas. "it's easy seen you're only an englishman," was another, at his national diffidence towards a potato. roger wondered what was wrong, and how soon he would become again "the finest young man ever i remember, except perhaps it was your da. indeed, mr. roger, to see your da, and him riding wast in a red coat, you would think it was the queen's man,* or one of the saints of god. there was no one i ever seen had the glory on him your da had, unless it was yourself stepping." roger's da had died of drink there, after a life passed in the preservation of the game laws. * the late prince consort. when his baggage arrived, he dressed carefully, and set out up the hill to ottalie's house, which he could see, even from his cottage, as a white, indeterminate mass, screened by trees from sea-winds. the road branched off into a loaning, hedged with tumbled stone on each side. as he climbed the loaning, the roguish irish bulls, coming in a gallop, at the sound of his feet, peered down at him, through hedges held together by providence, or left to the bulls' imagination. a lusty white bull followed him for some time, restrained only by a foot-high wire. "indeed," said an old labourer, who, resting by the way, expressed sympathy both for roger and the bull, "he's only a young bull. he wad do no one anny hurrt, except maybe he felt that way. let you not trouble, sir." up above ottalie's house was the garden. the garden wall backed upon the loaning. a little blue door with peeling, blistered paint, let him into the garden, into a long, straight rose-walk, in which the roses had not yet begun to bloom. a sweet-smelling herb grew by the door. he crumpled a leaf of it between his fingers, thinking how wonderful the earth was, which could grow this fragrance, out of mould and rain. the bees were busy among the flowers. the laurustine was giving out sweetness. in the sun of that windless afternoon, the smell thickened the air above the path, making it a warm clot of perfume, to breathe which was to breathe beginning life. butterflies wavered, keeping low down, in the manner of butterflies near the coast. birds made musical calls, sudden delightful exclamations, startling laughter, as though the god pan laughed to himself among the laurustine bushes. he felt the beauty of the late irish season as he had never before felt it. it stirred him to the excitement which is beyond poetry, to that delighted sensitiveness, in which the mind, tremulously open, tremulously alive, can neither select nor combine. he longed to be writing poetry; but in the open air the imagination is subordinated to the senses. the lines which formed in his mind were meaningless exclamations. nature is a setting, merely. the soul of man, which alone, of created things, regards her, is the important thing. the blinds of the sunny southern front were drawn down; but the marks of carriage wheels upon the drive shewed him that she had returned. after ringing, he listened for the crackled tinkle far away in the kitchen, and turning, saw a squirrel leap from one beech to another, followed by three or four sparrows. footsteps shuffled near. somewhere outside, at the back, an old woman's voice asked whiningly for a bit of bread, for the love of the almighty god, since she was perished with walking and had a cough on her that would raise pity in a martial man. a younger voice, high, clear, and hard, bidding her whisht, and let her get out of it, ceased suddenly, in her prohibition. the door opened. there was old mary laverty, the housekeeper. "how are you, mary? are you quite well?" "i am, sir. i thank you." "is miss fawcett in?" "have you not heard, sir?" "heard what?" "miss ottalah's dead, sir." "what?" "she was drowned in the boat that was run into, crossing the sea, two days ago. there was a fog, sir. did no one tell you, sir?" "no." "there was eleven of them drowned, sir." "was she ... is she lying here?" "yes, sir. she's within. the burying will no be till saturday. she is no chested yet." "was miss agatha with her?" "miss agatha was not in the cabbon. she was not wetted, indeed. she had not so much as her skirrt wetted, sir. she is within, sir." "do you think she would see me?" "come in, sir. i will ask." he stepped in, feeling stunned. his mind gave him an image of something hauled ashore. there was an image of a dripping thing being carried by men up the drive, the gravel crunched under their boots--crunch--crunch in slow time, then a rest at the door, and then, slowly, into the hall, and drip, drip, up the stairs to the darkened bedroom. then out again, reverently, fumbling their hats, to talk about it with the cook. he did not realise what had happened. here he was in the room. there was his photograph. there was the oriental bowl full of potpourri. ottalie had been drowned. ottalie was lying upstairs, a dead thing, with neither voice nor movement. ottalie was dead. she had sat with him in that very room. the old precise sofa was her favourite seat. how could she be dead? she had been in london, asking for him, only two days before. her letter was in his pocket. there was her music. there was her violin. why did she not come in, as of old, with her smiling daintiness, and with her hands in great gardening gauntlets clasping tulips for the jars? that beauty was over for the world. he was stunned by it. he did not know what was happening; but there was agatha, motioning to him not to get up. he said something about pity. "i pity you." after a minute, he added, "my god!" he was trying to say something to comfort her. the change in her told him that it was all true. it branded it into him. ottalie was dead, and this was what it meant to the world. this was death, this horror. his mind groped about like a fainting man for something to clutch. baudelaire's lines rose up before him. the sentiment of french decadence, with its fancy of ingratitude, made him shudder. a turmoil of quotations seethed and died down in him, "and is old double dead?" "come away, death," with a phrase of arne's setting. a wandering strange phrase of grieg. he went up to agatha and took her hands. "you poor thing; you poor thing," he repeated. "my god, you poor women suffer!" the clock was ticking all the time. some one was bringing tea to the next room. the lines in the persian rug had a horrible regularity. "agatha," he said. afterwards he believed that he kissed her, and that she thanked him. "i don't know. i don't know," she said. "oh, i'm so very wretched. so wretched. so wretched. and i can't die." she shook in a passion of tears. "she was wonderful," he said, choking. "she was so beautiful. all she did." "she was with me a minute before," said agatha. "we were on deck. she went down to get a wrap. it was so cold in the fog. i had left her wraps in the dining-room. it was my fault." "don't say that, agatha. that's nonsense." "i never saw her again. it all happened at once. the next instant we were run into. i couldn't see anything. there was a crash, which made us heel right over, and then there was a panic. i didn't know what had happened. i tried to get down to her; but a lot of half-drunk tourists came raving and fighting to get to the boats. i couldn't get to the doors past them. one of them hit me with his fist and swore at me. the ship was sinking. i nearly got to the door, and then a stewardess cried out that everybody was up from below, and then a great brute of a man flung me into a boat. i hit my head. when i came to, i distinctly felt some one pulling off my rings, and there was a sort of weltering noise where the ship had sunk. one of the tourists cried out: 'wot-ow! a shipwreck; oh, polly.' everybody was shouting all round us, and there was a poor little child crying. i caught at the hand which was taking my rings." here she stopped. there had been some final humiliation here. she went on after a moment: "the men said that every one had been saved. i didn't know till we all landed. nor till after that even. it was so foggy. then i knew. "there was a very kind scotch lady who took me to the hotel. she was very kind. i don't know who she was. the divers came from belfast during the night. ottalie was in the saloon. she was wearing her wraps. she must have just put them on. there were five others in the saloon. the inquest was ghastly. one of the witnesses was drunk, and the jury were laughing. the waiter at the hotel knew me. he wired to leslie, and leslie hired a motor and came over. colonel fawcett is in bed with sciatica. leslie is arranging everything." "is leslie here?" "no. maggie has bronchitis. he had to go back. he'll be here late to-night." "i might have been with you, agatha. if i'd stayed in another minute on tuesday morning, i should have seen her. i should have travelled with you. it wouldn't have happened. i should have gone for the wraps." "we saw you at your play, on monday." "i didn't know you were in town. oh, if i had only known!" "it was my fault that you did not know. i kept back her letter to you. i was jealous. i was wicked. i think the devil was in me." "don't think of that now," said roger gently. he had known it from the first. "is there anything which i can do, agatha? letters to write?" "there are stacks of letters. they all say the same thing. oh, i am so wretched, so very wretched!" the shuddering took hold of her. she wept in a shaking tremble which seemed to tear her in pieces. "agatha," said roger, "will you come to belfast with me? i will hire the motor in the village. i must get some flowers. it would do you good to come." "no. i must stay. i shall only have her two days more." he would have asked to look upon ottalie; but he refrained, in the presence of that passion. agatha had enough to bear. he would not flick her jealousies. ottalie was lying just overhead, within a dozen feet of him. ten minutes ago he had been thinking of her as a lover thinks of his beloved. his heart had been leaping with the thought of her. there she was, in that quiet room, behind the blinds, lying on the bed, still and blank. and where was what had made her so wonderful? where was the spirit who had used her as a lodging? she had been all that makes woman wonderful. beautiful with beauty of mind; a perfect, perfect spirit. and she was dead. she was lying upstairs dead. and here were her two lovers, listening to the clock, listening to the spade-strokes in the garden, where old john was at work. the smell of the potpourri, which she had made the summer before, seemed as strong as incense. the portrait by raeburn, of her great-grandfather, looked down dispassionately, with eyes that were very like her eyes. the clock had told the time to that old soldier when he went to be painted. it had gone on ticking ever since. it had been ticking when the old soldier died, when his son died, when his grandson died. now she was dead, and it was ticking still, a solemn old clock, by frodsham, of sackville street, dublin, , the year before the rising. it would be ticking still, perhaps, when all the hearts then alive would have ceased to tick. there was something pitiless in that steady beat. three or four generations of fawcetts had had their lives measured by it, all those beautiful women and noble soldiers. all the "issue" mentioned in burke. he went out into the light. all the world seemed melted into emotion, and poured upon him. he was beaten. it poured upon him. he drew it in with his breath. everything within sight was an agony with memories of her. "i must be doing something," he said aloud. "i must get flowers. i shall wake up presently." he turned at the gate, his mind surging. "could agatha be sure that she is dead? perhaps i am dead. or it may be a dream." it was not a dream. at the bottom of the loaning he met a red-haired man from whom in old time he had bought a boat. "it's a fine day, sir," said the man. "john," said roger, "tell pat deloney i want the car, to go to belfast at once. i shall want him to drive. tell him to come for me here." "indeed, sir," said john, looking at him narrowly. "there's many feeling that way. there was a light on her you'd think it was a saint, and her coming east with brightness." after john had gone down to the village, there limped up an old, old, half-witted drunken poet, who fiddled at regattas. he saluted roger, who leaned on a gate, staring uphill towards the house. "indeed, mr. roger," said the old man; "there's a strong sorrow on the place this day. there was a light burning beyant. i seen the same for her da, and for her da's da. there was them beyant wanted her." he waited for roger to speak, but getting no answer began to ramble in irish, and then craved for maybe a sixpence, because "indeed, i knew your da, mr. roger. ah, your da was a grand man, would turn the heads of all the women, and they great queens itself, having the pick of professors and prime ministers and any one they'd a mind to." after a time, singing to himself in irish, he limped on up the loaning to the house, to beg maybe a bit of bread, in exchange for the fact that he had seen a light burning for her, just as he had seen it for her da, her da's da, and (when the kitchen brandy had arisen in him) her da's da's da years ago. the car came snorting up the hill, and turned in the broad expanse where the loaning joined the highway. john opened the door for roger. "if i was a young gentleman and had the right to do it," he said, "i would go in a cyar the like of that cyar down all the craggy precipices of the world." the car shook, spat, and darted. "will ye go by torneymoney?" said pat. "there's no rossers that way." "by torneymoney," said roger. "drive hard." "indeed," said pat; "we will do great deeds this day. we will make a strong story by the blessing of god. let you hold tight, your honour. there's holes in this road would give a queer twist to a sea-admiral." the funeral was on saturday. about a dozen men came. there were five or six fawcetts and old mr. laramie, who had married maisie fawcett, ottalie's aunt, one of the beauties of her time. the rest were friends from the countryside, englishmen in faith, education, and feeling. they stood with bared heads in the little lonely protestant graveyard, as roman soldiers may have stood by the pyres of their mates in britain. they were aliens there. they were part of the garrison. they were hiding under the ground something too good and beautiful to belong to that outcast country. roger had the fancy that god would have to be very strong to hold that outpost. he had not slept for two nights. sentiments and fancies were overwhelming him. it was one of those irish days in which a quality or rarity in the air gives a magic, either alluring or terrible, to every bush and brook and hillock. he had often thought that ireland was a haunted country. he thought so now, standing by ottalie's grave. just beyond the graveyard was the river, which was "bad," and beyond that again a hill. the hill was so "bad," that the beggarwomen, passing in the road, muttering at "the mouldy old prots, playing at their religion, god save us," crossed themselves as they went by it. roger prayed that that fair spirit might be at peace, among all this invisible evil. his hand went into his breast pocket from time to time to touch her letter to him. he watched leslie fawcett, whose face was so like hers, and old mr. laramie, who had won the beauty of her time, and an old uncle fawcett, who had fought in africa, sixty years before. the graves of other fawcetts lay in that corner of the graveyard. he read their names, remembering them from burke. he read the texts upon the stones. the texts had been put there in agonies of remorse and love and memory by the men and women who played croquet in an old daguerreotype in ottalie's sitting-room. "he giveth his beloved sleep," and "it is well with the child," and one, a strange one, "lord, have patience with me, and i will pay thee all." they had been beautiful and noble, these fawcetts. not strong, not clever, but wonderful. they had had a spirit, a spiritual quality, as though for many, many centuries their women had kept themselves unspotted by anything not noble. an instinct for style running in the race of the fawcetts for centuries had made them what they were. a hope burned up in roger like inspiration. all that instinct for fineness, that fastidious selection of the right and good which had worked to make ottalie, from long before her birth, and had flowered in her, was surely eternal. she had used life to make her character beautiful and gentle, just as he had used life to discipline his mind to the expression of his imagination. "what's to come" was still unsure; but he felt sure, even as the trembling old incumbent reminded them that st. paul had bidden them not to sorrow, that that devotion was stronger than death. her spirit might be out in the night, he thought, as in time his would be; but what could assail that devotion? it was a strong thing, it was a holy thing. he was very sure that nothing would overcome it. like many young men, ignorant of death, he had believed in metempsychosis. this blow of death had brought down that fancy with all the other card-houses of his mind. his nature was now, as it were, humbled to its knees, wondering, stricken, and appalled by possibilities of death undreamed of. he could not feel that ottalie would live again, in a new body, starting afresh, in a new life-machine, with all the acquired character of the past life as a reserve of strength. he could only feel that somewhere in that great empty air, outside the precise definition of living forms, ottalie, the little, conquered kingdom of beauty and goodness, existed still. it was something. newman's hymn, with its lovely closing couplet, moved him and comforted him. one of the fawcetts was crying, snuffling, with a firm mouth, as men usually cry. he himself was near to tears. he was being torn by the thought that ottalie was lonely, very lonely and frightened, out there beyond life, beyond the order of defined live things. he walked back with leslie fawcett. agatha's mother was at the house; leslie was stopping in the cottage with him. "poor little ollie," said leslie gently. "she was very beautiful," said roger. he thought, as he said it, that it was a strange thing for an englishman to say to a dead woman's brother. "she was very beautiful. it must be terrible to you. you knew her in an intimate relation." "yes," said leslie, looking hard at roger, out of grave level eyes. "she was a very perfect character." they were climbing the cliff road to the cottage. the sea was just below them. the water was ruffled to whiteness. sullivan's jobble stretched in breakers across the bay from cam point. gannets, plunging in the jobble, flung aloft white founts, as though shot were striking. "you were very great friends," said roger. "i mean, even for brother and sister." "johnny was her favourite brother, as a child," said leslie. "you did not see much of johnny. he was killed in the war. and then he was in india a long time. it was after johnny's death that ottalie and i began to be so much to each other. you see, agatha was only with her about five months in the year. she was with us nearly that each year. she was wonderful with children." "yes," said roger, holding open the gate of the little garden so that his guest might pass, "i know." he was not likely to forget how wonderful she had been with children. they went into the little sitting-room where norah, in one of her black moods, gave them tea. after tea they sat in the garden, looking out over the low hedge at the bay. at sunset they walked along the coast to a place which they had called "the cove." they had used to bathe there. a little brook tumbled over a rock in a forty-foot fall. below the fall was a pool, overgrown later in the year with meadow-sweet and honeysuckle, but clear now, save for the rushes and brambles. the brook slid out from the basin over a reddish rock worn smooth, even in its veins and knuckles, by many centuries of trickling. storms had piled shingle below this side of water. the brook dribbled to the sea unseen, making a gurgling, tinkling noise. up above, at the place where the fall first leapt, among some ash-trees, windy and grey, stood what was left of a nunnery, of reddish stone, fire-blackened, among a company of tumbled gravestones. of all the places sacred to ottalie in roger's mind, that was the most sacred. they had been happy there. they had talked intimately there, moved by the place's beauty. his most vivid memories of her had that beautiful place for their setting. "roger," said leslie, "did you see her in town, before this happened?" "no." "you did not see her?" "no. not this time." "she was going to see you." "i believe she came just before she started. i had just gone out. we missed each other." leslie lifted his pince-nez. he was looking at roger, with the grave, steady look by which people remembered him. roger thought afterwards that his putting on of the pince-nez had been done tenderly, as though he had said, "i see that you are suffering. with these glasses i shall see how to help you." "you were in love with her?" he asked, in a low voice. "yes. who was not?" "i have something to say to you about that. have you ever thought of what marriage means? i am not talking of the passionate side. that is nothing. i am talking of the everyday aspect of married life. have you thought of that at all?" "all men have thought of it." "yes; i grant you. all men have thought of it. but do many of them think it home? have you? i imagine that most men never follow the thought home; but leave it in day-dreams, and images of selfishness. i don't think that many men realise how infinitely much finer in quality the woman's mind is. nor how much more delicately quick it is. nor what the clash of that quickness and fineness, with something duller and grosser, may entail, in ordinary everyday life, to the woman." "i think that i realise it." "yes, perhaps. perhaps you do realise it, as an intellectual question. but would you, do most men, realise it as life realises it? it is one thing to imagine one's duty to one's wife, when, as a bachelor, used to all manner of self-indulgence, one sits smoking over the fire. but to carry out that duty in life taxes the character. swiftness of responsion, tact, is rarer than genius. i imagine that with you, temporary sensation counts for more than an ordered, and possibly rigid, attitude, towards life as a whole." "both count for very much; or did. nothing seems very much at this moment." "ottalie loved you," said leslie simply. "but she felt that there was this want in you, of so thinking things home that they become character. she thought you too ready to surrender to immediate and, perhaps, wayward emotions. she was not sure that you could help her to be the finest thing possible to her, nor that she could so help you." "how do you know this?" "she discussed it with me. she wanted my help. i said that i ought not to interfere, but that, on the whole, i thought that she was right. that, in fact, your love was not in the depths of your nature. i said this; but i added that you were too sensitive to impressions not to grow, and that (rightly influenced) there is hardly anything which you might not become. the danger which threatens you seems to me to threaten all artists. art is a great strain. it compels selfishness. i have wondered whether, if things had been different, if you had married ottalie, you could have come from creating heroines to tend a wife's headache; or, with a headache yourself, have seen the heroine in her. we have life before us. you are all tenderness and nobleness now. it is sad that we have not this always in our minds." "yes," said roger. "we have life; and all my old life is a house of cards. before this it seemed a noble thing to strive with my whole strength to express certain principles, and to give reality and beauty to imagined character. i worked to please her. and often i did not understand her, and did not know her. i have walked in her mind, and the houses were all shut up. i could only knock at the doors and listen. and now i never shall know. i only know that she was a very beautiful thing, and that i loved her, and tried to make my work worthy of her." "she loved you, too," said leslie. "whatever death may be, we ought to look upon it as a part of life. try to be all that you might have been with her. never mind about your work. you have been too fond of emotional self-indulgence. set that aside, and go on. she would have married you. try to realise that. her nature would have been a part of yours. all your character would have been sifted and tested and refined by her. now let us go in, roger. tell me what you are going to do." "there is not much to do. i must try to rearrange my life. but i see one thing, i think, that art is very frightful when it has not the seriousness of life and death in it." "yes," said leslie. "maggie and i went into that together. we built up a theory that the art life is strangely like the life of the religious contemplative. both attract men by the gratification of emotion as well as by the possibility of perfection. one of the great spanish saints, i think it is st. john of avila, says that many novices deliberately indulge themselves in religious emotion, for the sake of the emotion, instead of for the love of god; but that the knowledge of god is only revealed to those who get beyond that stage, and can endure stages of 'stypticities and drynesses,' with the same fervour. it seems to us (of course we are both philistines) that modern art does not take enough out of those who produce it. the world flatters them too much. i suspect that flattery of the world is going on in return." "not from the best." leslie shook his head unconvinced. "you are not producing martyrs," he said. "you do not attack bad things. you laugh at them, or photograph them, and call it satire. you belong to the world, my friend roger. you are a part of the vanity of the world, the flesh, and the devil. you have not even made the idea of woman glorious in men's minds. otherwise they would have votes and power in the houses. not one of you has even been imprisoned for maiming a censor of plays. all the generations have a certain amount of truth revealed to them. it is very dangerous to discover truth. you can learn what kind of truth is being revealed to an age by noting what kind of people give their lives for ideas. it used at one time to be bishops. think of it." leslie talked on, shaping the talk as he had planned it beforehand, but pointing it so gently that it was not till afterwards that roger, realising his motives, gave him thanks for his unselfishness. they stopped on the rushy hill below ottalie's home, just as the sun, now sinking, flamed out upon her window, till it burned like the sun itself. to roger it seemed like a flaming door. she had looked out there, from that window. her little writing-table, with its jar of sweet peas, and that other jar, of autumn berries and the silvery parchment of honesty, stood just below it, on each side of the blotter, bound in mottled chintz. leslie's talk came home to him fiercely. the clawings of remorse came. he knew the room. he had never known the inmate. she was gone. he had wasted his chance. he might have known her; but he had preferred to indulge in those emotions and sentiments which keep the soul from knowledge. now she was gone. all the agony of remorse cried out in him for one little moment in the room with her, to tell her that he loved her, for one little word of farewell, one sight of the beloved face, so that he might remember it forever. memories rose up, choking him. she was gone. there was only the flaming door. "roger," said leslie, in his even, gentle voice, which had such a quality of attraction in it, "maggie asked me to bring you back with me to stay a couple of weeks." in his confused sleep that night he dreamed that ottalie was lying ill in her room, behind a bolted copper door which gleamed. the passage without the room was lighted. people came to the door to knock. a long procession of people came. he saw them listening intently there, with their ears bent to the keyhole. they were all the people who had been in love with her. some were relatives, some were men who had seen her at dances, some were women, some were old friends like himself. last of all came an elderly lady carrying a light. she was dressed in a robe of dim purple. she, too, knocked sharply on the door. she lingered there, long enough for him to study her fine, intellectual face. it was the face of ottalie grown old. the woman was the completed ottalie. for a moment she stood there listening, as one listens at the door of a sick-room. then she knocked a second time, sharply, calling "ottalie!" he saw then that it was not a door but a flame. he heard from within a strangled answer, as though some one, half dead, had risen to open. some one was coming to the door. even in his dream his blood leaped with the expectation of his love. but it was not his love. it was himself, strangling in the flames to get to her. she reached her hand to him. though the flames were stifling, he touched her. it was as though the agony of many years had been changed suddenly to ecstasy. "roger," she said. her hand caught him, she drew him through the fire to her. he saw her raise the candle to look at his face. for a moment they were looking at each other, there in the passage. the agony was over. they were together, looking into each other's eyes. he felt her life coursing into him from her touch. voices spoke without. norah, at the door, was haggling. "is that all the milk ye've brought, kitty o'hara?" the dream faded away as the life broke in upon him. there was some word, some song. some one with a fine voice was singing outside, singing in the dream, singing about a fever. ottalie was holding him, but her touch was fading from his sense, and joy was rushing from him. outside, on the top spray of the blackthorn, a yellow-hammer trilled, "a little bit of bread and no--che-e-e-e-se," telling him that the world was going on. the fortnight passed. roger was going back to london. the day before he sailed he rode over with leslie to take a last look at ottalie's home. he left leslie at the cottage, so that he might go there alone. he walked alone up the loaning. within the garden he paused, looking down at the house. the smell of the sweet verbena was very strong, in that mild damp air, full of the promise of rain. a paper was blowing about along the walk. a white kitten, romping out from the stable, pounced on it, worried it with swift gougings of the hind claws, then, spitting, with ears laid back and tail bristling, raced away for a swift climb up a pear-tree. roger picked up the paper. it would be a relic of the place. he felt inclined to treasure everything there, to take the house, never to go away from it, or, failing that, to carry away many of her favourite flowers. he straightened the paper so that he might read it. it was a double page from a year-old london paper entitled _top-knots_. it consisted of scraps of gossip, scraps of news, scraps of information, seasoned with imperial feeling. it had been edited by some one with a sense of the purity of the home. it was harmless stuff. the wisdom of the reader was flattered; the wisdom of the foreigner was not openly condemned. though some fear of invasion was implied, its possibility was flouted. "it was a maxim of our nelson that one englishman was worth three foreigners." the jokes were feeble. the paper catered for a class of poor, half-educated people without more leisure than the morning ride to business, and the hour of exhaustion between supper and bed. it was well enough in its way. some day, when life is less exhausting, men will demand stuff with more life. something caught roger's eye. he read it through. it was the first thing read by him since his arrival there. "sleeping sickness. "it is not generally known that this devastating ailment is caused by the presence of a minute micro-organism in the human system. the micro-organism may exist in unsuspected harmlessness for many years in the victim's blood. it is not until it enters what is known to scientists as the cerebro-spinal fluid, or as we should call it, the marrow, that it sets up the peculiar symptoms of the dread disease which has so far baffled the ingenuity of our _soi-disant_ savants. this terrible affliction, which is not by any means confined to those inferior members of the human race, the dusky inhabitants of uganda, consists of a lethargy accompanied with great variations of temperature. so far the dread complaint is without a remedy. well may the medico echo the words of the prince of denmark: 'there are more things in heaven and earth, horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.'" there was no more about the disease. the page ended with a joke about a mother-in-law. the paragraph made roger remember an article which he had once read about the sudden rise of the sickness in some district in africa. he remembered the photograph of a young african, who was dozing his life away, propped against a tree. the thought passed. in another instant he was full of his own misery again. but instead of throwing away the paper, he folded it, and put it in his pocket-case. it would remind him of that last visit to ottalie's garden. he would keep it forever. his wretchedness gave him a craving to be tender to something. he tried to attract the kitten, but the kitten, tiring of her romp, scampered to the garden wall to stalk sparrows. he plucked a leaf or two from the verbena. he went into the house. agatha welcomed him. she was writing replies to letters of condolence. the death had taken her hardness from her. "sit down and talk," she said. "what are you going to do?" "that is like a woman," he said. "women are wonderful. they use a man's vanity to protect themselves from his egotism. i came here to ask you that. what are you going to do?" "i shall go on with my work," she said. "i am sure not to marry. i shall start a little school for poor girls." "at great harley? but you were doing that before." "only in a very desultory sort of way. but now it is all different. life has become so much bigger." "will you tell me about it? i should like to hear about it." "oh, it would only bore you. i shall just teach them the simplest things. how to darn clothes, how to cook, and perhaps a little singing. it isn't as though i were a learned person." "how kind of you." "it isn't kind at all." "you will be taking girls of from thirteen to sixteen?" "yes. i've got no flair for very little children. besides, there is nothing which i could teach them. i want to get hold of them at an age when i can really be of use to them." she drummed a little with one foot. "i wish that you would let me help you," he continued. "thank you very much. that is very kind of you. but i must do this quite by myself." "what are you going to do with the flat in town?" he asked. "i should like to take it if you are going to give it up." "oh, i shall keep it on," she said. "i shall be up for week-ends a good deal, at any rate until i have got my class in working order." "you will let me know if you ever want to give it up?" "yes. certainly i will. will you go back? i suppose you will be going back to your work. what are your plans? you never answered my question. you went flying off into apophthegms." "i loved ottalie, too," he answered. "i won't say as much as you did, for you knew her intimately. i never was soul to soul with her as you were; but i loved her. i want now to make my life worthy of her, as you do. but it won't be in my work. i don't know what it will be in. you women are lucky. you can know people like her." "yes. i shall always be glad of that," said agatha. "even the loss is bearable when i think that i knew her fully. perhaps better than any one." "yes," he said. he paused, turning it over in his mind. "life is a conspiracy against women," he added. "that is why they are so wonderful and so strange. i am only groping in the dark about her." "roger," said agatha, speaking slowly, "i think i ought to tell you. i knew that you were in love with her. i was jealous of you. i did all that i could to keep you apart. she was in love with you. when she saw you at the theatre before the disturbance began, she would have gone to your box if i had not said that i was sure you would prefer to be alone. in the morning she saw what one of the papers said. she insisted on going to see you at your rooms. she said that she was sure you were expecting her, or that something had kept her letters from you. i told her that it wasn't a very usual thing to do. she said that she would talk about that afterwards. afterwards, when she had gone, and failed to see you, she was horrified at what you might think of her." it was very sweet to hear more of her, thus, after all was over. it was something new about her. he had never seen that side of her. he wondered how much more agatha would tell him, or permit him to learn, in years to come. he saw that she was near tears. he was not going to keep her longer on the rack. "agatha," he said, "we have been at cross-purposes for a long time now. we have not been just to each other. let it end now. we both loved her. don't let it go on, now that she is dead. i want to feel that the one who knew her best is my friend. i want you to let me help you, as a brother might, whenever you want help. will you?" she said, "thank you, roger." they shook hands. he remembered afterwards how the lustre of the honesty shewed behind her head. a worn old panther skin, the relic of a beast which had been shot in india by ottalie's father so many years before that the hairless hide was like parchment beneath the feet, crackled as she left the room. roger plucked some of the silvery seed vessels for remembrance. he stood in the hall for a moment trying to fix it in his mind. there was the barometer, by dakins, of south castle street, in liverpool, an old piece, handsome, but long since useless. there were the well-remembered doors. the dining-room door, the library door, the door leading into the jolly south room, the room sweet with the vague perfume, almost the memory of a perfume, as though the ghosts of flowers strayed there. the door of that room was open. through its open windows he could see the blue of the bay, twinkling to the wind. near the window was the piano, heaped with music. a waltz lay upon the piano: the myosotis waltz. let no one despise dance music. it is the music which breaks the heart. it is full of lights and scents, the laughter of pretty women and youth's triumph. to the man or woman who has failed in life the sound of such music is bitter. it is youth reproaching age. it indicates the anti-climax. he walked with leslie through the village. the ragged men on the bridge, hearing them coming, turned, and touched what had once been their hats to them. they were not made for death, those old men. they were the only irish things which the english tourist had not corrupted. they leant on the parapet all day. in the forenoons they looked at the road and at the people passing. in the afternoons, when the sun made their old eyes blink, they turned and looked into the water, where it gurgled over rusty cans, a clear brown peat-stream. a quarter of a mile up the stream was the graveyard, where the earth had by this time ceased to settle over ottalie's face. on the grave, loosely tied with rushes, was a bunch of dog-roses. they climbed the sharp rise beyond the bridge. here they began to ride. they were going to ride thirty miles to the hotel. there they would sleep. in the morning roger would take the steamer and return to london, where he would dree his weird by his lane as best he could. the men on the quay were loading ore, as of old, into a dirty glasgow coaster. one of them asked roger which team had won at the hurling. they ploughed through the red mud churned by the ore-carts. the schooner lay bilged on the sand, as of old, with one forlorn rope flogging the air. one or two golfers loafed with their attendant loafers on the links. they rode past them. then on the long, straight, eastward bearing road, which rounds cam point, they began to hurry, having the wind from the glens behind them. soon they were at the last gloomy angle from which the familiar hills could be seen. they rounded it. they passed the little turnpike. a cutter yacht, standing close inshore, bowed slowly under all sail before them. she lifted, poising, as the helm went down. her sails trembled into a great rippling shaking, then steadied suddenly as the sheet checked. a man aboard her waved his hand to them, calling something. they spun downhill from the cutter. now they were passing by a shore where the water broke on weed-covered boulders. from that point the road became more ugly at each turn of the wheel. it was the road to england. they stopped at the posting-house so that a puncture might be mended while they were at tea. tea was served in a long, damp, decaying room, hung with shabby stuff curtains. vividly coloured portraits of queen victoria and robert emmet hung from the walls. on the sideboard were many metal teapots. on the table, copies of _commerce_, each surmounted by a time-table in a hard red cover, surrounded a tray of pink wineglasses grouped about an aspodesta. on a piano was a pile of magazines, some of them ten years old, all coverless and dog's-eared. roger picked up one of the newest of them, not because he wanted to read it, but because, like many literary men, he was unable to keep his hands off printed matter. he answered leslie at random as he looked through it. there was not much to interest him there. towards the end of it there was a photograph of an african hut, against which a man and woman huddled, apparently asleep. a white man in tropical clothes stood beside them, looking at something in a sort of test-tube. "a common scene in the sleeping sickness belt," ran the legend. underneath, in smaller type, was written, "this photograph represents two natives in the last stages of the dread disease, which, at present, is believed to be incurable. the man in white, to l. of the picture (reader's r.), is dr. wanklyn, of the un. kgdm. med. assn. the photograph was taken by mr. a. s. smallpiece, dr. wanklyn's assistant. copyright." "what do you know of sleeping sickness, leslie?" he asked. "sleeping sickness?" said leslie. "there was an article about it in _the fortnightly_, or one of the reviews. there was a theory that it is caused in some way by the bite of a tsetse fly." "yes," said roger, "i remember that." "then when maggie and i were staying at drumnalorry we met old dr. mackenzie. he was out in africa a great deal, fifty or sixty years ago. he was a great friend of my mother's. he told us at dinner one night that sleeping sickness is not a new thing at all, but a very old thing. the natives used to get it even in his day. he said that the tsetse fly theory was really all nonsense. he called it a pure invention, based on the discovery that yellow fever is spread by the white-ribbed mosquito. his own theory was that it was caused by manioc intoxication." "that seems to me to be the prejudice of an old man. what is manioc?" "a kind of a root, like cassava, isn't it?" "probably. what is cassava?" "it's what they make bread of; cassava bread. it's poisonous until you bake it. isn't that the stuff? are you interested in sleeping sickness?" "yes. it has been running in my head all day. look here. here's a picture of two africans suffering from it. do they just sleep away like that?" "i suppose so. they become more and more lethargic, probably, until at last they cannot be roused." "how long are they in that condition?" "i believe for weeks. poor fellows; it must be ghastly to watch." "there is no cure. there's no cure for a lot of things. tetanus, leprosy, cancer. i wonder how it begins. you wake up feeling drowsy. and then to feel it coming on; and to have seen others ill with it. and to know at the beginning what you will have to go through and become. it must be ghastly." "here is tea," said leslie. "by the way, sleeping sickness must be getting worse. it attacks europeans sometimes. mackenzie said that in his time it never did." "well," said roger, "europeans have given enough diseases to the africans. it is only fair that we should take some in return." they rode on slowly in the bright irish twilight. when they were near the end of their journey they came to a villa, the garden of which was shut from the road by a low hedge. the garden was full of people. some of them were still playing croquet. chinese lanterns, already lit, made mellow colour in the dusk. a black-haired, moustachioed man with a banjo sat in a deck-chair singing. the voice was a fine bass voice, somehow familiar to roger. it was wailing out the end of a sentimental ditty: "o, the moon, the moon, the moon," in which the expression had to supply the want of intensity in the writing. hardly had the singer whined his last note when he twanged his banjo thrice in a sprightly fashion. he piped up another ditty just as the cyclists passed. "o, i'm so seedy, so very seedy, i don't know what to do. i've consumption of the liver and a dose of yellow fever and sleeping sickness, too. o, my head aches and my heart..." the banjo came to ground with a twang: the song stopped. "fawcett!" the singer shouted; "fawcett! come in here. where are you going?" "i can't stop," cried leslie, over his shoulder. he turned to roger. "let's get away," he said. they rode hard for a few minutes. "who was that?" roger asked. "i seemed to know his voice." "it's a man called maynwaring," said leslie. "i don't think you've met him, have you? he's in the navy. he met us at a dance. he proposed to ottalie about a year ago. now he has married one of those pretty, silly doll-women, a regular officer's wife. they are not much liked here." "curious," said roger; "he was singing about sleeping sickness. somehow, i think i must have met him. his voice seems so familiar." he stopped suddenly, thinking that the voice was the voice of the singer in his dream. "yes," he said to himself. "yes. it was." a few minutes later they were sliding down the long hill to the hotel. vi man is a lump of earth, the best man's spiritless, to such a woman. _john fletcher_. london was too full of memories. he could not get away from them. he could not empty his mind sufficiently to plan or execute new work. he was too near to his misery. he had been in town, now, for a month; but he had done nothing. he was engaged daily in trying to realise that his old life had stopped. if he thought at all he thought as those stunned by grief always will, in passages of poignant feeling. his nights were often sleepless. when he slept he often dreamed that he was alone in the night, looking into a lit room where ottalie stood, half-defined, under heavy robes. then he would wake with a start to realise that he would never see any trace of her again, beyond the few relics which he possessed. only one little ray of light gave him hope. he wanted to rebuild his life for her. he wanted to become all that she would have liked him to become. in any case, whatever happened, he would have the memory of her to guide him in all that he did. but he felt, every now and then, when he could feel at all hopefully, that she was trying to help him to become what she had longed for him to be. he thought that little chance happenings in life were signals from her in the other world, or, if not signals, attempts to move him, attempts to make him turn to her; things full of significance if only he could interpret them. he felt that in some way she was trying to communicate. it was as though the telephone had broken. it was as though the speaker could not say her message directly; but had to say it in fragments to erring, forgetful, wayward messengers, who forgot and lost their sequence. they could only hint, stammeringly, at the secret revealed to them. he thought that she had sent him some message about sleeping sickness, using the torn page, the magazine, and the naval officer, as her messengers. there were those three little words from her, romantic, like words heard in dream. if they were not from her, then they were none the less holy, they were intimately bound with his last memories of her. often he would cry out in his misery that she might be granted to come to him in dream to complete her message. what did she want to say about sleeping sickness? he could not guess. he could only say to himself that for some hidden reason that disease had been brought to his notice at a time when he was morbidly sensitive to impressions. he spent many hours in the british museum studying that disease as closely as one not trained to medical research could hope to do. he read the reports of the commission, various papers in _the lancet_, the works of professor ronald ross and sir patrick manson, the summary of low in allbutt, the deeply interesting articles in the _journal of tropical medicine_, and whatever articles he could find in reviews and encyclopædias. he called one day at the theatre office in answer to a telegram from falempin. falempin had something to say to him. he had flung down the glove to the "peegs," he said, by keeping on _the roman matron_ for the usual weekly eight performances, in spite of the press and the public wrath. for three weeks he had played it to empty or abusive houses. then, at the end of the third week, a man had written in a monthly review that _the roman matron_ was the only play of the year, and that all other english plays then running in london were so many symptoms of our national rottenness. the writer was not really moved by _the roman matron_. he was a town wit, trying to irritate the public by praising what it disliked, and by finding a moral death in all that it approved. it may be said of such that they cast bread upon the waters; but the genius, as a rule, does not find it until many days. in this case, as the wit was at the moment the fashion, his article was effectual from the day of its publication. the actors found one evening an attentive, not quite empty house. three nights later the piece went very well indeed. on the fourth night they were called. by the end of the week _the roman matron_ was a success, playing to a full house. "naldrett," said falempin, "i 'ave lost twelve thousand pounds over your play. what so? i go to make perhaps forty thousand. always back your cards. the peegs they will eat whatever they are told. some of the papers they are eating their words. you see? here; here is anozzer. by the same men, i think. criticism? next to the peegs, i do lof the critic. it likes not me, these funny men. what is the english people coming to? you 'ave critics; you 'ave very fine critics. but they 'ave no power. zese men in zese gutter rags--pah. we go to make you many motor-cars out of zis play." leslie brought his wife to town a week later. she wished to consult an oculist. roger dined with them the night after their arrival. "roger," said leslie, "i want you to meet my cousin, mrs. heseltine. she wants you to dine with her to-morrow night. we said that we would bring you if you were free. i hope that you will come; she's such a splendid person." roger said that he would go. that evening he went to an at home given in honour of a great french poet who was staying in london. he had no wish to attend the function. he went from a sense of duty. he went from a sense of what was due to the guardian of intellect. the at home was in kensington, in a big and hideous house. a line of carriages stood by the kerb, each with its tortured horses tossing their heads piteously against the bearing-reins. flunkeys with white, sensual faces stood at the door. there was a glitter of varnish everywhere, from boots, carriages, and polished metal. there was not much noise, except the champ-champing of the bits and the spattering of foam. carriage doors slammed from time to time. loafers insulted those who entered. women and children, standing by the strip of baize upon the sidewalk, muttered in awed hatred. roger went into a room jammed with jabberers. in the middle of the room there was a kind of circle, a sort of pugilists' ring, in which the poet stood. he was a little stocky man, powerfully built. he had a great head, poised back on his shoulders so that his jaw protruded aggressively. it needed only one glance to see that he was the one vital person in the room. the big, beefy, successful english novelists looked like bladders beside him. he talked in a voice which boomed and rang. people crowded up. ladies in wonderful frocks broke on him, as it were, in successions of waves. he bowed, he was shaken by the hand, he was pulled by the arm. questions and compliments and platitudes came upon him in every known variety of indifferent french. he never ceased to talk. he could have talked the room to a standstill, and gone on fresh to a dozen like it. he was talking wisely, too. roger heard half of one booming epigram as he caught his hostess' eye. she was bringing up relays of platitudes to take the place of those already exploded. his host, sawing the air with one hand, was expounding something which he couldn't explain. roger saw him compliment the poet for taking his point without exposition. exploded platitudes ran into roger and apologised. roger ran into platitudes not yet exploded and apologised. there was a gabble everywhere of unintelligent talk, dominating but not silencing the great voice. roger heard an elegant young man speak of the poet as "a bounder, an awful bounder." then somebody took him by the arm. somebody wanted to talk to him. he said his say to the great man while being dragged to somebody. somebody in a strange kind of chiton below a strange old gold greek necklace was telling him about _the roman matron_. did he write it? "yes," he said. "i wrote it." the hostess interposed. the chiton was borne off to a lady in early victorian dress. a little grey man, very erect and wiry, like a colonel on the stage, bumped into roger. "rather a crowd, eh?" he said, as he apologised. "have you seen my wife anywhere?" "no," said roger. "is she here?" "yes," said the other. "i believe she is. awfully well the old fellow looks, doesn't he? i met him in paris in ." they talked animatedly for ten minutes about the prospects of french literature as compared with our own. presently the little man caught sight of his wife. he nodded to roger and passed on. roger could not remember that he had ever seen him before. he looked about for some one with whom to talk. a couple of novelists stood on the opposite side of the room talking to a girl. there was not much chance of getting to them. he looked to his left hand, where some of the waste of the party had been drifted by the tide. he did not know any of the people there. he was struck by the appearance of a young man who stood near the wall, watching the scene with an interest which was half contemptuous. the man was, perhaps, thirty years of age. what struck roger about him was the strange yellowness of his face. the face looked as though it had been varnished with a clear amber varnish. the skin near the eyes was puckered into crows' feet. the brow was wrinkled and seamed. the rest of the face had the leanness and tightness of one who has lived much in unhealthy parts of the tropics. he was a big man, though as lean as a rake. roger judged from his bearing that he had been a soldier; yet there was a touch of the doctor about him, too. his eyes had the direct questioning look of one always alert to note small symptoms, and to find the truth of facts through evasions and deceits. his hands were large, capable, clinical hands, with long, supple, sensitive fingers, broad at the tips. the mouth was good-humoured, but marred by the scar of a cut at the left corner. presently the man walked up to roger with the inimitable easy grace which is in the movements of men who live much in the open. "excuse me," he said; "but who is the poet in the middle there?" "jerome mongeron," said roger. "thanks," said the man, retiring. roger noticed that the man's eyes were more bloodshot than any eyes he had ever seen. soon after that roger saw him lead an elderly lady, evidently his mother, out of the room. as he felt that he had bored himself sufficiently in homage to the man of intellect, he too slipped away as soon as he could. the night following he dined with mrs. heseltine. she was an elderly lady, fragile-looking, but very beautiful, with that autumnal beauty which comes with the beginning greyness of the hair. her face had the fineness of race in it. looking at her, one saw that all the unwanted, unlovely elements had been bred away, by conscious selection, in many generations of fawcetts. her face had that simple refinement of feature which one sees in the women's faces in holbein's drawing of sir thomas more's family. only in mrs. heseltine the striving for rightness and fineness had been pushed a little too far at the expense of the bodily structure. there was a pathetic drooping of the mouth's corners, and a wild-bird look in the eye which told of physical weakness very bravely borne. her husband was a brain specialist. she wore black for her niece. there were few other guests. it was a family party. there were the two heseltines, their cousins the luscombes, the two fawcetts, ethel fawcett (another cousin), a woman in morning dress who had just been speaking at a suffrage meeting, roger, and one lionel who was very late. they waited for lionel. they were sure that lionel would not be long. the suffrage speaker, miss lenning, asked if lionel were better. yes. the new treatment was doing him good. they were hoping that he would get over it. roger started when mrs. heseltine's voice grew grave. there were notes in it strangely like ottalie's voice. the voice reveals character more clearly than the face, more clearly than it reveals character, it reveals spiritual power. until he heard those grave notes he had not seen much of ottalie in her, except in the way in which she sat, the head a little drooped, the hands composed, in a pose which no art could quite describe, it was so like her. the words thrilled through him, as though the dead were in the room under a disguise. there was leslie looking at him, with grave, kindly deliberation, putting up his glasses to ottalie's eyes with ottalie's hand. ottalie's voice spoke to him through mrs. heseltine. they were away in one corner of the room now, looking at a drawing. "i have so often heard of you," she was saying. "somehow i always missed you when i was at portobe. but i have heard of you from leslie, and from poor ottalie. i wanted to see you. i have been waiting to see you for the last month. i wanted to tell you something which ottalie said to me, when my boy was killed in the war. she said that when a life ended, like that, suddenly and incomplete, it was our task to complete it, for the world's sake, in our own lives." she paused for an instant, and then added: "i have tried to realise what my boy would have done. i hope that you will come to talk to me whenever you like. ottalie was very dear to me. she was in this room, looking at this drawing, only seven weeks ago." she faltered for a moment. "yes, mrs. heseltine?" he said. "talking about you," she added gently. "mr. heseltine," said the maid, opening the door. the man with the yellow face and injected eyes entered. "ah, lionel," said mrs. heseltine. "i'm awfully sorry i'm so late," he said. "they've been trying a new cure on me. it's said to be permanent; but they've only tried it on one other fellow so far. i wish you hadn't waited for me." he glanced at roger with a smile. "d'you know mr. heseltine, mr. naldrett?" "we met each other last night," said roger. "at the macelherans'." "yes. i think we did," he answered. dinner was announced. roger took miss lenning. mrs. heseltine sat at his left. miss lenning was a determined young woman with no nonsense about her. roger asked if her speech had gone well. "pretty well," she said. "i was on a wagon in the park. a lot of loafers rushed the wagon once or twice. it's the sort of thing london loafers delight to do." "yes," said roger. "that is because the part of london near the parks is not serious. it is a part given up to pleasure-mongers and their parasites. the crowds there don't believe in anything, they won't help anything, they can't understand anything. in the east of london you would probably get attention. i suppose the police sniggered and looked away?" "you talk as though you had been at it yourself," said miss lenning. "been at it? yes. of course i have. but not very much, i'm afraid. i used to speak fairly regularly. then at your big meeting in the park i got a rotten egg in the jaw, which gave me blood poisoning. i had to stop then, because ever since then i've been behindhand with my work. a london crowd is a crowd of loafers loafing. but a crowd in a northern city, in manchester, or leeds, or glasgow, is a very different thing. they are a different stock. they are working men, interested in things. here they are idlers delighting in a chance of rowdyism. they are without chivalry or decent feeling. they go to boo and jeer, knowing that the police won't stop them. i think you women are perfectly splendid to do what you do, and have done." "oh, one doesn't mind going to prison," said miss lenning. "i've been three times now. besides, we shall know how to reform the prisons when we get the vote. what makes my blood boil are the insults i get in the streets from the sort of men whose votes are responsible for disgraces like the war." she stopped. "what is your line?" she asked. "i'm a writer." "why don't you write a play or a novel about us?" "because i don't believe in mixing art with propaganda. my province is to induce emotion. i am not going to use such talent as i have upon intellectual puzzles proper to this time. this is the work of a reformer or a leader-writer. my work is to find out certain general truths in nature, and to express them, in prose or verse, in as high and living a manner as i can. that seems absurd to you?" "not absurd exactly," she said, "but selfish." "you think, then, that a man who passes his life in trying to make the world's thought nobler, and the world's character thereby finer, must necessarily be selfish?" "yes; i do," she said firmly. "there are all you writers trying, as you put it, to make the world's thought noble, and not one of you--i beg your pardon, only three of you--lift a finger to help us get the vote. you don't really care a rush about the world's thought. you care only for your own thought." "and your own thought isn't thought at all," said major luscombe from over the table. "i don't mean yours, personally, of course. i like your play very much. but taking writers generally throughout the world, what does the literary mind contribute to the world's thought now? can you point to any one writer, anywhere in the world, whose thoughts about the world are really worth reading?" "yes. to a good many. in a good many countries," said roger. "i have no quarrel with art," said heseltine, taking up the cudgels. "it is moral occupation. but i feel this about modern artists, that, with a few exceptions, they throw down no roots, either into national or private life. they care no more for the state, in its religious sense, than they care (as, say, an elizabethan would have cared) for conduct. they seem to me to be a company of men without any common principle or joint enthusiasm, working, rather blindly and narrowly, at the bidding of personal idiosyncrasy, or of some aberration of taste. a few of you, some of the most determined, are interested in social reform. the rest of you are merely photographing what goes on for the amusement of those who cannot photograph." "yes," said roger. "at present you are condemning modern society. when you were a boy, dr. heseltine, you lived in an ordered world, which was governed by supernatural religion, excited by many material discoveries, and kept from outward anxiety by prosperity and peace. all that world has been turned topsy-turvy in one generation. we are no longer an ordered world. i believe there is a kind of bacillus, isn't there, which, when exposed to the open air, away from its home in the blood, flies about wildly in all directions? that is what we are doing. a large proportion of english people, having lost faith in their old ruler, supernatural religion, fly about wildly in motor-cars. and, unfortunately, material prosperity has increased enormously while moral discipline has been declining; so that now, while we are, perhaps, at the height of our national prosperity, there is practically no common enthusiasm binding man to man, spirit to spirit. it is difficult for an artist to do much more than to reflect the moral conduct of his time, and to cleanse, as it were, what is eternal in conduct from its temporary setting. if the world maintains, as i hold that it does, that there is nothing eternal, and that moral conduct consists in going a great deal, very swiftly, in many very expensive motor-cars, with as many idle companions as possible, then i maintain that you must respect the artist for standing alone and working, as you put it, 'rather blindly and narrowly,' at whatever protest his personal idiosyncrasy urges him to make." "that's just what i was saying," said major luscombe. "i was dining with sir herbert chard last night, down at aldershot. we were talking military shop rather. about conscription. i said that i thought it was a great pity that universal discipline of some kind had not been substituted for the old moral discipline, which of course we all remember, and i dare say were the last to get. you can't get on without discipline." "ah, but that is preaching militarism," said mrs. heseltine; "and preaching it insidiously." "the military virtues are the bed-rock of character," said the major. "i cannot believe that character is taught by drill-sergeants and subalterns," said mrs. heseltine. "if it is taught at all, it is taught (perhaps unconsciously) by fine men and women; and to some extent by the images of noble character in works of art. i see no chance of moral regeneration in conscription, only another excuse for vapouring, and for that kind of casting off of judgment and responsibility which goes under the name of patriotism." "i would rather establish a compulsory study of equity," said roger. "then nations might judge a _casus belli_ justly, on its merits, instead of accepting the words of newspapers inspired by unscrupulous usurers, as at present. a few unprincipled men, mostly of the lowest kind of commercial jew, are able to run this country into war whenever they like. and the briton believes himself to be a level-headed business man." "if that is the case," said the major triumphantly, "it proves my point. if we are likely to go to war, we ought to be prepared for war. and we can only be prepared if we establish conscription. and if we are not prepared, we shall cease as a nation. it is your duty, as an english writer, to awaken the national conscience by a play or novel, so that when the time comes we may be prepared." "my duty is nothing of the kind," said roger. "i believe war to be a wasteful curse; and the preparation for war to be an even greater curse, and infinitely more wasteful. i am not a patriot, remember. my state is mind. the human mind. i owe allegiance to that first. i am not going to set time's clock back by preaching war. war belongs to savages and to obsolete anachronisms like generals. you think that that is decadence. that i am a weak, spiritless, little-englander, who will be swept away by the first 'still, strong man' who comes along with 'a mailed fist.' very well. i have no doubt that brute force can and will sweep away most things not brutal like itself. it may sweep me away. but i will not disgrace my century by preaching the methods of palæolithic man. if you want war, go out and fight waste. i suppose that two hundred and fifty million pounds are flung away each year on drink and armaments in this country alone. i suppose that in the same time about five hundred pounds are spent on researches into the causes of disease. about the same amount is given away to reward intellectual labours. i mean labours not connected with the improvement of beer or dynamite. such labours as noble imaginings about the world and life." he looked at miss lenning, whose eye was kindling. no one who has dabbled in politics can resist rhetoric of any kind. "you send women to prison for wanting to control such folly," he went on. "doesn't he, miss lenning? if i am to become a propagandist, i will do so in the cause of liberty or knowledge. i would write for miss lenning, or for dr. heseltine there, but for a military man, who merely wants food for powder, for no grand, creative principle, i would not write even if the nicaraguans were battering st. paul's." "some day," said mrs. heseltine, "we may become great enough to give up all this idea of empire, and set out, like the french, to lead the world in thought and manners. we might achieve something then. france was defeated. she is now the most prosperous and the most civilised country in the world." "and the least vital," said the major's wife. "but what do you mean by vital?" said roger, guessing that she was repeating a class catch-word. "vitality is shewn by a capacity for thought." maggie fawcett interposed. "it's a very curious state of things," said she. "the intellect of the world is either trading, fighting for trade, or preparing to fight for trade. it is, in any case, pursuing a definite object. but the imagination of the world is engaged in finding a stable faith to replace the old one. it is wavering between science and superstition, neither of which will allow a compromise. you, mr. naldrett, if you will excuse my saying so, belong to the superstition camp. you believe that a man is in a state of grace if he goes to a tragedy, and can tell a francesca from a signorelli. i belong to the science camp, and i believe that that camp is going to win. it's attracting the better kind of person; and it has an enthusiasm which yours has not. you are looking for an indefinite, rare, emotional state, in which you can apprehend the moral relations of things. we are looking for the material relations of things so that the rare emotional state can be apprehended, not by rare, peculiar people, such as men of genius, but by everybody." "what you had better do," said dr. heseltine, "is, give up all this 'obsolete anachronism' of art. science is the art of the twentieth century. you cannot paint or write in the grand manner any longer. that has all been done. men like you ought to be stamping out preventable disease. instead of that, you are writing of what tom said to james while dick fell in the water. with a fortieth part of what is wasted annually on the army alone, i would undertake to stamp out phthisis in these islands. with another fortieth part there is very little doubt that cancer could be stamped out too. with another fortieth part, wisely and scientifically administered without morbid sentiment, we could stamp out crime and other mental diseases." "the motor-car and golf, for instance?" said ethel fawcett. "yes. and betting, 'sport,' war, idleness, drink, vice, tobacco, tea, all the abominations of life. all the reversions to incompleted types. you ought to write a play or a novel on these things. i'm not speaking wildly. i'm speaking of a proved scientific possibility of relative human perfection. when life has been made glorious, as i can see that it could be made, then you artists could set to work to decorate it as much as you like." "so, then," said roger, "there are three ways to perfection, by admitting women to the suffrage, by driving men into the army, and by substituting the college of surgeons for the government. now an artist is concerned above all things with moral ideas. he is not limited, or should not be, to particular truths. his world is the entire world, reduced, by strict and passionate thinking, to its imaginative essence. you and your schemes, and their relative importance, are my study, and, when i have reduced them to the ideas of progress which they embody, my material. i think that you have all made the search for perfection too much a question of profession. it is not a question of profession. it is a question of personal character." after a short pause he went on. "at the same time, there is nothing the man of thought desires so much as to be a man of action. english writers (i suppose from their way of bringing up) have been much tempted to action. byron went liberating greece. chaucer was an ambassador, spenser a sort of irish r.m., shakespeare an actor-manager and money-lender, or, as some think, the chancellor of the exchequer. writing alone is not enough for a man." leslie, who had been chatting to ethel fawcett, looked at roger without speaking. dinner came slowly to an end. the ladies left the room. the men settled into their chairs. dr. heseltine moved the port to lionel, with, "i suppose you're not allowed this?" lionel refused the port, smiling. he put a white tabloid into a little soda-water and settled into the chair next to roger. he pulled out his cigarette case. "will you smoke?" he asked. "these are rather a queer kind." "no, thanks," said roger. "i've given it up." "i don't think i could do that," said lionel, selecting a strange-looking cigarette done up in yellow paper, with twisted ends. "i smoke a good deal. when one's alone one wants tobacco; one gets into the way of it." he lit a cigarette with a brown hand which trembled. roger, noticing the tremor, and the redness of the man's eyes, wondered if he were a secret drinker. "are you much alone?" he asked. "a good deal," lionel answered. "i've just been reading a book by you; it's called _the handful_. i think you wrote it, didn't you? so you've been in the tropics, too?" "i went to stay with an uncle at belize, five years ago," said roger. "i only stayed for about a month." "belize," said lionel. "my chief was in belize. was there any yellow fever there, when you were there?" "there was one case," said roger. "did you see it?" "no," said roger; "i didn't." "i should like to see yellow fever," said lionel simply. "i suppose there was a good deal of fuss directly this case occurred?" "yes," said roger. "a gang came round at once. i think they put paraffin in the cisterns. they sealed the infected house with brown paper and fumigated it." "and that stopped it?" "yes. there were no other cases." "it's all due to a kind of mosquito," said lionel. "the white-ribbed mosquito. he carries the organism. you put paraffin on all standing puddles and pools to prevent the mosquito's larvæ from hatching out. my old chief did a lot of work in havana, and the west indies, stampin' out yellow fever. it has made the panama canal possible." "are you a doctor, then, may i ask?" said roger. "no," said lionel. "i do medical research work; but i don't know much about it. i never properly qualified. i'm interested in all that kind of thing." "what medical research do you do? would it bore you to tell me?" "i have been out in uganda, doing sleeping sickness." "have you?" said roger. "that's very interesting. i've been reading a lot of books about sleeping sickness." "are you interested in that kind of thing?" lionel asked. "yes." "if you care to come round to my rooms some time i would shew you some relics. i live in pump court. i'm generally in all the morning, and between four and six in the evening. i could shew you some trypanosomes. they're the organisms." "what are they like?" roger asked. "they're like little wriggly flattened membranes. some of them have tails. they multiply by longitudinal division. they're unlike anything else. they've got a pretty bad name." "and they cause the disease?" "yes. you know, of course, that they are spread by the tsetse fly? the tsetse fly sucks them out of an infected fish or mammal, and develops them, inside his body probably for some time, during which the organism probably changes a good deal. when the tsetse bites a man, the developed trypanosome gets down the proboscis into the blood. about a week after the bite, when the bite itself is cured, the man gets the ordinary trypanosome fever, which makes you pretty wretched, by the way." "have you had it?" "yes; rather. i have it now. it recurs at intervals." "and how about sleeping sickness?" "you get sleeping sickness when the trypanosome enters the cerebro-spinal fluid. you may not get it for six or seven years after the bite. on the other hand, you may get it almost at once." "then you may get it?" said roger, startled, looking at the man with a respect which was half pity. "i've got it," said lionel. "got it? you?" said roger. he stumbled in his speech. "but, forgive my speaking like this," he said; "is there a cure, then?" "it's not certain that it's a permanent cure," said lionel. "i've just started it. it's called atoxyl. before i tried atoxyl i had another thing called trypanroth, made out of aniline dye. it has made my eyes red, you see? dyed them. you can have 'em dyed blue, if you prefer. but red was good enough, i thought. now i'm afraid i'm talking rather about myself." "no, indeed; i'm intensely interested," said roger. "tell me more. tell me about the sickness in uganda. is it really bad?" "pretty bad," said lionel. "i suppose that a couple of hundred thousand men and women have died of it during the last seven years. i don't know how many animals besides. the tsetse will bite pretty nearly every living thing, and everything it bites gets disease of some sort. you see, trypanosomiasis is probably a new thing in uganda. new diseases are often very deadly, i believe." "is the tsetse migrating, then, or can the thing be conveyed by contagion?" "no. i don't think it's a contagious thing. i should say it almost certainly isn't. it needs direct inoculation. and as far as we know the tsetse keeps pretty near to one place all through its life." "i know a writer who claims that we are spreading it. is that so?" "indirectly. you see, east africa is not like america or any other horse country. you haven't got much means of transport, except bearers, unless you go by river, and even then you may have to make portages. going with natives from one district to another is sure to spread the infection. when infected people come to a healthy district, their germs are sure to be inoculated into the healthy by some tick or bug, even if there are no tsetses to do it. i believe there are trypanosomes in the hut-bugs. i don't know, though, that hut-bugs are guiltier than any other kind. it's impossible to say. from the hour you land until the hour you sail, you are always being bitten or stung by something. bugs, ticks, fleas, lice, mosquitoes, tsetses, ants, jiggers, gads, hippos, sandflies, wasps. you put on oil of lavender, if you have any. but even with that you are always being bitten." "and what is the tsetse bite like?" "you've been to portobe, haven't you? i remember ottalie fawcett speaking of you, years ago, before i went out. you had that cottage at the very end of the loaning, just above the sea? well. did you ever go on along the cliff from there to a place where you have to climb over a very difficult barbed-wire fence just under an ash-tree? i mean just before you come to a nunnery ruin, where there is a little waterfall?" "yes," said roger. "i know the exact spot. there used to be a hawk's nest in the cliff just below the barbed wire." "well, just there, there are a lot of those reddy-grey flies called clegs. you get them going up to essna-lara. that's another place. they bite the horses. you must have been bitten by them. well, a tsetse is not much like a cleg to look at. it's duller and smaller. it's likest to a house-fly, except for the wings, which are unlike any other kind of insect wings. it comes at you not unlike a cleg. you know how savage a cleg is? he dashes at you without any pretence. he only feints when he is just going to land. and he follows you until you kill him. a tsetse is like that. he'll follow you for half a mile, giving you no peace. like a cleg, he settles down on you very gently, so that you don't notice him. you'll remember the mosquitoes at belize. mosquitoes are like that. then, when he has sucked his fill and unscrewed his gimlet, you feel a smarting itch, and see your hand swollen. if you are not very well at the time a tsetse bite can be pretty bad. if you'll come to my rooms some time i'll show you some tsetse. they're nothing to look at. they're very like common house-flies." "and you have been studying all this on the spot? will you tell me what made you take to it?" "oh, i was always interested in that kind of thing. i've always liked hot climates, and being in wild, lonely places. and then my old chief was a splendid fellow. he made me interested. i got awfully keen on it. i want to go out again. you know, i want to get at the bottom of the trypanosome. his life-history isn't known yet, as we know the cycle of the malaria parasite. we don't even know what it is in him which causes the disease. and we don't know very much really about the tsetse, nor what part the tsetse plays in the organism's life. there's a lot which i should like to find out, or try to find out. it's the trying which gives one the pleasure." "but i think it's heroic of you," said roger. "are there many of you out there, doing this?" "not very many." "it's a heroic thing to do," said roger. "heroic. the loneliness alone must make it heroic." "you get used to the loneliness. it gives you nerves at first. but in my opinion the heat keeps you from thinking much about the loneliness. i like heat myself, but it takes it out of most of the griffs. the heat can be pretty bad." "all the same, it is a wonderful thing to do." "yes. it's a good thing to spot the cause of a disease like that. but you over-rate the heroic part. it's all in the day's work. one takes it as it comes, and one has a pretty good time, too. one never thinks of the risk, which is really very slight. doctors face worse things in london every day. so do nurses. a doctor was telling me only the other day how a succession of nurses went down to a typhus epidemic and died one after the other. there's nothing like that in the protectorate with sleeping sickness." "but being the only white man, away in the wilds, with the natives dying all round you!" "yes. that is pretty bad. i was in the middle of a pretty bad outbreak in a little place called ikupu. it was rather an interesting epidemic, because it happened in a place where there weren't any of the tsetse which is supposed to do the harm. they may have been there; but i couldn't find any. it must have been another kind which did the damage at ikupu. as a matter of fact, i did find trypanosomes in another kind there, which was rather a feather in my cap. well, i was alone there. my assistant died of blackwater fever. and there i was with a sleeping village. there were about twenty cases. most of the rest of the natives ran away, and no doubt spread the infection. those twenty cases were pretty nearly all the society of ikupu. some were hardly ill at all. they just had a little fever, perhaps, or a skin complaint on the chest, and tender, swollen glands. others were just as bad as they could be. they were in all stages of the disease. some were just beginning to mope outside their huts. others were sitting still there, not even caring to ask for food, just moping away to death, with their mouths open. generally, one gets used to seeing that sort of thing; but i got nerves that time. you see, they were rather a special tribe at ikupu. they called themselves obmali, or some such name. their lingo was rather rummy. talking with the chief i got the impression that they were the relics of a tribe which had been wiped out further west. they believed that sleeping sickness was caused by a snake-woman in a swampy part of the forest. looking after all those twenty people, and taking tests from them, gave me fever a good deal. that is one thing you have to get used to--fever. you get used to doing your work with a temperature of one hundred and two degrees. it's queer about fever. any start, or shock, or extra work, may bring it on you. i had it, as i said, a good deal. well, i got into the way of thinking that there was a snake-woman. a woman with a puff-adder head, all mottled. i used to barricade my hut at night against her." dr. heseltine drew his chair up. "what are you two discussing? talking about sleeping sickness?" he asked. "how does the new treatment suit you, lionel? no headache, i hope? it's apt to make you headachy. there's a subject for a play for you, mr. naldrett. 'man and the trypanosome.' you could bring the germs on to the stage, and kill them off with a hypodermic syringe." "yes," said roger. "it has all the requirements of a modern play: strength, silence, and masculinity. there's even a happy ending to it." lionel began to talk to dr. heseltine. roger crossed the room to talk to leslie. he heard lionel saying something about "waiting to give the monkey a chance." he did not get another talk with lionel that night. after they joined the ladies, ethel fawcett sang. she had a good, but not very strong voice. she sang some schumann which had been very dear to ottalie. her voice was a little like ottalie's in the high notes. it haunted roger all the way home, and into his lonely room. sitting down before the fireplace he had a sudden vision of drenching wet grass, and a tangle of yellowing honeysuckle, heaped over a brook which gurgled. for an instant he had the complete illusion of the smell of meadowsweet, and ottalie coming singing from the house, so sharply that he gasped. vii sweet virgin rose, farewell. heaven has thy beauty, that's only fit for heaven. i'll live a little, and then, most blessed soul, i'll climb up to thee. farewell. _the night walker; or, the little thief_. the next morning he found upon his plate a letter in a strange hand. the writing was firmly formed, but ugly. the letters had a way of lying down upon each other towards the end of each word. it was not a literary hand. it was from lionel heseltine. " a, pump court, temple. "dear mr. naldrett (it ran), "if you would like to see my relics, will you come round next thursday to my rooms between and ? you will see my name on the doorpost outside. i am up at the top. your best way would be underground to the temple, and then up middle temple lane. if the lane door is shut you will have to go up into the strand and then round. i hope you will be able to come. "yours sincerely, "lionel heseltine." he replied that he would gladly join him there on thursday. he wished that thursday were not still six days away. he was drawn to all these people who had known ottalie. they were parts of her life. he realised now how much people must be in a woman's life. a man has work, and the busy interests created by it. a woman has friends and the emotions roused by them. this world of ottalie's friends was new to him. he tried to look upon them as she would have looked upon them. these had known her intimately since her childhood. they had been in her mind continually. she had lived with them. he had often felt vaguely jealous of them, when he had heard her talk of them with agatha; or if not jealous, sad, that he should not have access to that side of her. he was drawn to them all, but lionel attracted him the most strongly. some of his liking for lionel was mere instinctive recognition of an inherent fineness and simplicity in the man's character. but there was more than that. he had often felt that in life, as in nature, there is a constant effort to remedy the unnatural. the inscrutable agency behind life offers always wisely some restoration or readjustment of a balance disturbed. he felt that a tide had quickened in his life, at the last ebbing of the old. in the old life all had been to please ottalie. life was more serious now. he could not go back all at once to a life interrupted as his had been. life was not what he had thought it. in the old days it had sufficed to brood upon beautiful images, till his mind had reflected them clearly enough for his hand to write down their evocative symbols. he was not too young to perceive the austerer beauty in the room of life beyond the room in which youth takes his pleasure. but so far his life had been so little serious that he had lacked the opportunity of perceiving it. now the old world of the beauty of external image, well-defined and richly coloured, was shattered for him. he saw how ugly a thing it was, even as a plaything or decoration, beside the high and tragical things of life and death. it was his misfortune to have lived a life without deep emotions. now that sorrows came upon him together, smiting him mercilessly, it was his misfortune to be without a friend capable of realising what the issue warring in him meant. o'neill had sent him a note from ubrique in andaluz, asking him to order a supply of litharge for his experiments, which were "wonderful." pollock had sent him a note from lyme, repaying, "with many, many thanks," the loan of fifty guineas. his "little girl was very well, and kitty was wonderful." besides these two he had no other intimate friends. leslie, a much finer person than either of them, might have understood and helped his mood; but leslie had been away in ireland since the first fortnight. being, therefore, much alone in his misery, roger had come to look upon himself in london as the one sentient, tortured thing in a callous ant-swarm. he was shrinking from the sharp points of contact with the world on to still sharper internal points of dissatisfaction with himself. it was, therefore, natural that he should be strongly attracted by a man who carried a mortal disease, with a grave and cheerful spirit, serenely smiling, able, even in this last misfortune, to feel that life had been ordered well, in accordance with high law. the more he thought of lionel, the more he came to envy that life of mingled action and thought which had tempered such a spirit. in moments of self-despising he saw, or thought that he saw, this difference between their lives. he himself was like an old king surprised by death in the treasure-house. he had piled up many jewels of many-gleaming thought; he was robed in purple; his brain was heavy from the crown's weight. and all of it was a heavy uselessness. he could take away none of it. the treasure was all dust, rust, and rags. he was a weak and fumbling human soul shut away from his bright beloved, not only by death, but by his own swaddled insufficiency. lionel, on the other hand, was a crusader, dying outside the holy city, perhaps not in sight of it, but so fired with the idea of it that death was a little thing to him. all his life had been death for an idea. all his life had made dying easier. roger's tortured mind was not soothed by thinking how their respective souls would look after death. some men laid up treasures in heaven, others laid up treasures on earth. the writer, doubting one and despising the other, laid up treasures in limbo. he began to understand o'neill's remark that it was "the most difficult thing in the world for an artist both to do good work and to save his own soul." little, long-contemned scraps of mediæval theology, acquired in the emotional mood during which he had been pre-raphaelite, appealed to him again, suddenly, as not merely attractive but wise. often, at times of deep emotion, in the fear of death, the mind finds more significance in things learned in childhood than in the attainments of maturity. this emotion, the one real passionate emotion of his life, had humbled him. life had suddenly shewn itself in its primitive solemnity. the old life was all ashes and whirling dust. he understood something, now, of the conflict going on in life. but he understood it quakingly, as a prophet hears the voice in the night. he saw his own soul shrivelling like a leaf in the presence of a great reality. he had to establish that soul's foundations before he could sit down again to work. the artist creates the image of his own soul. when he sees the insufficiency of that soul, he can either remedy it or take to criticism. thinking over the talk of the night before, he wondered at the train of events which had altered the course of his thinking. lionel, a few weeks before, would have been to him a charming, interesting, but misguided man, wandering in one of those sandy, sonorously named desarts where william blake puts newton, locke, and those other fine intellects, with whom he was not in sympathy. now he saw that lionel was ahead of him on the road. thinking of lionel, and wishing that he, too, had done something for his fellows, he traced the course of a tide of affairs which had been setting into his mind. it had begun with that blowing paper in the garden, as a beginning tide brings rubbish with it. now it was in full flood with him, lifting him over shallows where he had long lain grounded. he began to doubt whether literature was so fine a thing as he had thought. science, so cleanly and fearless, was doing the poet's work, while the poet, taking his cue from blake, maligned her with the malignity of ignorance. what if poetry were a mere antique survival, a pretty toy, which attracted the fine mind, and held it in dalliance? there were signs everywhere that the day of _belles-lettres_ was over. good intellects were no longer encouraged to write, "pricked on by your popes and kings." more than that, good intellects were less and less attracted to literature. the revelation of the age was scientific, not artistic. he tried to formulate to himself what art and science were expressing, so that he might judge between them. art seemed to him to be taking stock of past achievement, science to be on the brink of new revelations. he knew so little of science that his thought of it was little more than a consideration of sleeping sickness. he reviewed his knowledge of sleeping sickness. he thought of it no longer as an abstract intellectual question, but as man's enemy, an almost human thing, a pestilence walking in the noonday. out in africa that horror walked in the noonday, stifling the brains of men. it fascinated him. he thought of the little lonely stations of scientists and soldiers, far away in the wilds, in the midst of the disease, perhaps feeling it coming on, as lionel must have felt it. they were giving up their lives cheerily and unconcernedly in the hope of saving the lives of others. that was a finer way of living than sitting in a chair, writing of what dick said to tom when joe fell in the water. he went over in his mind the questions which science had to solve before the disease could be stamped out. he wondered if there were in the literary brain some quickness or clearness which the scientific brain wanted. he wondered if he might solve the questions. great discoveries are made by discoverers, not always by seekers. what was mysterious about the sleeping sickness? a little thought reduced his limited knowledge to order. the disease is spreading eastwards from the west coast of africa between ° north and ° south latitude, keeping pretty sharply within the thirty-two degrees, north and south. it is caused by an organism called a trypanosome, which enters the blood through the probosces of biting flies. it kills, when the organism enters the cerebro-spinal fluid. so much was sure. he could not say with certainty why the disease is spreading eastwards, nor why the trypanosome causes it, nor how the fly obtains the trypanosome, nor what happens to the trypanosome in the fly's body. his ignorance thus resolved itself into four heads. as to the spreading of the disease eastwards, lionel, who had lived in the country, might know a reason for it. he would at least have heard what the natives and the older settlers thought. residents' reasons generally range from stories of snake-headed women in the swamp, to tales of a queer case of gin, or of "european germs changed by the climate." the simple explanation was that in mid-africa human communications are more frequent from the west to the east than from the east to the west. the congo is the highway. he knew that the trypanosome is carried by the wild game. in long generations of suffering the african big game has won for itself the power of resisting the trypanosomes. although the trypanosomes abound in their blood, the wild animals do not develop "nagana" or "surra," the diseases which the tsetse bite sets up in most domestic animals. something has been bred into their beings which checks the trypanosome's power. the animals are immune, or salted. but although they are immune, the wild animals are hosts to the trypanosome. in the course of time, when they migrate before the advance of sportsmen, or in search of pasture into tsetse country as yet uninfected with trypanosome, the tsetses attacking them suck the infected blood and receive the organisms into their bodies. later on, as they bite, they transfer the organisms to human beings, who develop the disease. plainly, a single migratory animal host, or a single infected slave, suffering from the initial feverish stages, might travel for three or four months, infecting a dozen tsetses daily, along his line of march. one man or beast might make the route dangerous for all who followed. roger remembered how the chigoe or jigger-flea had travelled east along the congo, to establish itself as an abiding pest wherever there was sand to shelter it. as to the action of the trypanosome upon the human being, that was a question for trained scientists. it probably amounted to little more than a battle with the white corpuscles. he passed the next few days at the museum, studying the disease. mrs. holder, who did for lionel, let him in to lionel's rooms on thursday. "mr. heseltine was expecting him, and would be in in a minute. would he take a seat?" he did so. the rooms were the top chambers of a house in pump court. they were nice light airy chambers, sparely furnished. the floor was covered with straw-matting. the chairs were deck-chairs. there were a few books on a bookshelf. most of them were bound files of the _lancet_ and _british medical journal_. a few were medical books, picked up cheap at second-hand shops, as the price labels on the backs testified. the rest were mostly military history: _the jena campaign_; hoenig's _twenty-four hours of moltke's strategy_; meckel's _tactics_ and sommernacht's _traum; chancellorsville_; colonel henderson's _life of stonewall jackson; essays on the science of war_ and _spicheren_; wolseley's _life of marlborough_; colonel maude's _leipzig_; stoffel's contribution to the _vie de jules cesar_; a battered copy of mahan's _war of _; and three or four small military text-books on _reconnaissance, minor tactics, infantry formations,_ etc. a book of military memoirs lay open, face downwards, in a deck-chair. it was a hot july day, but the fire was not yet out in the grate. on the mantelpiece were some small ebony curios inlaid with mother-of-pearl. above the mantel were a few pipes, spears, and knobkerries, a warrior's colobus-monkey head-dress and shield, from masailand, a chased brass bracket-dish (probably made in england) containing cigarette-butts, and a small, but very beautiful madonna and child, evidently by correggio. it was dirty, cracked, and badly hung, but it was still a noble work. lionel, coming in abruptly, found roger staring at it. "i hope you've not been waiting," he said. "i've been to see my monkey. are you fond of pictures? that's said to be a rather good one. it's by a man called correggio. do you know his work at all? it's rather dingy. do you like lemon or milk in your tea? lemon? you like lemon, do you? right. and will you wait a minute while i give myself a last dose?" "can i help you?" roger asked. "it's hypodermic, isn't it?" "would you mind? you shove the snout of the thing into my arm, and push the spirit. it won't take a minute." he shewed roger into a spartan bedroom, furnished with a camp-bed and a sandow's exerciser. "now," he said, producing a bottle and a syringe, "first i'll roll up my sleeve, and then i'll shew you how to sterilise the needle. i suppose you've never done this kind of thing before? now, jab it in just here where all the punctures are." "you said it was your last dose," said roger. "does that mean that you are cured?" "cured for the time. i may get a relapse. still, that isn't likely." "how do you know that you are cured? do you feel better?" "i don't get insomnia," said lionel. "no. they inject bits of me into a monkey, and then wait to see if the monkey develops the organism. the monkey's very fit indeed, so they reckon that i'm cured. thanks. that'll do. now i hear tea coming. go on in, will you? i'll be out in a minute. i must get out my slides." after, tea they looked at relics, to wit, tsetse-flies, butterflies, biting flies, fragments of the same, sections of them, slides of trypanosomes, slides of filaria, slides of laverania. "i've got these photographs, too," said lionel. "they aren't very good; but they give you an idea of the place. this lot are all rather dark. i suppose they were over-exposed. they shew you the sort of places the tsetse likes. the hut in this one is a native hut. i lived in it while i was out there the last time. i was studying the tsetse's ways." "they're always near water, aren't they?" roger asked. "yes, generally near water. they keep to a narrow strip of cover by the side of a lake or stream. they don't like to go very far from water unless they are pursuing a victim. in fact, you're perfectly safe if you avoid fly-country. if you go into fly-country, of course they come for you. they'll hunt you for some way when you leave it. they like a shady water with a little sandy shady beach at the side. they like sand or loose soil better than mud. mud breeds sedge, which they don't care about. they like a sort of scrubby jungle. one or two trees attract them especially. here's a tree where about a dozen natives got it together merely from taking their siesta there." "does clearing the jungle do any good?" "oh, yes. it clears the flies out of that particular spot. but it scatters them abroad. it doesn't destroy them. it doesn't destroy the pupæ, which are buried under the roots in the ground. burning is better, perhaps. burning may do for the pupæ, but then it doesn't affect the grown flies." "tell me," said roger, "is blood necessary to the tsetse?" "i wish i knew." "i've been thinking about the spread of the disease. is it caused by game, by slave-raiders, or by ivory-hunters? how is it spread?" "we don't know. it seems to have followed the opening up of the congo basin to trade. the game are reservoirs, of course." "have the natives any cure?" "none. they have a disinfectant for their cattle. they boil up some bitter bark with one dead tsetse and make the cattle drink the brew. then they fumigate the cattle with bitter smoke. they go through this business when they are about to trek cattle through fly-country. they travel at night, because the flies don't bite after dark. but the fumigation business is really useless." "the tsetse is useless, i suppose?" "all flies are useless." "i like the ladybird and the chalk-blue butterfly." "i see you're a sentimentalist. you might keep those. but all the rest i would wipe out utterly. i wish that we could wipe out the tsetse as easily as one can wipe out the germ-carrying mosquitoes." "has it been tried?" "no. well. it may have been. but in the mosquito there is a well-marked grub stage, and in the tsetse there isn't. it is so difficult to get at the chrysalids satisfactorily." "what do the tsetses live upon? do you mind all my questions?" "no. go ahead. but it must be rather boring to you. they live on anything they can get, like the commissioners who study them." "but why do they live near water?" "oh, that? some think that they suck the crocodiles; but the general opinion is that they go for air-breathing, fresh-water fish. the theory is this. in the dry season the fish have very little water. the rivers dry up, or very nearly dry up. i'm not talking of rivers like the zambesi and the congo, of course. well. they dry up, leaving water-courses of shallow pools joined together by trickles. the fish are perfectly horrible creatures. they burrow into the mud of the shallows, and stay there till the rains. i suppose they keep their snouts out of the mud, in order to breathe. it is thought that the tsetses feed upon their snouts. it may not be true. jolly interesting if it is, don't you think? look here, excuse me if i smoke. tell me. what is it which interests you so much in sleeping sickness? it seems so queer that you should be interested." "i met with accounts of it not long ago, at a time when various causes had made me very sensitive to impressions. i don't know whether you ever feel that what is happening to you is part of a great game divinely ordained?" lionel shook his head. his look became a shade more medical. "well. it sounds foolish," said roger. "but i was impressed by the way in which sleeping sickness was brought to my notice again and again. so i studied it, as well as one so ignorant of science could. i am interested now, because you've been there and seen it all. it is always very interesting to hear another man's life-experience. but it is more than that. the disease must be one of the most frightful things of modern times. i think it splendid of you to have gone out, as you have, to study it for the good of mankind." "that was only self-indulgence," said lionel. "it's queer that you should be interested. you're the only person i've met yet since i came back who is really interested. of course, the doctors have been interested. but i believe that most londoners have lost the faculty for serious mental interest. it has been etiolated out of them. they like your kind of thing, 'sugar and spice and all things nice.' they like catchwords. they don't study hard nor get at the roots of things. i met a spaniard the other day, centeno, a chemist, i don't mean a druggist. he said that we had begun to wither at the top." "i don't agree," said roger. "spain is too withered to judge. our head is as sound oak as it always was. were you ever a soldier, heseltine?" "yes, in a sort of a way. i was in the militia." "did you want to be a soldier? why did you leave it?" "it isn't a life, unless you're on a general staff. everybody ought to be able to be a soldier; i believe that; but it doesn't seem to me to go very far as a life's pursuit. one can only become a good soldier by passing all one's days in fighting. that doesn't lead to anything. i would like best of all to be a writer, only, of course, i can't be. i haven't got the brains. i suppose you'll say they're not essential." "they are essential, and you've probably got as many as any writer; but writing is an art, and success in art depends on all sorts of subtle, instantaneous relations between the brain's various faculties and the hand. are you really serious, though?" "yes. i'd give the world to be able to write. to write poetry. or i'd like to be able to write a play. you see, what i believe is, that this generation is full of all sorts of energy which ought not to be applied to dying things. i would like to write a poem on the right application of energy. that is the important thing nowadays. the english have lots of energy, and so much of it is wasted. the energy wasted is just so much setting back the clock. the energy wasted at schools alone---- if i'd not been a juggins at school, i'd have been fully qualified by this time, and been able to get a lot more fun out of things, finding out what goes on. don't you find writing awfully interesting?" "i find it makes the world more interesting. writing lets one into life. but when i meet a man like yourself i realise that it isn't a perfect life for a man. it isn't active enough. it doesn't seem to me to exercise enough of the essential nature. have you ever tried to write? i expect you have written a lot of splendid things. will you shew me what you have written?" "oh," said lionel, "i've only written a few sonnets and things. out there alone at night when the lions are roaring, you can't help it. they used to roar all round me. i was only in a native hut. it gives one a solemn feeling. i used to make up verses every night." "have you got any? won't you read them to me?" "you can look at them if you like," said lionel, blushing under his tan. like most englishmen, he was a little ashamed of having any intelligence at all. he pulled out a little penny account-book from the drawer under the bookshelf. "they're pretty bad, i expect." roger looked at them. "they're not bad at all," he said. "you've got something to say. you haven't got much ear; but that's only a matter of training. people can always write well if they are moved or interested. great writing happens when a carefully trained technician undergoes a deep emotion, or, still better, has survived one. have you written prose at all?" "no. prose is much more difficult. i never know when to stop." "nor do i. prose becomes hard directly one begins to make it an art instead of a second nature." he wanted to talk with lionel about portobe. he was in that mood in which the wound of a grief aches to be stricken. he wanted to know what lionel had said to ottalie, and what she had said to him. he had that feeling which sometimes comes to one in london. "here you are, in london, before me. and you have been in such a place and such a place, where i myself have been, and you have talked with people known to me. how wonderful life is!" to his delight, lionel began to talk about ireland unprompted. "i wish i could write prose like yours," he said. "it was your prose first made me want to write. i was stopping with the fawcetts at portobe. it was the year before leslie married, just before i went to india, to do delhi-sore. ottalie had just got that book you wrote about the dall. you'd sent it to her. that was a fine book. i liked your little word-pictures." "i am sorry you liked that book. it is very crude. i remember ottalie was down on me for it." "ottalie was a fine person," said lionel. "she had such a delicate, quick mind. and then. i don't know. one can't describe a woman. a man does things and defines himself by doing them, but a woman just is. ottalie just was; but i don't know what she was. i think she was about the finest thing i've ever seen." "yes," said roger, moistening dry lips. "she was like light." "what i noticed most about her," said lionel, taking on now the tone of a colonial who has lived much away from the society of women, "was her fineness. she did things in a way no other woman could. when i came back from the east, and went to see her--of course i used to go to portobe fairly often when leslie was there--it was like being with some one from another world. she was so full of fun, too. she had a way of doing things simply. i'm not good at describing; but you know how some writers write a thing easily because they know it to the heart. ottalie fawcett seemed to do things simply, because she understood them to the heart, by intuition." "yes," said roger. "i shall always be proud to have lived among a race which could bear such a person." "she must be a dreadful loss," said lionel, "to anybody who knew her well. i'm afraid you knew her well. i used to think of her when i was in africa. she was wonderful." "she was a wonderful spirit," roger answered. "tell me. i seem to know you very well, although i have hardly met you. i don't even know if your people are alive. is your mother living?" "no," said lionel. "you're thinking of my old aunt who was at the at home with me. i was stopping with her for a few days, before she left town. my people are dead." "are you thinking of going out again to africa to examine sleeping sickness?" "yes," said lionel. "i want to go soon. i want to go in the rains, so that i can test a native statement, that the rains aggravate the disease and tend to bring it out where it is latent. i believe it is all nonsense. natives observe, but never deduce. still, one ought to know." "would you go alone?" "i should go out alone, i suppose. there are lots of men who would come with me to shoot lions, but trypanosomes are less popular. you don't bring back many trophies from trypanosomes, except a hanging jaw and injected eyes." "are the rains very unhealthy?" "yes. if they bring out the latent disease, they do so by lowering the constitution. but i don't believe that they do anything of the kind. still, the natives say that they can bring out nagana in a bitten cow by pouring a bucket of water over her." "look here," said roger, "i don't want you to decide definitely till you know me better. i know how risky a thing it is to choose a companion for a journey into the wilderness, or for any undertaking of this kind. but i am dissatisfied with my work. i can't tell you more. i don't think that my work is using enough of me, or letting me grow up evenly. besides, for other reasons, i want to give up writing. i am deeply interested in your work, and i should like to join you, if you would let me, after you know me better. i have a theory which i should like to work out." "it would be very nice," said lionel. "i mean it would be very nice for me. but it means pretty severe work, remember. and then, how about scientific training? i'm not properly qualified myself; but i've been at this game for seven years, and i had a hard year's training under my old chief, sir patrick hamlin. i began by doing first aid and bearer-party in camp. then, when i gave up soldiering, i got a job on famine relief in india. then old hamlin took me under his wing, and got me to help with the plague at bombay, and so i went on, learning whatever i could. i was very lucky. i mean, i was able to learn a good deal, being always with hamlin. you ought to know hamlin. he's a very remarkable man. he stamped out travancore ophthalmia. he made me very keen and taught me all that i know. not that that's much. now you are rather a griff, if you'll excuse my saying so. i wonder how soon you could make yourself useful?" "well, what is wanted?" said roger. "surely not much? what can you do with the disease? you can only inject atoxyl into a man, and pump trypanosomes out of him? i can learn how to mount and stain objects for the microscope. i have kept meteorological records. i could surely keep records of temperatures. i have no experience and no scientific knowledge; but i am not sure that my particular theory will need much more than prolonged, steady observation. probably all the attainable scientific facts about the structures of the different varieties of tsetse are known, but the habits of the flies are very little known. i was thinking that a minute observation of the flies would be useful. it is a kind of work which a trained scientist might find dull. now, who has really observed the tsetse's habits? it is not even known what their food is. and another thing. what is it which keeps them near the water, even when (for all that we know) the air-breathing fish are no longer burrowed in the mud? and why should they be so fond of certain kinds of jungle? and why should there not be some means of exterminating them? i could experiment in many ways." "yes. that is true. you could," said lionel, puckering his face. "how do you stand heat? you're slight. you can probably stand more than a big beefy fellow." "i did not find belize very trying." "then it's an expensive business," said lionel. "when i go out i shan't be attached to any commission. one has to go into all these sordid details pretty closely. of course, you won't mind my giving you one or two tips. here's my account book for a quite short trip to ikupu. you will see that it is very costly and very wasteful." roger looked at the account-book. the cost of the ikupu trip was certainly heavy. the relatives of two bearers who had been eaten by lions had received compensation. the widow of the dead assistant had received compensation. a month's stores had been thrown away by deserting bearers. the dirty, dog's-eared pages gave him a sense of the wasteful, deathy, confused life which goes on in new countries before wasteful, cruel, confused nature has the ideas of her "rebellious son" imposed upon her. "we went out seventy strong," said lionel, "to go to ikupu. we had bad luck from the very start. only twelve of us ever got there. you see, my assistant, marteilhe, was frightfully ill. i had fever on and off the whole time. so the bearers did what they liked. it's a heart-breaking country to travel in. it's like texas. 'a good land for men and dogs, but hell for women and oxen.' what do you think? does it seem to you to be worth the waste?" "very well worth," said roger, handing back the book. "if i fail to do one little speck of good there, it will have been very well worth, both for my own character and for my own time." "i don't quite see your point," said lionel. "well," said roger, moved. "i want to be quite sure of certain elements in myself, before i settle down to a literary life. that life, if it be in the least worthy, is consecrated to the creation of the age's moral consciousness. in the old time a writer was proved by the world before he could begin to create his "ideas of good and evil." homer never existed, of course, but the old idea of a poet's being blind is very significant. poets must have been men of action, like the other men of their race. they only became poets when they lost their sight, or ceased, through some wound or sickness, to be efficient in the musters, when, in fact, their lives were turned inwards. nowadays that is changed, heseltine. a man writes because he has read, or because he is idle, or greedy, or vicious, or vain, for a dozen different reasons; but very seldom because his whole life has been turned inward by the discipline of action, thought, or suffering. i am not sure of myself. miss fawcett's death has brought a lot into my life which i never suspected. i begin to think that a writer without character, without high and austere character, in himself, and in the written image of himself, is a panderer, a bawd, a seller of christ." he rose from his chair. he paced the room once or twice. "jacob boehme was right," he went on. "we are watery people. without action we are stagnant. if you sit down to write, day after day, for months on end, you can feel the scum growing on your mind." he sat down again, staring at the correggio. "there," he said, "that is all it is. i sometimes feel that all the thoroughly good artists, like dürer, shakespeare, michael angelo, dante, all of them, sit in judgment on the lesser artists when they die. i think they forgive bad art, because they know how jolly difficult art of any kind is. i don't believe that art was ever easy to anybody, except perhaps to women, whose whole lives are art. but they would never forgive faults of character or of life. they would exact a high strain of conduct, mercilessly. good god, heseltine, it seems to me terrible that a man should be permitted to write a play before he has risked his life for another, or for the state." "well," said lionel, picking up his cigarette, which had fallen to the floor, scattering sparks. "yes." he pressed his forefinger reflectively on each crumb of fire one after the other. "yes. but look here. i met that french poet fellow, mongeron, the other day, the day before yesterday. he said that action was unnecessary to the man of thought, since the imagination enabled him to possess all experience imaginatively." "yes. i know that pleasant theory. i agree," said roger. "but only when action has formed the character. i take writing very seriously, but i want to be sure that it is the thing which will bring out the best in me. i am doubtful of that. i am doubtful even whether art of any kind is not an anachronism in this scientific century, when so much is being learned and applied to the bettering of life. as i said the other night, my state is the human mind. if this art, about which i have spilled such a lot of ink, be really a survival, what you call in dissecting-rooms 'a fossil,' then i am not helping my state, but hindering her, by giving all my brains' vitality to an obsolete cause. one feels very clever, with these wise books in one's head; but they don't go down to bed-rock. they don't mean much in the great things of life. they don't help one over a death." "no," said lionel reflectively. "i think i see all your points." he made the subject practical at once, feeling a little beyond his depth in ethics. "it would be a very interesting experience for you to go out," he said. "a fine thing, too; for it is very difficult to get a good brain to take up a subject in that particular way. still, one ought not to waste a good brain like yours in watching tsetses." "no imaginative work is wasted," said roger. "the experience would add a great deal to me. i should feel more sure of being able to face the judge after death." "how about the practice of your art?" "that will not be hurt by the deepening of my interests." "come on out to dinner," said lionel. "i generally go to simpson's. we'll go into committee of supply. the first thing we shall have to do is to try to get you the job of bottle-washer to somebody's clinic. what i want to do when i get out there is this, naldrett. i want to get right away into the back of beyond, into the c.f.s., or wherever there is not much chance of the natives having mixed with europeans. i want to find out if there is any native cure, if any native tribes are immune, as they are to malaria, and whether their cattle, if they have any, are immune, like the game. you will guess that what i want to do is to prepare anti-toxins strong enough to resist the disease at any stage, and also to act as preventives. that's the problem as it seems to me. it may sound a little crazy." "is the tsetse immune?" said roger. "does anybody know anything about flies? if the tsetse is immune, why could not an anti-toxin be prepared from the tsetse? it would be more than science. it would be equity." they walked along the strand together. "anti-toxins must wait," said roger, as they stopped before crossing wellington street. "the first thing we had better do is to go for a long tramp together, to see how we get along." "we might charter a boat, and try to get round the north of ireland," said lionel. "dublin to moville. it would be a thorough eye-opener. then we might walk on round the coast to killybegs. old hamlin will be back by the end of august. he would prescribe you a course of study. we might do some reading together." in the strand, outside simpson's, a procession of dirty boys followed a dirty drunkard who was being taken to bow street by two policemen. newsboys, with debased, predatory faces, peered with ophthalmic eyes into betting news. other symptoms of disease passed. "plenty of disease here," said roger. "all preventable," said lionel. "only we're not allowed to prevent it. people here would rather have it by them to reform. science won't mix with sentiment, thank god!" they entered simpson's. viii and here will i, in honour of thy love, dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys that former times made precious to mine eyes. _the faithful shepherdess_. ten months later roger sat swathed in blankets under mosquito netting, steering a boat upstream. he was in the cold fit of a fever. the bows of the boat were heaped with the cages of laboratory animals and with boxes, on the top of which a negro sat, singing a song. the singer clapped gravely with his hands to mark the time. "marumba is very far away," he sang. "yes. it is far away, and nobody ever got there." at times, pausing in his song to lift a hand to roger, he pointed out a snag or shoal. at other times the rowers, lifting their paddles wearily, sang for a few bars in chorus, about the bones on the road to marumba. then the chorus died; the paddles splashed; the tholes grunted. the boat lagged on into the unknown, up the red, savage river, which loitered, and steamed, and stank, like a river of a beginning earth. lionel, heaped with blankets, lay at roger's feet. his teeth were chattering. the wet rag round his forehead had slipped over his eyes. the debile motion of the hand which tried to thrust the rag away, so that he might see, told of an intense petulant weakness. by him lay a negro, wasted to a skeleton, who watched roger with a childish grave intentness out of eyes heavy with death. the boat ground slowly past a snag. roger, raising himself upon a box, looked out painfully over the river bank to the immense distance beyond, where, in a dimness, mists hung. to the right, a mile or two from the river, was forest, sloping to an expanse of water, intensely blue. beyond the water was grass sloping up to forest. the forest jutted out, immense, dark, silent. nothing lay beyond it but forest, trees towering up, trees fallen, uprooted, rotting, a darkness, a green gloom. over it was the sky, of hard, bright blue metal, covered with blazing films. outside it, like captains halted at the head of a horde, were solitary, immense trees, with ruddy boles. to each side of them, the forest stretched, an irregular wilderness of wood, grey, rather than green, in the glare aloft; below, darker. the water at the foot of the slope opened out in bays, ruffled by the wind, shimmering. reeds grew about the bays. a cluster of tall, orange-blossomed water-plants hid the rest from roger's sight as the boat loitered on. to the left it was a sometimes swampy plain-land, reaching on into the mists, with ants' nests for milestones. little gentle hills rose up, some of them dotted with thorn-trees. they were like the stumps of islands worn away by the river, when, long ago, it had brimmed that plain-land from the forest to the far horizon. far ahead, to the left of the river, roger noticed a slightly larger hill. it held his gaze for a few minutes. it stood up from the plain exactly like a roman camp which he had visited in england long before, one christmas day. he liked to look at it. there was comfort in looking at it. it was like a word from europe, that hill beyond there, greyish in the blinding light. it was like a roman camp, like military virtue, order, calm, courage, dignity. he needed some such message. he was in command of a shipload of suffering. he was wandering on into the unknown, in charge of dying men. smoke was rising from below the hill, a single spire of smoke. he hailed the singer. "merrylegs," he cried, "what is the smoke there?" "jualapa," said the man, standing up to look. "jualapa." "it can't be jualapa," said lionel petulantly, struggling to lift his blankets. "oh, stop that noise, roger. it shakes my head to pieces." "jualapa," cried the rowers excitedly. "jualapa." they dropped their paddles. standing on the thwarts they peered under the sharps of their hands at the rising smoke. they rubbed their bellies, thinking of meat. one of them, beating his hands together, broke into a song about jualapa. roger, stumbling forward, shaken by sickness, bade them to give way, quietly. the jabbering died down as the tholes began again to grunt. merrylegs, still clapping his hands, broke into another song. jualapa is near. yes, jualapa is near. not like marumba. we will eat meat in jualapa. much meat. much meat. the men of little belly will eat meat in jualapa. "shut your silly head, merrylegs," cried roger angrily. the song broke off. merrylegs began to tell the bow-oar what meat there would be in jualapa. he said that there would be cattle, and perhaps a diseased cow among them. the rowing seemed to freshen a little. the boat dragged on a little quicker. "how are you, lionel?" roger asked. it was a foolish question. "oh, for god's sake don't ask silly questions," said lionel very weakly. "do leave me alone." for answer, roger gently renewed the compress round the sick man's head. from the thirst which was torturing him he guessed that his fever's hot fit would soon begin. he prayed that it might keep off until they had reached the smoke. they were probably nearing some village. they might camp at the village. only he would have to be well when they reached the village. he would have to get lionel ashore, into some comfortable hut. he would have to feed him there with some strong comforting broth. before he could do that, he would have to see the village headman. he would have to look after the bearers. the boat would have to be moored. some of her gear would have to be unloaded. there could be no thought of going on, upstream, to jualapa, in their present state. a native had told them, the day before, that jualapa, three days' journey upstream, was stricken with sleeping sickness. "all were sleeping," he said. "men, women, and little children. the cattle were not milked at jualapa." it was the first time that they had heard of the disease since leaving the coast. they had decided to attempt jualapa. they were both suffering from fever. they would have been glad to camp for a few days before pushing on; but lionel forbade it. the rowers were getting homesick. three of them had contracted dysentery. he felt that if they called a halt anywhere their men would desert them. the important thing was to push on, he said, to carry the men so far that they would be afraid to run. if the men deserted after the leaders had engaged the disease, well and good, there would be the work to do. but if they deserted before that, the expedition would end before roger took his first lumbar puncture. it was the last sensible decision lionel had been able to make. his fever had recurred within the hour. since then he had been dangerously ill, so ill, and with such violent changes of temperature, that his weakness, now that the fever lifted, frightened roger. roger shook and chattered, trying to think. he was ill; so ill that he could not think clearly. the horrible part of it, to him, was to be just clear enough in his head to fear to change lionel's decision. he wanted to change for lionel's sake; but with this fever smouldering in his brain, surging and lifting, like a hot blast withering him, the plan seemed august, like a law of the medes and persians. he was afraid of changing. at last, in a momentary clearing of the head, he made up his mind to change. he would anchor. they would halt at the smoke. they would land and camp. nothing could be done till the leaders were cured. if the men deserted, he would trust to luck to be able to hire new men. he could not go on like this; lionel might die. the fever closed in upon his mind again, surging and withering. the air seemed strangely thick. merrylegs wavered and blurred. the boat grounded on a mud-bank, and brushed past some many-shimmering reeds with a long swish. the dying negro, stirred by some memory, which the noise had awakened in him, raised himself faintly, asking something. he fell back faint, closing his eyes, then opening them. he beat with one hand, jabbering the name mpaka. his teeth clenched. he was in the death agony. one of the stroke-oars, clambering over the boxes in the stern-sheets, beat the dying man upon the chest. he was beating out the devil, he explained. he soon grew tired. he shouted in the sick man's ear, laughed delightedly at his groans, and went forward to explain his prowess. he broke out into a song about it. kilemba has a big devil in his belly. big devil eat up kilemba. eat all up. but muafi a strong man. very strong man. devil no good. not eat muafi. they swept round a bend, where crocodiles, like great worm-casts, sunned and nuzzled, with mud caking off their bellies. the boat passed into a broad, above which, the hill like a roman camp rose up. pink cranes stood in the shallows. slowly, one of them rose aloft, heavily flagging. another rose, then another, then another, till they made a pinkish ribbon against the forest. following the line of their flight roger saw a few delicate deer leave their pasture, startled by the starting of the cranes. they moved off daintily, looking uneasily behind them. soon they broke into a run. on the left bank, in a space of poor soil, covered with shingle by a freshet, some vultures cowered and sidled about a dead thing. roger stared stupidly at them. something of a warning of death moved through the surging of his fever. he said to himself that there was death here. words spoke in his brain, each word like a fire-flash. "no white man has ever been here before. you are the first. take care. there is death here." some vague fear of possible war, so vague that he was not quite certain that it was not a memory of a war-scare at home, made him look to his revolver. he thrust up the catch with his thumb, and stared at the seven dull brass discs pulled slightly forward by the extractor. there were seven, and we are seven, and there were seven planets. the fever made him stare at the opened breech for a full minute. out of some tall water-plants, whose long, bluish-grey leaves looked very cool in the glare of heat, came flies. they came to the attack with a whirling fierceness like clegs. they were small, brown, insignificant flies. they were tsetse flies. the boat pulled out into the open to avoid them. after a few more minutes roger called upon the rowers to stop rowing. he was in the middle of the broad, looking at the left bank, where a trodden path led to the water's edge. for many centuries men and beasts had watered there. the path had worn a deep rut into the bank. what struck roger about it was its narrowness. it was the narrow track of savages. the people who made it had used it fearfully, one at a time, full of suspicion, like drinking deer. their fear had had a kind of idealism about it. it might truly be said of those nervous drinkers that when they drank, they drank to the good health of their state. even in his fever, the sight of the path shocked roger with a sense of the danger of life in this place. what was the danger? what was the life? beyond the track, at a little distance from the river, was a thick thorn hedge surrounding a village. from the midst of the village a single stream of smoke arose. it went up straight for a foot or two, behind the shelter of the hedge. then it blew down gustily, in wavering puffs. there was no other sign of life in the village. a few hens were picking food in the open. a cow, standing with drooped head above the corpse of her calf, awaited death. her bones were coming through her skin, poor beast. there were black patches of flies upon her. three vultures waited for her. one of them was stretching his wings with the air of a man yawning. vultures were busy about a dead cow in the middle distance. dark heaps, further off, had still something of the appearance of cows. the men, looking earnestly about from the tops of the boxes, jabbered excitedly, pointing. roger unslung his binoculars and stared at the silent place. he could see no one. there were dead cows, a dying cow, and those few clucking hens. he wondered if there could be an ambush. the grass was tall enough, in the clumps, to shelter an enemy; but the wild birds passed from clump to clump without fear. in a bare patch two scarlet-headed birds were even fighting together. their neck feathers were ruffled erect. they struck and tugged. they rose, flapping, to cuff each other with their wings. leaping aloft they thrust with their spurs. a hen, less brilliantly coloured, watched the battle. but for these birds the place was peaceful. the wind ruffled the grass; the smoke was gusty; one of the poultry crooned with a long gurgling cluck. something made roger look from the village to the hill like a roman camp. it glistened grey in the sun-blaze. the dance of the air above it was queer, almost like smoke. he stared at it through his glasses. after a long look he turned to stare into the water to rest his eyes. "i am mad," he said to himself. "i am dreaming this. presently i shall wake up." he looked again. there could be no doubt of it. the hill was covered with a grey stone wall at least thirty feet high. there, about three-quarters of a mile away, was the ruin of an ancient town, as old, perhaps, as the pharaohs. there was no doubt that it was old. parts of it, undermined by burrowing things, or thrust out by growing things, were fallen in heaps. other parts were overgrown twelve feet thick, with vegetation. trees grew out of it. a few cacti upon the wall-top were sharply outlined against the sky. on the further end of the wall there was a fire-coloured blaze, where some poisonous weed, having stifled down all weaker life, triumphed in sprawling yellow blossoms, spotted and smeared with drowsy juice. there were dense swarms of flies above it as roger could guess from the movements of the birds across the path. he watched the ruin. there was no trace of human occupation there. no smoke shewed there. apparently the place had become a possession for the bittern. wild beasts of the forests lay there, owls dwelt there, and satyrs danced there. it was as desolate as babylon at the end of isaiah xiii. he looked at the men to see what effect the ruin had upon them. they did not look at it. they had the limited primitive intelligence, which cannot see beyond the facts of physical life. they were looking at the village, jabbering as they looked. "what are we stopping for?" said lionel. "there's a village," said roger. "it seems to have cattle plague." lionel struggled weakly to a sitting position, and looked out with vacant eyes. "there's a ruin on the hill, there," said roger. "plague and ruin are the products of this land," said lionel. "don't stand there doddering, naldrett. find out what's happening here." "look here, you rest," said roger with an effort. "just lie back on the blankets here, and rest." "how the devil am i to rest when you won't keep the gang quiet?" "you just close your eyes, lionel," said roger. "close them. keep them closed." he sluiced a rag in the shallow water. "here's a new compress for you." he ordered the men to pull in to the watering-place, while he looked about in what he called the toy box for presents for the village chief. he took some copper wire, a few brass cartridge shells, some green beads, some bars of brightly coloured sealing wax, a doll or two, of the kind which say, "mamma," when stricken on the solar plexus, a doll's mirror, a knife, an empty green bottle, and a tin trumpet. he tilted a white-lined green umbrella over lionel's head. he slipped over the side as the boat grounded. merrylegs followed him, carrying the presents. they slopped through shallow water, and climbed the bank. merrylegs, clapping his hands loudly, called to the villagers in the mwiri dialect that a king, a white man, a most glorious person, was advancing to them. roger asked him if he had heard of this village at their stopping-place the day before. no, he said, he had never heard of this village. it was a poor place, very far away; he had never heard of it. he called again, batting with his hands. no answer came. roger, looking anxiously about, saw no sign of life. no sign shewed on the city wall. a new vulture, lighting by the dying cow, eyed him gravely, without enthusiasm. one of those already there flapped his wings again as though yawning. "merrylegs," said roger, "we must go into the village." he shifted round his revolver holster, so that the weapon lay to hand. they skirted the zareba till they came to the low hole, two feet square, which led through the thorns into the town. the mud of the road was pounded hard by the continual passing of the natives. fragments of a crudely decorated pottery were trodden in here and there. lying down flat, merrylegs could see that the stakes which served as door to the entrance, were not in place inside the stockade. the visitor was free to enter. "think all gone away," said merrylegs. "slave man he catch." roger did not now believe in the theory of slave man. "it is nonsense," he said. "nonsense. there must be death here." he stood by the gate, breathing heavily, not quite knowing, from time to time, what he was doing, at other times knowing clearly, but not caring. little things, the crawling of a tick, the cluck of a hen, the noise of his own breath, seemed important to his fever-clogged brain. "i'll go in," he said, at last. "not go in," said merrylegs promptly. "perhaps inside. perhaps make him much beer. all drunk him." he called again in mwiri, but no answer came. a hen, perhaps expecting food, came clucking through the hole, cocking her eyes at the strangers. roger, finding a bit of biscuit in his pocket, dropped it before her. she worried it away from his presence, and gulped it down gluttonously before the other hens could see. roger knelt down. peering up the tunnel he tried to make out what lay within. he could not see. the entrance passage had been built with a bend in the middle for the greater safety of the tribe. for all that he could know, a warrior might lie beyond the bend, ready to thrust a spear into him. he did not think of this till a long time afterwards. he began to shuffle along the passage on all fours. nothing lay beyond the bend. he clambered to his feet inside the village. "come on in, merrylegs," he called. merrylegs came. they looked about them. the village formed an irregular circle about two hundred yards across. inside the thorn hedge it was strongly palisaded with wooden spikes, nine feet high, bound together with wattle, and plastered with a mud-dab. the huts stood well away from the palisade. they formed a rough avenue, shaped rather like a sickle. there were thirty-five huts still standing. the frames of two or three others stood, waiting completion. one or two more had fallen into disrepair. several inhabitants were in sight, both men and women. they were sitting on the ground, propped against the palisades or the walls of their huts, in attitudes which recalled the attitude of the negro, seen long before in the photograph in the irish hotel. one of the men, rising unsteadily to his feet, walked towards them for some half-dozen paces, paused, seemed to forget, and sank down again, with a nodding head. a child, rising up from a log, crawled towards a hen. the hen, suspecting him, moved off. the child watched it strut away from him as though trying to remember what he had planned to do to it. he stood stupidly, half asleep. slowly he laid himself down upon the ground, with the movement of an old man careful of the aches of his joints. it seemed to roger that the child had never really been awake. it was the slow deliberate movement of the child which convinced him, through his fever, that he was in the presence of the enemy. "these people have sleeping sickness," he said. the words seemed to echo along his brain, "sleeping sickness, sickness, sickness." this was what he had come out to see. here was his work cut out for him. this was sleeping sickness. here was a village down with it. it was shocking to him. had he been in health it would have staggered him. these sleepers were never going to awake. all these poor wasting wretches were dying. he had never seen death at work on a large scale before. he checked a half-formed impulse to bolt by stepping forward into the enclosure, into the reek of death. the place was full of death. he drove merrylegs before him. merrylegs knew the disease. merrylegs had no wish to see more of it. he was for bolting. "go on, merrylegs," said roger. "sing out to them." merrylegs got no answer. "only dead men here," he said. "young men, no catch him, run." "come on round the huts then," said roger. "we'll see how many have run." they went to the hut from which the smoke rose. an old, old hideous woman was crouched there over a little fire. she was trembling violently, and mumbling with her gums. she cowered away from roger with a wailing cry, very like the cry of a rabbit caught by a weasel. "tiri," she said, "tiri," expecting death. merrylegs asked her questions; roger tried her. it was useless. she did not understand them. she mumbled something, shaking her poor old head, whimpering between the words. roger gave her a doll, which she hugged and whimpered over. she was like a child of a few months old in the body of a baboon. they tried another hut. from the number of food pots stored there, roger guessed that this hut had once belonged to a chief. two women lay there, one in the last stages of the sickness, very ill, and scarcely stirring, the other as yet only apathetic. she blinked at them as they entered the hut, without interest, and without alarm, just like an animal. she might once have been a comely woman, but the drowsiness of the sickness had already brought out the animal in her face. her ornaments of very thin soft gold shewed that she was the wife of an important person; she may perhaps have been the chief's favourite. she did not understand merrylegs' dialect, nor he hers. possibly, as sometimes happens in the disease, she had no complete control over her tongue. roger thought that she might be thirsty. he poured water for her. she did not drink. it occurred to roger then that she might be welcoming the disease, giving way to it without a struggle, after losing husband and child. he could see that she had had a child, and there was no child there. "poor woman," he said to himself. "poor wretch." they went out into the open again. at the further end of the village roger found evidence which helped him to make a theory of what had happened. just outside the palisade were the bones of a few bodies, which, as he supposed, were those who had died, after the first breaking out of the epidemic. if the epidemic had begun two months before, as seemed likely, these men and women must have been dead for about a fortnight. the sickness and mortality had steadily increased since then. the able, uninfected inhabitants, had at last migrated together. they had gone off with their arms and cattle to some healthier place, leaving the infected to die. he could make no other explanation. many of the huts were deserted. in others, still living sleepers lay among corpses. three young men, a boy, and an old man were the liveliest of the remaining inhabitants. roger had only to look at their tongues to see that they, too, were sealed for death. the tongue moved from the root with a helpless tremor. their lymphatic glands were swollen. they themselves were under no delusions about their state. the cloud was on them. they would not speak unless they were spoken to with some sharpness. they were gloomily waiting until the ailment should blot everything away from them. merrylegs tried to understand them; but gave it up. "very poor men," he said. "know nothing." they were some relic (or outpost) of a strange tribe, speaking an unknown tongue. perhaps they were the descendants of some little wandering band, separated from its parent tribe, by war, pestilence, or mischance. they had had their laws, their arts, their customs. they had even thriven. the game of life had gone pleasantly there. life there had been little more than a sitting in the sun, between going to the river for a drink and to the patch for a mealie. the beauties had sleeked themselves with oil, and the strong ones had made themselves fat with butter. they had lived "naturally," like plants or animals, sharing the wild things' immunity from ailments. they were completely adjusted. now some little change had altered their relations to nature. something had brought the trypanosome. now they died like the animals, deserted by their kind. the first shock of the sight of this harvest of death came upon roger dully, through the shield of his fever. he did not realise the full horror of it. nor was he conscious of the passage of time. he stayed in the village for a full hour before he returned to the boat. in that hour he made rough notes of the twenty-nine cases still present there. sixteen of them, he hoped, might yield to treatment. the others were practically dead already from wasting. the preparation of the notes, brief as they were, was a great drain upon his strength. the fever was gaining on him. he found himself staring vacantly between the writing of two words. his brain was a perpetual surging tumult. his eyes seemed to burn in their sockets. he remembered lionel with a great start. "lionel," he repeated. "i must tell lionel. we shall stop here." outside the infected village he looked for tracks. a track led towards the ruin. another led away across the plain. both were as narrow as a horse's girth, and beaten as hard as earthenware. the old tracks of cattle crossed them. merrylegs, looking about upon the ground, cried out that the tribe had gone over the plain with their cattle ten or eleven days before. he pointed to marks on the ground. roger took his word for it. he climbed into the stern-sheets of the boat, feeling as though hot metal were being injected into his joints. "how are you now, lionel?" he asked. "you're looking pretty bad. this is a plague spot. they've got the sickness here. they're dying of it." "couldn't you have come and told me before this?" said lionel. "i've been lying here not knowing whether you were dead or alive." "i'd a lot of huts to examine," he answered. "what do you think? we had better stop here, eh? we had better make this our station. the first thing i shall do will be to get you into a bed." "that's like you," said lionel. "you make plans when i'm sick and can't veto them. my god, if i'd known it was going to be like this! well, i'll never work with a griff again." "it's time for your medicine," said roger stolidly, in order to change the subject. he poured the white powder into a cigarette paper, and handed it to the patient. "don't you dare to give me medicine," lionel answered, knocking the dose away. "i believe you're poisoning me. i've watched you. you're poisoning me." "don't say things like that, lionel," said roger. "you're awfully tired, i know, but they hurt. i wish i could get you well," he mused. "it's not so easy as you seem to think," he added. "what isn't?" "life here." "that's because you're such a silly ass. i'm all right. i only want to be left alone. well. get the men ashore, can't you? get some sort of a camp pitched." "i am going to," said roger. "i am going to camp on the hill there for to-night, among the ruins." he gave some orders. lionel sat up. "merrylegs," he said, "drop that. i command here." "look here, heseltine," said roger. "i must do this." "you shall not wreck the expedition," said lionel. "you're as ignorant as a cow. you haven't even examined the ruin." roger paid no attention to him. he bade the men moor the boat and unload her. "naldrett," said lionel, "if you persist in this--when i'm sick and can't stop you--it's the end of our working together. we part company. put down that box, merrylegs. leave those things in the boat." roger had more strength left in him than his companion. the boat was unloaded. the bearers, leaving a pile of boxes by the river, formed an indian file and marched with their burdens of necessaries towards the hill. lionel walked, supported by roger. he did not speak. his face worked with the impotent anger of a sick man. presently roger noticed that he was crying from mere nervous weakness. he felt that it would be well to say nothing. lionel's petulance was the result of fever. if he said anything, the petulant mood would surely twist it into a cause of offence. he said nothing. lionel, after pausing a minute, said something in a faint voice about the heat. roger had not noticed the heat. he had a glowing lime-kiln within him. he stopped, and asked if it were very hot. "god!" said lionel disgustedly. they walked on, following the bearers. presently lionel stopped and swore at the heat. roger waited. each moment of waiting was torture to him. each moment of physical effort racked him. he wanted to fling himself down and let the fever run its course. "god almighty!" said lionel, turning on him. "can't you answer me?" "i didn't know you spoke to me." "you don't know anything." "you were not speaking to me, you were swearing at the heat." "what if i were." "if you could manage to keep quiet till we are camped," said roger, "you'd feel better. i'm doing my best for you." "you are," said lionel, "you are. i'm dying to see the sort of rotten camp you'll make when you're left by yourself." "shut up," said roger. "shut up. i'm too ill to talk." the fever was whirling in him now. he could not trust himself to say more. he was near the delirious stage. he remembered smelling the smell of death, in a foul sultry blast, while merrylegs said something about the kraal in the hollow. looking, half-drowsed, to his left, he saw a kraal littered with dead and dying cattle, among which gorged vultures perched. afterwards, he remembered the ruins of a wall, standing now about three feet high. it was built of good hewn stone, well laid, with one crenellated course just below its present top. he could never remember getting over the wall. there were many sunflowers. immense orange sunflowers with limp wavy petals. sunflowers growing out of a litter of neatly wrought stones. mosquitoes came "pinging" about him, winding their sultry horns. those little horns seemed to him to be the language of fever. they suggested things to him. the men were a long, long time pitching the tent. something was wrong with one of the men. the other men were keeping apart from him. the beds with their nettings were ready at last. fire was burning. something with a smell of soup was being cooked. in his sick fancy it was the smell of something dead. he told them to take it away. he saw lionel somewhere, much as a man at the point of death may see the doctor by his bedside. he could not be sure which of the two of them was the living one. then there came a moment when he could not undo the fastening of his mosquito net. he saw his bed inside. he longed to be in bed. all this torture would be over directly he was in bed, wrapped up. but he could not get in. the bed was shut from him by the mosquito net. he wanted to get in. he would give the world to be in bed. but he did not know how he was to move the netting, everything smelt of death so strongly. it was very red everywhere, a smoky, whirling red, with violent lights. people were crossing the dusk, or rather not people, but streaks of darkness. they were making a great crying out. they were too noisy. why could they not be quiet? he ceased to fumble at the net. he began to see an endless army of artillery going over a pass. the men were all dark; the guns were all painted black; the horses were black. they were going uphill endlessly, endlessly, endlessly. he cried out to them to stop that driving, to do anything rather than go on and on and on in that ghastly way. instantly they changed to tsetses, riding on dying cattle. they were giant tsetses, with eyes like cannonballs. an infernal host of trypanosomes wriggled around them. the trypanosomes were wriggling all over him. a giant tsetse was forcing his mouth open with a hairy bill, so that the trypanosomes might wriggle down his throat. a flattened trypanosome, tasting as flabby as jelly, was swarming over his lips. the fit passed off in the early morning, leaving him weak, but alert. something was going to happen. the air was as close as a blast from a furnace. he sat up, holding by the tent-pole. he could see a star or two. he wished that the horrible smell would go. it seemed to be everywhere. "lionel," he said. "yes," said a faint voice. "have you slept?" "yes. i've had a long sleep. how are you?" "the fit's gone. but i feel queer. something's going to happen." "it's very close. it will pass off before morning. fever plays the devil with one, doesn't it?" "are you quite better now?" "yes. i shall be all right now. you'll be all right after some breakfast. it isn't so bad here, is it?" "no. not so bad. but there's this smell of death, lionel." "that's fever. that will pass away, you'll find." "was i delirious?" "yes. a little." "you were pretty bad." "yes. i was pretty bad all yesterday," said lionel. "it's horrible when one gets into that state. one is so ashamed afterwards. it is part of the sickness. you were awfully gentle with me, roger." "i saw that you were pretty bad. we shall have to get to work to-morrow, and get things into order. they are in a bad way in the village there. there are twenty-nine cases left. we might save sixteen of them." "is there any trace of how they got it? do they know?" "they don't talk any language known to merrylegs." "i see. what are they like? are they a good lot?" "yes. they are good type negroes. they look as if they might have something better in them than negro blood. something arabian. and there's this ruin here." "it will be fun looking at the ruin. i wonder if it's like the rhodesian ruins. i've seen those. if it is, there ought to be gold here. wrought gold as well as crude. but we mustn't think of that." "no. let's have no side-issues. i suppose we'd better start an isolation camp to-morrow." "yes. get them all out and burn the village. then we'll start the treatment." "it would be rather a feather in our caps if we found a tsetse-cide. a bird would be better than nothing. or an ichneumon-fly to pierce the pupæ." "i was young myself once," said lionel. "i know exactly how it feels." there was a pause after this. lionel seemed to chuckle. "can't you go to sleep again, lionel?" "no. it's too close." "it's jolly looking at the stars. and i can see right out into the wilderness. the moon is wonderful. it is very vast out here. and lonely. it gives one a strange sense of being full of memories. i wonder who built these ruins." "phoenicians, i suppose. in africa one puts everything down to phoenicians. in the mediterranean it used to be some other fellows; now it's iberians. aryans had a great vogue forty years ago; but they're dead, now. then there were those sloppy celts. it'll be the hittites when we get back." "did you see great zimbabwe?" "yes. but they're all called zimbabwe. it's a native name for ruins. it's an uncanny place. it lies all open. there's no roof to it. none of them have any roof. nothing but great high walls, and two hideous cones of stone, and a lot of corpses under the floors. there are ancient gold workings all around it. it is said to be an astronomical temple, as well as the site of a great mining town. do you know much about astronomy?" "no. i know sirius." "i know sirius. can you see him?" "i can't see it from here. perhaps it isn't visible." "it seems to me to be clouding up. listen." "is that a lion roaring?" "jump out a minute." lionel was turned out, standing at the door of the tent. "what's the matter?" roger asked. "a thunderstorm," said lionel. "get on your things. i prepared for this. wrap that tarpaulin round you, and come on out. don't wait. come on." outside in the night the heavens were fast darkening under a whirling purplish cloud. from time to time the expanse of cloud glimmered into a livid reddish colour with the passage of lightning. it was as though the whole lower heaven lightened. thunder was rolling. great burning streaks tore the sky across, loosing thunder and flame. roger saw the bearers moving from their fire to the shelter of the lee of the ruins. a faint sultry blast fanned against his face, bringing that smell of death to him. he turned away, choking. "get away from the tent," lionel shouted in his ear, over the roar of the thunder. "tie this rope round me. it's going to be bad. get under the lee of the wall there. run." they hurried to the shelter, on the tottering legs of those who have just recovered from fever. as they ran, roger trod on something rope-like and moving, which (squirming round) struck his boot with a sharp tap. "there's a snake," he cried, giving a jump. "did he get you?" "no. only my boot." "lucky for you. there may be death-adders here. rattle with your feet. here we are. this will do." there came a sharp pattering of heavy rain-drops, which beat the ground like shot falling on to tin. in the glimmer of a long flash, which burnt for a full ten seconds, roger saw lionel probing the ground for snakes with an outstretched foot. he was hooded and cowled with tarpaulin from the boat. he was scratching a match, sleepy with heat-damp, to get a light for a cigarette. the match flared, putting the face in strong colour below the shade of the cowl. the sky was being charged by a dark host. there came a sort of elemental sighing, as the obscuring of the vertical stars began. out of the whole air came the sighing. it was a noise like waterfalls and pine forests. then with a shattering crash the storm burst. the whole sky broke into a blaze, as though a vast bath of fire had suddenly been hurled over. there was a roaring as of the earth being split. after an instant's pause, there came an explosion so terrific that the two men huddled up together instinctively. it grew colder on the instant. it grew icy cold. the tent stood out clearly, in every detail, for a few bright seconds. then the rain poured down, as though the bottom of the sky had broken. the next flash shewed only a streaming greyness of water, pouring down, with a weight and force new to roger. it was a blinding rain, one could not face it. it made the world one grey torrent. it made the earth paste beneath the feet. brooks were rushing down the hill within half a minute of its beginning. the flashes and thundering never ceased. crouching up to the wall, roger could only gulp air that was half water. the force of the storm staggered him. the fury of the thunder daunted him. the splendour of the lightning was so ghastly that at each blast he bent back against the wall. a tree was struck on the wall above him. he expected to be struck at each flash. there was no question of bravery. the racket and the glare were worse than the fiercest shell-fire. the lightning seemed to run across the sky and along the ground, and out of the ground. one smelt it. it had the smell of something burning; some metal. the next instant he was digging his fingers into the crenellations to save himself from being blown away. the wind came swooping down with a rush which beat the breath out of him. for one second the rain seemed to pause. it was merely changing its direction to the horizontal. the air seemed to be no longer present. there was nothing but a rushing, stinging, blinding torrent of water. after the wind began, roger was not properly conscious of anything. he stood backed up to the wall, with his eyes and mouth tight shut, his ears buffeted and streaming, his nose wrinkled by the effort to keep his eyes shut. across his eyelids he sensed the glimmer of the lightning, now blinding, now merely vivid. everything else was leaping, howling uproar, driving wet, driving cold, dominated by the explosions aloft. all confusion was left loose to feed the fear of death in him. so they stood shoulder to shoulder, for something like an hour, when a change came. the wind died away, after blowing its fiercest. the rain stopped. the livid glimmering of the lightning passed off into the distance. the stars came out. roger squelched about in the mud, trying to get some sensation into his freezing feet. lionel's teeth were chattering. lionel with numbed fingers was trying to light a sopping match for the sodden cigarette already between his lips. "pretty bad one," said lionel. "the tent's gone." "it will be dawn soon," said roger, looking at the wreck of the tent. "it's over now." he shivered. "not yet," said lionel. "that's only half of it. there's the other half to come yet. i wonder how the bearers took it." "i'll go and see," said roger. "stay where you are," said lionel. "you won't have time." the moon shewed for a brief moment--a sickly moon already threatened by scud. the clouds were rolling up again. "this will be in our faces," said lionel, raising his voice. "these are circular storms." the wind was muttering far off. all the earth was filled with a gloomy murmur. "let's get into the wreck of the tent," lionel added in a shout. "into the wreck of the tent. we may die of cold if we don't." they hove up the heavy canvas so that they might creep within, under the folds. they cowered there close together, waiting, chilled to the bone. "it's jolly cold," said roger, with chattering teeth. "yes," said lionel. "i've known a man die in one of these. hold tight. here it comes." it came with such a shock of thunder and fire of lightning that they both started. they felt the folds of the tent surge and lift above them as the wind beat upon it. some flap had blown loose. it flogged at roger like a bar of hard wood. he understood then what sailors meant by wind. he felt a sort of exultation for a moment. then one terrible blast flung him on his side, and rolled a great weight of wet canvas on him. he felt it quiver and hesitate. the wind seemed to be heaving and heaving, with multitudinous little howling devils. they were heaving up and heaving under. the whole mass hesitated. he was moved, he was swayed. he felt the fabric pause and totter upward and sink down. "we're going," he muttered, gulping. afterwards, he maintained that nothing but the weight of the rain kept him from being blown away. water was gurgling in the ground beneath him. water was running up his sleeves, and down his neck. water spouted on him as he beat away the folds to get air. a grand and ghastly fire was running across heaven. shocks were striking the earth all around him. another tree was blasted. thunder broke out above in a long rippling crescendo of splitting cracks. that, and the pouring of a cataract into his face made him draw back the fold. he cowered. he had lost touch with lionel. he did not know where lionel was. his foot struck something hard. groping down, hungry for companionship, he found that it was the broken tent-pole. another gust lifted him. it gathered strength. it swept the folds from his hands and sent the edge flogging, flogging, flogging, with its lashes of rope and tent-pegs. the full fury of the storm was on him. the tent was bundling itself up into ruin against the boxes. he was sitting in wet mud assailed by every devil of bad weather. lionel was by his side shouting into his ear. "don't stand," came the far-away voice. "get struck." he nodded when next the flames ran round. it seemed likely that he would be struck. it was a quick death, so people said. he found himself saying aloud that it would be terrible if lionel were struck. what then? what would he do then? he craned round into the beating rain to try to get a glimpse of the bearers. he could see nothing but rain and that reddish running glimmer of living light. he did not feel much. he was too cold, too weak, too frightened. if he had been able to define his feelings he would have said that he was thinking it impossible that he could ever have been dry, or warm, or happy. his old life was a far-off inconceivable dream. that he had ever sat by a fire seemed inconceivable. that there was such a thing as a sun seemed inconceivable. that life could be dignified, tender, or heroic seemed inconceivable. "if this isn't misery," he muttered, shaking, "i don't know what is. i don't know what is." he felt suddenly that water was running under him in a good strong stream, several inches deep. putting his hand down, it slopped up to the wrist in a current. he groped with his hand. as he put it down some beetle in the water pinched him briskly, turning him sick for a moment with the memory of the snake which had struck his boot. standing up hurriedly, the water rose above his boots. looking up, an opening in the clouds shewed him the moon, a beaten swimmer in a mill-race. the storm was breaking. not long after that it broke. the stars came out. the wind ceased from her whirling about continually. she blew steady, in a brisk fresh gale, bringing up the clearing showers. the showers would have seemed torrents at other times, but to roger, now, they were little drizzles. lionel and he found a sort of cave in the tent. part of the canvas had wedged itself under the pole. the rest had been blown across a pile of boxes on to the wall. being supported now by those two uprights it roofed in a narrow shelter about five feet long. they crept into this shelter, dead beat from the cold. for a while they sat crouched close together, with chattering teeth. then they drew a few folds of the canvas over them and lay still, trying to get warmth and sleep. they were not very sure that they would live to see the dawn. roger thought vaguely of the bearers. he wondered what they had done, prompted by their knowledge of these storms. a dull, heavy, steady roaring noise seemed to be coming from the river. he wondered if the water had risen much, after all that torrential rain. thinking vaguely of a flood, he wondered if the boat were safe. it seemed a long, long time since they had left the boat. he must have left the boat in some other life. the sun had been shining, he had been hot, he had passed through a glorious landscape. he had seen the peacocks of the queen of sheba jetting among flowers which were like burning precious stones. that was long ago. that was over forever. but yet he wondered vaguely about the boat. was it safe, there in the broad? "lionel," he said gently. "can you sleep?" "no. we shall get warm presently." "it's jolly wretched." "it'll be all right when we get warm. don't let's talk." "is the boat all right, do you think? the water is roaring in the river." "the boat? i can't think about the boat. she was moored or something." their teeth chattered again for some little time. presently, as they lay there shivering, they felt the uneasy aching warmth which sometimes comes to those who sleep in wet clothes. it is much such an unpleasant heat as wet grass generates in a rick. there is cramp and pain in it. the muscles rise up into little knots and bunch themselves. still, it is heat of a kind. they lay awake, rubbing their contorted muscles, until, a little before the dawn, they were warm enough to doze. they dozed off, then, waking up, from time to time, generally once in ten minutes, to turn uneasily, so that the aching muscles might cease to twist into little knots and bunches. ix where be these cannibals, these varlets? _the shoemaker's holiday_. the rain ceased before dawn. when the two friends felt strong enough to turn out, the sun was already burning. it was after half-past seven o'clock. the brooks which had washed past them and over them, only three or four hours before, were no longer running. their tracks were marked on the hillside, in broad, shallow, muddy ruts, and in paths of plastered grass. the river had been over its banks not long before. it was swirling along now, brimful, as red as water from an ironworks. roger remembered the water running by a road near portobe, from some ironworks up the hill. it was just that savage colour. he felt a qualm of home-sickness. he turned to blink at the sun for the pleasure of the warmth upon his face. the camp was a quag of mud. red splashes plastered the boxes. the tent was half-buried in it. his clothes, and the covering tarpaulin, were smeared with it. he felt that it had been worked, not only into his skin, but into his nature. he had never before known what it is to be really dirty, nor what continued dirt may mean to the character. the site of the camp was trodden and spattered and beslimed, yet the brightness of morning made it hard for him to believe that such a storm had passed over him only a little while before. he noticed the trees which had been blasted by the lightning. it had not all been nightmare. up the hill, beyond three small circling walls, no taller than the wall beside him, rose up the great central walls. they stood out clearly in the strong light. they were good, well-built walls, with crenellated courses near the top, in the right artistic place, in the inevitable place. the crenellations shewed roger that he was not widely removed from the builders, in spirit. they talked the universal language of art. but they were more than talkers, these old men. their work was splendid. it had style. it had the impress of will upon it. the idea had been thought out to its simplest terms. the walls were solid with that simple strength which the efficient nations of antiquity, not yet corrupted by sentiment, affected, in public building. though they were not like roman work, they reminded roger of walls at richborough and caerwent. there was something of the same pagan spirit in them, something strong, and fine, and uncanny. even with the flowering shrubs and grass clumps on them, these walls were uncanny. he shivered a little. the lonely hill had once been a city, where strong, fine, uncanny brains had lived. lionel crawled out. "where's merrylegs?" he asked. "why haven't they brought our tea?" roger started. where were the bearers? he had not seen them since he had noticed them go to cover before the bursting of the storm. they had gone. they had not come back. they had not even lighted a fire. "i don't know where they are," he said. "where can they be?" "haven't you seen them?" said lionel. "no," he answered. "they're not here. merrylegs!" he shouted. "merrylegs!" no answer came. lionel's face changed slightly. he jumped on to the low wall, and looked downhill towards the village. the view over that waste of pale grass, through which the river ran, was very splendid; but lionel was not looking for landscape. "give me the glasses," he said. he stared through them for several minutes, sweeping the plain. "run up into the ruins, roger," said lionel. "they may be there." "wait one minute," said roger. "there is smoke in the village. that is too big a fire for the people whom i saw there to have made." "wet wood," said lionel promptly. "come on. we must get these boys into order." they hurried up the hill, calling for merrylegs. after a couple of minutes roger stopped. "lionel," he said. "during the storm, or just before it, i saw them go to shelter under the lee of the wall there. their tracks will be in the mud. we could follow them up in that way." "yes," said lionel. "they're not up here, anyhow." after some little search, they found where the bearers had sheltered before the storm threatened. a vulture shewed them the exact place. two other vultures were there already. the storm had killed one of the men. "it's eukwo, the lazy one," said lionel. "i noticed last night that there was something the matter with him. perhaps you saw how the others fought shy of him. these fellows are like animals, aren't they, in the way they leave their sick?" he looked at the body. "dysentery and the cold, i suppose," he said. "with kilemba dead last night, the village full of dead down below us, the storm, then this fellow dying, it has been too much for them. i'm afraid, roger, that the men have deserted us." "gone?" said roger blankly. it had not occurred to him before as a possibility. "i'm afraid," said lionel, moving away. "here is where they sheltered for the storm. there are their tracks leading downhill. you see? here. see? still half full of water. they cleared out in the night during the showers. they've got three or four hours' start of us." "well," said roger. "come on. we'd better eat as we go. otherwise we may never catch them up." "they'll have gone in the boat," said lionel. "with this flood they'll be a day's march downstream. there's no trace of the boat in the lagoon there." "she may have been swept away," said roger, after a glance through the glasses. "the stores are there still." by this time they were hurrying downhill towards the village. both were thinking how fiercely they would thrash merrylegs and how little chance there was of finding any merrylegs to thrash. anger burned up in hot bursts, and the cold water of despair put it out again. roger felt it more keenly than lionel. he was less used to the shocks of travel. he wondered, as he hurried, what stores had been left in the boat, and what had been piled on the bank to be carried up next day. he had been ill; he had never noticed. the men had done as they pleased. he reproached himself so bitterly that he hardly dared look at his friend. he wondered whether the men had taken anything of supreme importance. he feared the worst. if they had taken anything important he would be to blame. it was his fault. he ought to have guarded against this. he ought to have taken the paddles. he ought to have ordered the men to bring everything up to camp, where it would have been under his own eyes. lionel looked at him quizzically. "don't cross the river till you reach the water," he said. "we may catch them. they may not have gone." on their way they looked through the village. the bearers were not there. lionel tried to make the villagers understand him by signs; but they were too strongly infected to understand a difficult thing. he had to give them up. he bade roger fill his pockets with some bruised corn which they found in one of the pots of an empty hut. they munched this as they went. their next task was to run out the trail. by the village drinking-place the river had overflowed the bank. it had torn up a couple of trees, which now lay branches downward in the water, arresting wreckage. it had surged strongly against the boxes, driving them from their place, but not destroying them. it had heaped them with drift, and coloured them a yellowish red. the footmarks of the bearers were thickly printed in the mud there. they must have arrived there in the early morning, when the waters were beginning to fall. "they've been busy," said roger. all the boxes had been broken open. their contents were tumbled in the mud in all directions. "look here," said lionel. "what do you make of these marks?" in one place the mud had been planed smooth in a long plastering smear, ending in a notch or narrow groove. "that was made by the boat," said roger. "yes," said lionel. "that was the boat. you can see the puncture in the mud there. that was made by the projecting screw in the false nose. you remember the screw we put in at malakoto? they shoved off here." "yes. no doubt. that is the screw. so they've sampled the goods and gone." "that is so. they've robbed us and run away." "and we are stranded in the heart of the wilderness?" "we are alone, three hundred miles from any white man." "yes. then we are alone," said roger. "we are alone here." the words thrilled him. they were meaning words. "we can't go after them," said lionel. "they've got too big a start." "we've got no boat to go in." "i wish," said lionel, "i wish these riverine negroes used canoes." "they don't." "no," said lionel. "they don't. well. it's no good moping." "we could follow downstream," said roger, "and perhaps catch them at malakoto." lionel shook his head. "there are the swamps," he said. "and we've both got fever on us. i doubt if we could get through. we might." "we shall have to try it in the end, if we are to get away at all." "i was thinking that," said lionel. "but when we try it, it will be the end of the dry season, when the swamps will be passable. the swamps now are as bad as they can be. honestly, roger, i don't think we could make malakoto, carrying our own stores. it's ten days; and those others wouldn't stay at malakoto, remember. they'd make for kisa. no. best give in. they've won the trick." "and we're to lose all these stores; about a hundred pounds' worth of stores?" "that's the minimum, i'm afraid." "it's a bad beginning," said roger. he walked to and fro, fretting. "doesn't it make your blood boil?" he continued. "look at the way the brutes have tossed the things about. i'd give a good deal to have a few of them here." lionel sat down on a box and stared meditatively at the wreck. "roger," he said at length. "have you any idea what stores were brought up the hill last night?" "mostly the bow-stores, i suppose; provisions, bedding, and camp gear." "that's what i was afraid," said lionel. "what are you afraid of?" "come on. let's face it," said lionel, springing from his perch. "we must get these things out of the mud. we must see how we stand." "you mean we may be-- what do you mean?" "we must see what stores are left to us." they set to work together to pick up the wreck. they began with cartridges, which had been scattered broadcast in wantonness. many were spoiled; many missing. marks on the grass shewed that others had been carefully emptied, so that the thieves might have the brass shells enclosing the charges. still, a good many were to be found. the two men recovered about fifty rounds of winchester, and eighty rounds of revolver ammunition. with what they wore in their belts this amount was reassuring. "look here," said roger. "here's a box of slides. they're all smashed." "was the microscope not brought up?" "i don't know," said roger. "it was in a box with a blue stencil." "i know," said lionel. "i've been looking out for it. i thought it wasn't here. look. over there. there's part of a lid with a blue stencil. is that the lid for the microscope?" "no, that's a drugs lid." "they can't have taken it with them. surely they wouldn't take a microscope." "it might be up in the camp all this time." "yes. true. wait. we'll get these things out of the mud, and then we'll go up the hill, and make a list of what is missing. here's our stationery ruined. all our nice clean temperature charts that i set such store by. i told you life was wasteful out here. all your pressed plants are done for." "here are clothes, of sorts. jaeger underwear." "fish them out. we'll wash them afterwards." they quartered the expanse of red slime. it was a sort of tom tiddler's ground, littered with european goods. they worked quickly, racing the sun. from time to time there came hails of "the tool-chest's gone. here's the lid." "your small stores won't be much good, the soap's melted or something." "look at what these brutes have done to the sugar." presently lionel hailed. "i say. i say. have you come across any drugs?" "no. only the lid of a drugs box." "well. it's getting serious. there's no other box here. we must go on back to camp and find out if they are there." "we shall be done, without drugs," said roger. "don't talk about it, my dear man," said lionel. "don't talk about it." "it would be worth while making a raft," said roger. "there are a couple of axes in camp. if we worked hard all morning, we could get a sort of a raft built. we could use the tent-ropes for lashings. then we could easily rig up a sail. we should catch them up by dusk, perhaps." "there are points about the raft theory," said lionel, as they set out for camp. "but there are so many creeks and gullies where they could hide, and then there are the crocks." "we could build a sort of bulwark of boxes." "we'll find out about the drugs first. no. if we go working hard in the sun we shall get fever again." he wrinkled his brows. he was anxious. "i hope those drugs are all right," he said. "i don't mind the guns; but our drugs are portable life." roger glanced uneasily at lionel. he had got to know him pretty well during the last few months. he had come to know that though he was sometimes irritable, he was very seldom given to despondent speech. now he was talking anxiously, from the selfish standpoint of "i." roger thought of the precious bottles of atoxyl, worth a good deal more than a guinea an ounce. lionel's remark was true. they were portable life. and if the atoxyl were gone, their mission was at an end. no. it was worse than that. if the atoxyl were gone, lionel was in danger. for suppose the trypanosomes recurred in him, as they might, in this hot climate? suppose lionel developed sleeping sickness and died, as the people in the village were dying, before they could win to civilisation? he did not find any answer to the problem. hoping to distract lionel, he began gallantly to talk of the phoenicians, about whom he was sufficiently ignorant to escape attention. in the camp things were as they had been, except that they were drier. they turned over the boxes, looking eagerly for blue stencil. "here's the microscope," said roger. "or i think it is." he prized the case open with the jemmy on the end of the peg-maul. "yes. the microscope's all right. some of our test-tube things are smashed. some of the media. there are plenty of those, though, down in the mud. that's one thing to the good. what's in the case there?" "anti-scorbutics here." "and in the long box?" "grub of different kinds." "here you are, then. here's a drugs case." "saved!" "shall i open it?" "yes, open it. we did a very foolish thing, roger. we ought to have packed each box as a miniature equipment, so as to minimise the importance of any losses. it's in my mind that all our atoxyl is in one case." "no," said roger. "it was in three cases. one of them, i know, was in the boat. i was sitting on it most of yesterday." "well. open that one, and let's see where we stand." the well-fixed screws were drawn. the box lay open to the sun, exuding a faint, cleanly smell of camphor. lionel looked over the drug pots, muttering the names: "mercury bi-chlor, sodium carb, sodium chlor, sodium cit, corrosive sublimate, quinine, quinine, quinine, potassium bromide--we shan't want much of that--absolute alcohol, carbolic, first-aid dressings, chlorodyne, morphia, camphorated chalk for the teeth, what's this?--digitalis. what the devil did they send that for? there's no atoxyl here." "nor that other stuff, the dye, trypanroth?" "no. we didn't order any. it wasn't altogether a success with me, and it wasn't being so well spoken of." "that's unfortunate. but wait a minute. i see another drug case. over there, against the wall. isn't that a drug case?" "it is. chuck the jemmy over." he did not wait to draw the screws. he prized the lid off with two quick wrenches of the jemmy. he looked inside. "a quaker," he said grimly, after one look. "it's a quaker case." "what's a quaker?" "this case here is what we call a quaker. why? because it makes one quake. look at these bottles. they're full of paper and sawdust. look at this one. old rags. here's a -lb. atoxyl bottle, for which we paid twenty-eight pounds, not to speak of the duty. it's full of dust like the rest." "but, good lord, lionel! where could it have been done? who could have done it? we got these direct from the very best london house." "there were rats on the way," said lionel. "you remember we stopped off a day at that place kwasi bembo, where we hired merrylegs? well. this was probably done at kwasi bembo by one of those foreign storekeepers. an easy way of making money for them." "i don't see how he did it." "oh, he could have done it easily enough, while we were having our siestas. it doesn't matter much, though, where it was done, does it?" "don't despair yet," said roger. "there must be another box somewhere. here. open this one. the stencil is ground off. what's inside this one?" "it looks promising," said lionel. "it's screwed; it isn't nailed. off, now." he thrust the lid away with a violent heave. roger peered in anxiously. "nothing but stones in this one," said lionel. "not even our bottles left. we'd better open all our cases, and find out what else has been taken. i suppose that's our last box of chemicals?" "it's the last here." "never mind," said roger. "we won't despair. let's see what is left to us." they examined the other cases. they made out an inventory of their possessions. they learned that they were left in the heart of africa with provisions for three months, forty pounds' weight of anti-scorbutics, a quantity of clothing, a moderate supply of ammunition, two rifles, two revolvers, a shotgun, many disinfectants, an assortment of choice drugs, some medical instruments, and a microscope. of medical comforts they had sparklets, tobacco, soap, matches, and two bottles of brandy. of quaker cases they found, in all, five, all of them purporting to be either chemicals or cartridges. of utensils they had a tin basin, plates, and pannikins. for shelter they had a tent with a broken pole. "lionel," said roger, when they had checked their list. "look here. we've been up here a good hour and a half. the water will have fallen a foot or more. by the time we have cooked and eaten breakfast it will have fallen another foot. it is quite possible that by that time there will be some more goods, perhaps, even, some more cases, left high and dry on the bank. we won't worry about our loss till we know it. if we breakfast now we shall be strong enough to bear whatever may be coming to us. let's get a fire started. we'll brew some tea and sacrifice a tin of soup. let's be extravagant and enjoy ourselves." they were sufficiently extravagant over breakfast, but they got little enjoyment out of it. they had rankling anger in them, against their enemies, known and unknown. when their anger gave them leave, they felt, low down, a chilling, sinking fear that their plans for the saving of life would come to nothing, that, in short, their expedition was a failure. "lionel," said roger. "do you think that the fraud of the atoxyl was done in london? surely morris and henslow wouldn't do a thing like that?" "who knows what they won't do?" said lionel gloomily. "i know that some contractor or other always supplies shoddy of some kind to an expedition to one of the poles. why not to us? there is always the chance that the expedition won't return. and even if it does return, the fraud is quite likely not to become known to the public. and even if the case comes on in a law court, who can prove it? there are too many loopholes. it is almost impossible to bring the guilt really home. the contractor practically never gets found out. as for a contractor being punished, i don't suppose it has ever happened. it makes one believe in hell." "it's not the crime itself," said roger. "not knowing the criminal, i cannot judge the crime; but it's the state of mind which sickens me. the state of mind which could prompt such a thing." "it's a common enough state of mind," said lionel. "in business it's common enough. business men, even of good standing, will do queer things when the shoe begins to pinch. you may say what you like about war. business is the real curse of a nation. business, and the business brain, and, oh, my god, the business man! swine. fatted, vulpine swine." "well," said roger. "it is very important not to take these things into the mind, even to condemn them." "and i say it is nothing of the sort," said lionel. "i believe in strangling ideas as i believe in strangling people. you writers, when you are really good at your job, don't condemn half enough." "tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner." "intellectually, not morally. come on. we are not going to argue. we are going to work. we've got to bury that bearer. where's the spade?" they dug a grave for kukwo, and buried him, and heaped a cairn of stones from the wall on top of him. it was burning midday when they had finished. they had leisure then to think again of the loss of their atoxyl. "we may not have any at all?" said roger. lionel produced a small screw-top bottle from his pocket. it had once contained tabloids of anti-pyrin. it was now about half full of a white powder. "i've a few doses here," he said. he looked at it carefully. "with luck," he said, "we could cure two or three cases with this." "but suppose you have a relapse yourself, lionel? you must keep some, in case you should relapse." "i shan't relapse," he said carelessly. "relapses aren't common." "but you might. and you are more important than a village-full of negroes. more important than all the blacks put together and multiplied by ten." "i don't see it. look here. i tell you one thing which is pretty plain to me. we've got to set to work to find an anti-toxin. first, though, we'll go down and grope in the mud for anything which may be left. i don't give up hope of finding some atoxyl even now." they told each other as they went that they didn't expect to find anything. really their hearts beat high with expectation. they were sure of finding what they sought. they went down to the mud so sure that their disappointment almost unmanned them. for they were disappointed. an hour of broiling work only added two cartridges to their store. out in the river, caught in a snag with other drift, they saw a floating packing-case, marked with a blue stencil. by the manner of its floating they judged it to be empty, or nearly empty. it had probably floated off shortly after being opened. it had been caught in a snag. it had then ducked and sidled to get away. lastly, it had turned upside down and emptied its contents into the river. so they judged the tragedy, viewing the victim through their glasses, from a distance of a hundred yards. "that settles it, i think," said lionel. a projecting snout rose at the box, tilting it over. it fell back, lipping under, so that it filled. in another instant it was gone from sight. the glasses showed a slight swirl in the water. the swirl passed at once, under the drive of the spate. their last hope of atoxyl was at an end. "well," said roger hopelessly. "it's as well to know the worst. the box was empty, don't you think?" "i don't know," said lionel. "i couldn't be sure." "we might find some things in the water when the river sinks a little further," said roger, without much conviction. "it'll be drying up very soon now. then we shall find whatever is in it." lionel sat down despondently, resting his chin on one hand. he was letting his disappointment work itself off silently. his heart had been set so long on this first great medical field-day that he could not look roger in the face. the loss of the atoxyl was less hard to bear than the loss of all the interesting cases over which he would have been bending at that minute had this ghastly thing not happened. and, being an old campaigner, and therefore forethoughtful, it was bitter to him to find himself thwarted unexpectedly by a trick so simple. he had thought that he had guarded against all the known dodges. he had been on his guard all through. in london he had sampled the food, the clothes, the cartridges, rejecting everything which seemed even faulty. he had been surprised at his own strictness. all the way up from the coast he had watched his stores so jealously that he had thought himself safe. he had been vain of his success. he had never lost so little in any previous expedition. now an attack of fever, a storm, and a bearer's sudden death had let him in for this. he was not forgetting the chemist's share. he cursed himself for having trusted the chemist. then he decided that it was not the chemist. the fraud had been committed in africa. he had not been careful enough. he himself was to blame. "guns and grub i could understand," he cried. "but for them to take drugs! who would have thought of their taking drugs? why didn't i see that africa is getting civilised? roger, i want to kill somebody." "it's my turn to lecture now," said roger. "we'll carry these things up to camp. i've an idea about camp." "what is your idea?" "to build a house out of the loose stones of the wall. we could use the wall itself for one wall, build up three others and roof it with the tent. it would be better than having another night like last night." "it might be done," said lionel, mechanically filling his pockets with cartridges. "but i don't know what good we're going to do here if we haven't any atoxyl. i wish i knew who it was. if ever i touch at kwasi bembo again, i'll have that atoxyl out of his liver." they passed a broiling afternoon carrying their gear to camp. they became irritable at about four o'clock. after that time they worked apart, avoiding each other. at six roger made tea, over which they made friends. at seven they set about the building of their house. they laboured by moonlight far into the night, laying the mortarless stones together. when they knocked off for bed it was nearly midnight, and the house was far from perfect. they could not do more to it. they were too tired. after flogging their blankets against the walls to get rid of mud and "bichos," they turned in, bone-weary, and slept the stupid sleep of sailors for nearly eleven hours. they finished their house in the afternoon. it was not a very good house, but they judged that it would be safer and drier than their tent had proved. after they had finished it, they felt it to be structurally weak. they went at it again. they strengthened the roof with saplings, and laid great stones upon the edges of the canvas cover, so that it should not blow from its place. with great cunning roger arranged an outer roof of a rough thatch which he himself made from the osiers used by the natives. he thought that a double roof would be cooler. he explained to lionel an ambitious scheme for a thatched verandah; but this had to be abandoned from want of encouragement. inside, the house was about twelve feet square. when the two beds, the table, the chairs, and the boxes were all within doors, it seemed very cramped and poky. they were in some doubt about a name for it. lionel was for "phoenician villa," roger for "the laurels" or "oak drive." finally they decided on "portobe," which they smeared over the door in blacking. they had not thought much of portobe on their way up country. portobe. roger going out that night, after supper, to wash the plates in a bucket, sat by the fire for many minutes, "thinking long" about portobe. something made him turn his head, and look out into the night north-north-westward, for there dwelt love, and all love's loving parts, and all the friends. it was a dim expanse, mothlike and silver in the moonlight, reaching on in forest and river to the desert. to reach portobe he would have to go beyond the desert, over the sea, over spain, over france. he paused. he was not sure whether france would be in the direct line. if it were not, then there would only be the sea to cross, past land's end, past carnsore, past braichy, past all the headlands. then on to the waters of moyle, which never cease to call to the heart who hears them. he remembered the poem of the calling of the waters of moyle. he knew it by heart. it was a true poem. the vastness and silence of the night were over him. the great stars burned out above. they seemed to wheel and deploy above him, rank upon rank, helm on gleaming helm, an army, a power. there were no birds, no noise of beasts, no lights. only the earth, strange in the moon; the great continent, measureless in her excess. she was all savage, all untamed, a black and cruel continent, a lustful old queen, smeared with bloody oils. she frightened him. he thought of one night at portobe three years before, when he had come out "to look at the night" with ottalie. he could still see some of the stars seen then. he could still, in the sharpened fancy of the home-sick, smell the spray of honeysuckle which had gone trailing and trailing, drenching wet, across the little-used iron gate which led to the beach. he longed to be going up the beach, up the loaning overhung with old willows, as he had gone that night with ottalie. he longed to be going through the little town, past the fruitman's, past the butcher's, past the r.i.c. barracks, to the little churchyard by the stream. ottalie lay there. here he was in africa, trying to do something for ottalie's sake. he drew in his breath sharply. it was all useless. it was not going to be done. the atoxyl was lost. they might just as well have stayed in england. he sighed. to do something very difficult, which would tax all his powers, that was his task. when that was done he would feel that he had won his bride. a strange, choking voice came from the house. "roger! roger! come in. where are you?" lionel had been asleep in his chair. "what is it? what is it?" said roger. "nothing. nothing," said lionel. "i dreamed i was fast by the leg. you don't know how beastly it was." x a cold shivering, methinks. _every man out of his humour_. what would you minister upon the sudden? _monsieur thomas_. the next day they walked to the village, prepared for an unpleasant morning. they buried seven bodies and burned eleven huts. several times, during the day, they noticed tsetse at rest on the framework of the huts. "they have followed people up from the water," said lionel. "they don't attack us, because we are wearing white duck. they don't like white." "flies have an uncanny knowledge," said roger. "how do they get their knowledge? is it mere inherited instinct? i notice that they always attack in the least protected spots. how do they know that a man cannot easily drive them from between his shoulders? they do know. i notice they nearly always attack between the shoulders." "yes. and dogs on the head, cattle on the shoulders, and horses on the belly and forelegs. they're subtle little devils." "and they have apparently no place in the scheme of the world, except to transplant the trypanosome from where he is harmless to where he is deadly." "lots of men are like that," said lionel. "you can go along any london street and see thousands of them outside those disgusting pot-houses. men with no place in the scheme of the world, except to transplant intoxicants from the casks, where they are harmless, to their insides, where they become deadly, both to themselves and to society. any self-respecting state would drown the brutes in their own beer. yet the brutes don't get drowned. and as they do not, there must be a scientific reason. either the state must be so rotten that the germs are neutralised by other germs, or the germs must have some dim sort of efficiency for life, just as the tsetses have. they have the tenacity of the very low organism. it is one of the mysteries of life to me that a man tends to lose that tenacity and efficiency for life as soon as he becomes sufficiently subtle and fine to be really worth having in the world. i like shakespeare because he is one of the very few men who realise that. he is harping on it again and again. he is at it in hamlet, in richard the second, in brutus, othello. oh, in lots of the plays, in the minor characters, too, like malvolio; even in aguecheek. and people call that disgusting, beefy brute, prince henry, 'shakespeare's one hero,' a 'vision of ideal english manhood.' shakespeare's one hero! shakespeare wrote him with his tongue in his cheek, and used an ounce of civet afterwards." they turned again to their work. after changing their clothes, bathing antiseptically, and anointing their hands with corrosive sublimate solution and alcohol, they began solemnly to distil some water for their tiny store of atoxyl. "lionel," said roger, "we've got enough drug to cure two, or perhaps three of these people. we ought not to use it all. we are away in the wilds here. save one dose at least for yourself in case you should get a relapse. you know how very virulent a relapsed case is." "i know," said lionel. "but that is part of the day's work. our only chance of doing good here is to find an anti-toxin. i want this spare atoxyl for that." "but," said roger, "you cannot make an effective serum from the blood of a man in whom atoxyl is at work. surely atoxyl only stimulates the phagocytes to eat the trypanosome." "quite so," said lionel. "you're a serumite, i'm not. i am not at all keen on the use of serum for this complaint. i believe that the cure (if there is one) will be got by injecting the patient with dead trypanosomes or very, very weak ones. i'm going to make a special artificial culture of trypanosomes in culture tubes. i shall then weaken the germs with atoxyl. when they are all bloated and paralysed, i shall inject them. i believe that that injection, or the injection of quite dead trypanosomes, will have permanent good effects." "and i," rejoined roger, "believe that your methods will be useless. i believe that the cure (if there be a cure) will be obtained by the use of sera obtained from naturally or artificially immunised animals." "that's just the taking kind of fairy story you would believe. you're a sentimentalist." "very well. but listen. it is said that when the dogs of the bushmen are reared entirely on the meat of immune game, they become immune like the game; but that if they are not used to wild meat they develop nagana from eating it casually." "i don't believe the first part of that," said lionel. "it sounds too like a yarn. the dogs which are reared entirely on wild game are probably naturally immune native dogs, bred originally from some wild strain, like the wild hunting-dogs." "but there is no doubt that wild game, like wildebeests, koodoos, hyenas, and quaggas, are immune?" "none whatever." "then could not some preparation be made from the blood of the wild game? surely one could extract the immunising principle from the immune creature, and use that as a serum?" "we don't even know what the 'immunising principle' may be; so how can we extract it?" "well, then. use the blood serum by itself." "but, my dear man, the blood of these beasts is the favourite haunt of the trypanosome." they argued it to and fro with the pertinacity of enthusiasts improperly equipped with knowledge. roger fought for his "fairy story," lionel for his dead and dying cultures. at last lionel finished the preparation of the mixture. "look here," he said. "this atoxyl, you say, is to be kept? well. if i get a relapse before it is used, you will please remember that it is to be used to paralyse artificially-raised trypanosomes, which will afterwards be injected into me. you will try none of your sera on me, my friend. if you like to go getting sera from dying, dirty, anthraxy wild beasts, do so; but don't put any of the poison, so got, into me. i see you so plainly strangling a deer in a mud-wallow, and drawing off the blood into a methylated spirits can. here's the mixture ready. and now that our water of life is ready for use, comes the great question: which of all these sleepers is to live? here are twenty-nine men, women, and children. they are all condemned to die within a few weeks. now then, roger. you are a writer, that is to say a law-giver, a disposer and settler of moral issues. which of these is to live? we can say thumbs down to any we choose. if we live to be a hundred we shall probably never have to make such a solemn choice again." "it isn't certain life," said roger, hesitating for a moment, staggered by the responsibility. "atoxyl isn't a certain cure, even of moderate cases." "it's a practically certain cure if the patient is all right in other ways; that is, of course, if the case has not gone too far." "what is the percentage of deaths?" said roger. "with atoxyl?" "yes." "eight per cent. for slight cases, and twenty-two per cent. for bad ones. without atoxyl, it's a certain hundred per cent." "i see." "it's a good drug." "yes," said roger. "it's a good drug. but look at them, lionel. to stand here and choose them out." "we are doing now what the scientist will one day do for every human race," said lionel. "we are choosing for the future. as it happens we are choosing for the future of a fraction of a wretched little african tribe. the scientist will one day choose, just as finally, for the future of man. i didn't think you'd baulk, roger. this is the beginning of the golden age. 'the golden age begins anew.' here are the wise men choosing who are to inherit the earth." a sleepy negro came unsteadily from a hut. he walked, as though not quite in control of his actions, towards the wise men. he was a fine, supple creature, dressed in crocodile's teeth. parts of him shone with an anointment of oil. he drew up, dully staring. his jaw was hanging. flies settled on his body. a tsetse with fierce, dancing flight, flew round him, and settled on his shoulders. he stood vacantly, gazing at the wise men. his mind could not be sure of anything; but there was something which he wanted to say; something which had to be said. he waited, vacantly, for the message to come back to him, and then drove slowly forward again, and again stopped. his lips mumbled something. his eyes drooped. one trembling hand weakly groped in the air for support. it rested on a hut. he slowly and very wearily collapsed upon the hut, and sat down. his head nodded and nodded. another tsetse flew down. roger noticed that the man was cicatrised about the body with old scars. he had been a warrior. he had lived the savage life to the full. he had killed. he had rushed screaming to death, under his tossing colobus plumes, first of his tribe to stab, before the shields rattled on each other. he had been lithe, swift, and bloody as the panther. now he was this trembling, fumbling thing, a log, a driveller, a perch for flies. "lionel," said roger, "it will be awful if we lose our cases." "why? they will die in any case." "but after choosing them like this. if we give them their chance, and they lose the chance. i should feel that perhaps one of the others might have lived." "we shall choose carefully. we can do no more than that. there's that hideous old crone coming out again. poor old thing. i dare say she has seen more of the world than either of us. she may be a king's wife and the mother of kings. how merciless these savages are to the old!" "they're like children. children have no mercy on the old." "i wonder what good life is to her?" "i dare say she remembers the good days. she can't feel very much." "no," said lionel. "but i notice that old people feel intensely. they don't feel much. they may feel only one single thing in all the world; but they feel about that with all their strength. it's perfectly ghastly how they feel. we are all islands apart. we do not know each other. we cannot know that woman's mind, nor have we any data by which we can imagine it. that old animal may be like blake's bird: 'a whole world of delight closed to your senses five.'" "very well. would you cure her? she's not infected as it happens; but would you, if she were?" "no. she has had her life. i wonder, by the way, if extreme old age is immune from sleeping sickness. i dare say it is. but old age is not common in savage societies. i wish i knew that old woman's story. she has seen a lot, roger. that is a wonderful face. now we must choose. shall we choose a woman?" "no. not a woman. we must think of the creature's future. what would become of a woman left alone here? even if she followed up her tribe, they would probably not admit her. you know that these people do not believe in the possibility of a cure for sleeping sickness. they would only drive her out, or kill her." "yes, or let her drift among white men. no. not a woman. not an old man, i say. the old have had their lives. besides, the life of an old savage is generally wretched. there would be nothing for him to do, either here or anywhere else. so we won't have an old man." "nor a warrior," said roger. "i'm not sure about a warrior," said lionel. "he would be able to fend for himself. he would be worth taking in by some other tribe short of males. there are points to the warrior." "he would probably rise up one night and jab us with a shovel-headed spear." "and then we should shoot him. yes, that might happen. that narrows it down to the boys." they looked at the boys, noting their teeth, skulls, and physiognomies. several shewed signs of congenital malignant disease; others were brutish and loutish looking; but they were, on the whole, a much nicer-looking lot than the boys who sell papers in london. they narrowed the choice to four. one of them shewed signs of pneumonia. he was rejected. the others were examined carefully. their prefrontal areas were measured. they were sounded and felt and summed up. the matter was doubtful for a time. the lad with the best head was more drowsy than the other two. the question arose, should the doubtful cure of a genius be preferred to the less doubtful cure of a dunce. "nature has made an effort for this one," said lionel, "at the expense of the type. this fellow has got a better head than the others, but he is not quite so fine a specimen. that means that he will be less happy. nature would probably prefer the other fellows." "we have nothing to do with nature," said roger. "we are out to fight her wherever we can find her. nature is a collection of vegetables, many of them human. let us thwart her. nature's mind is the mind of the flock of sheep. nature's order is the order of the primeval swamp. never mind what she would prefer. sacrifice both the dunces, and let the other have a double chance. i know the dunce-mind, or 'natural' mind, only too well. it would sacrifice any original mind, and brutally, like the beast it is, rather than see its doltish sheep-pen rules infringed." "genius is excess," said lionel. "genius in a savage means an excess of savagery. this fellow may be a most turbulent, bloodthirsty ruffian. the others, though they will probably be bloodthirsty ruffians, may not be so turbulent." "if he be turbulent," said roger, "it will be in a more intellectual manner than is usual with his tribe. turbulence in a savage is a sign of life. it is only in a civilised man that it is a sign of failure." "very well," said lionel. "we will have the genius. he may disappoint us. i think he is the best type here. who is to be the other? what do you say to that nice-looking boy, whom we spun some time ago for itch? i like that lad's face." "you think he would be a good one to save?" "well, itch apart, he looked a nice lad. he would be exceptional, socially, just as the other would be exceptional intellectually. he would be to some extent unnatural, which is what you seem to want. why are you so down on the natural?" "i've heard some old women of both sexes praising the natural, ever since i was a child. the natural. the born natural. the undeveloped sheep in us, which makes common head to butt the wolf-scarer." "we'll give them a dose to-day and a dose to-morrow, and a last dose in two and a half weeks' time," said lionel. "and then they'll either be fit to butt anything in the wide world, or they'll be on their way to marumba." "the genius first," said roger, bringing up the patient. the needle was sterilised. a little prick between the shoulderblades drove the dose home. the other boy followed. lionel eyed them carefully. "they must come out of here, now," he said. "they must live with us for to-night. we can't do more now. we've done enough for one day. to-morrow we must rig them up a shanty up on the hill. they'll be pretty well by to-morrow night." they were doing finely by the next night, as lionel had foretold. their second dose was followed up with a preparation of mercury, which the wise men trusted to complete the cure. the patients were pretty well. but the work and excitement of settling them into quarters near "portobe" made the doctors very far from pretty well. though the sick-quarters were little more than a roofed-in wind-screen of tarpaulin, the strain of making it was too much for two over-wrought europeans, not yet used to the heat. lionel, complaining peevishly of headache, knocked off work before tea. roger, feeling the boisterous good spirits which so often precede a fit of recurrent fever, helped lionel into bed, and cheerfully did the sick man's share of building. after this he gave the two patients their supper of biscuit and bully beef (which they ate with very good appetites), and, when they had eaten, put them to bed under their wind-screen. as he worked, he hoped fervently that lionel was not going to be ill again. he had been peevish, with a slight, irritable fever all the way up the river from malakoto. if he fell ill again now, all the work would be delayed. roger wanted to get to work. all their plans had been upset by the bearers' desertion. any further upsetting of plans might ruin the expedition. the days were passing. every day brought those poor drowsy devils in the village nearer to their deaths. soon they would be too ill to cure. he wanted lionel well and strong, working beside him towards the discovery of a serum. that was the crying need. with lionel ill, he could do nothing, or nearly nothing. he had so little scientific knowledge. and besides that, he would have lionel to watch, and the cleansing and feeding of all those twenty-seven sick. he did not see how things were going to get done. he told himself that things would have to get done, and that he would have to do them. the resolution cheered him, but the prospect was not made brighter by his discovery soon afterwards that lionel's temperature had shot up with a sudden leaping bound to °. that frightened him. lionel was not going to be ill, he was ill, and very dangerously ill already. his temperature had risen four or five degrees in about half an hour. the discovery gave roger a momentary feeling of panic. with a fever like that, lionel might die, and if lionel died, what then? he would be there alone, alone in the wilds, with drowsed, half-dead savages. he would be alone there with death, in the heart of a continent. he would go mad there, at the sight of his own shadow, like the australian in the cheerful story. but for lionel to die, to lose lionel, the friend of all these days, the comrade of all these adventures, that was the desolating thought. it would not matter much what happened to himself if lionel were to die. it was borne in upon him that lionel's life would depend on his exertions. he would be doctor, nurse, and chemist. let him look to it. on the morrow, perhaps, there would be two vigorous natives to look to the sick in the village. meanwhile, there was the night to win through; and that burning temperature to lower. he managed to administer a dose of quinine. there was nothing more that he could do. crouching down by the sick man's side made him feel queer. he remembered that he had left neither food nor water in the patients' hut. they ought to have food by them in case they woke hungry, as they probably would, after their long, irregular fast. he carried them some biscuit, and a bucket half full of water. they were sleeping heavily. nature was resting in them. while coming back from the hut, he noticed that the night struck cold. he shivered. his teeth began to chatter. he felt that the cold had stricken to his liver. he wished that he had not gone out. coming into the house, he felt the need of a fire; but he did not dare to light one, on account of lionel. lionel lay tossing deliriously, babbling the halves of words. roger gave him more quinine, and took a strong dose himself. there was something very strange about the quinine. it seemed to come to his mouth from a hand immensely distant. there was a long, long arm, like a crooked railway, tied to the hand. it seemed to roger that it could not possibly crook itself sufficiently to let the hand reach his mouth. after the strangeness of the hand had faded, he felt horribly cold. he longed to have fire all round him, and inside him. he regarded lionel stupidly. he could do nothing more. he would lie down. if lionel wanted anything, he would get up to fetch it. he could not sit up with lionel. he was in for a fever. he got into his bed, and heaped the blankets round him, trembling. almost at once the real world began to blur and change. it was still the real world, but he was seeing much in it which he had not suspected. many queer things were happening before his eyes. he lay shuddering, with chattering teeth, listening, as he thought, to the noise made by the world as it revolved. it was a crashing, booming, resolute noise, which droned down and anon piped up high. it went on and on. in the middle of all the noise he had the strange fancy that his body was not in bed at all, but poised in air. his bed lay somewhere below him. sitting up he could see part of it, infinitely distant, below his outstretched feet. the ceiling was swelling and swelling just above him. it seemed as vast as heaven. all the time it swelled he seemed to shrink. he was lying chained somewhere, while his body was shrinking to the vanishing point. he could feel himself dwindling, while the blackness above grew vaster. he heard something far below him--or was it at his side?--something or somebody speaking very rapidly. he tried to call out to lionel, but all that he could say was something about an oyster tree. there was a great deal of chattering. somebody was trying to get in, or somebody was trying to get out. something or somebody was in great danger, and, do what he could, he could not help growing smaller, smaller, smaller. at last the blackness fell in upon his littleness and blotted it out. he awoke in the early morning, feeling as though his bones had been taken out. his mouth had a taste as though brown paper had been burnt in it. wafts of foul smell passed over him as each fresh gust blew in at the doorway. something was the matter with his eyes. he had an obscurity of vision. he could not see properly. things changed and merged into each other. he lifted a hand to brush away the distorting film. he was thirsty. he was too weak to define more clearly what he wanted; it was not water; it was not food; it was not odour; but a bitter, pungent, astringent something which would be all three to him. he wanted something which would cleanse his mouth, supplant this foulness in his nostrils, and nerve the jelly of his marrow. weakly desiring this potion, he fell asleep from exhaustion. he woke much refreshed after a sleep of about eight hours. when he looked about him, he saw that lionel was still unconscious. he was lying there uneasily, muttering and restless, with a much-flushed face. his hands were plucking and scratching at his chest. there was that about him which suggested high fever. roger hurriedly brought a thermometer and took the sick man's temperature. it had sunk to less than °. he thrust aside the pyjama coat, and felt the heart with his finger. the pulse was beating with something of the batting motion of a guttering electric light. the chest was inflamed, with a slight reddish rash. roger sat down upon his bed and took a few deep breaths to steady himself. afterwards he remembered telling himself in a loud, clear voice that he would have to go into this with a clear head, a very clear head. he swilled his head with water from the bucket. when he felt competent he remembered another and more certain symptom. he advanced to the sick man and looked anxiously at his throat glands. he had braced himself for the shock; but it was none the less severe when it came. the glands were visibly swollen. they were also very tender to the touch. lionel had relapsed. he was suffering from trypanosomiasis. the disease was on him. roger passed the next few minutes biting his lips. from time to time he went back to the bed to look at the well-known symptoms. he was sure, only too sure, but each time he went he prayed to god that he might be mistaken. he went over these symptoms in his mind. high temperature, a rapid pulse, the glands of the neck swollen, a rash on the chest, hands, or shoulders, a flushed face, and feeble movements. there was no doubting the symptoms. lionel was in a severe relapse. even when one is certain of something terrible, there is still a clinging to hope, a sense of the possibility of hope. roger sitting there on the bed, staring at the restless body, had still a hope that he might be wrong. he dressed himself carefully, saying over and over again that he must keep a level head. there was still one test to apply. it was necessary to be certain. he got out the microscope, and sterilised a needle. when he was ready he punctured one of lionel's glands, and blew out the matter on to a slide. very anxiously, after preparing the slide for observation, he focussed the lens, and looked down onto the new, unsuspected world, bustling below him on the glass. he was looking down on a strange world of discs, among which little wriggling wavy membranes, something like the tails of tadpoles, waved themselves slowly, and lashed out with a sort of whip-lash snout. each had a dark little nucleus in his middle, and a minute spot near the anterior end. there was no room for hope in roger's mind when he saw those little waving membranes, bustling actively, splitting, multiplying, lashing with their whips. they were trypanosomes in high activity. he watched them for a minute or two horrified by the bluntness and lowness of the organism, and by its blind power. it was a trembling membrane a thousandth part of an inch long. it had brought lionel down to that restless body on the bed. it had reduced all lionel's knowledge and charm and skill to a little plucking at the skin, a little tossing, a little babbling. it was the visible pestilence, the living seed of death, sown in the blood. roger made himself some tea. having made it, he forced himself to eat, repeating that he must eat to keep strong, lest he should fail lionel in any way. food, and the hot diffusive stimulant, made him more cheerful. he told himself that lionel was only in a fit of the frequently recurring trypanosome fever. after a day or two of fever he would come to again, weak, anæmic, and complaining of headache. a dose of atoxyl would destroy all the symptoms in a few hours. even if he did not take the atoxyl, there was no certainty that the fever would turn to sleeping sickness. there was a chance of it; but no certainty. a doctor's first duty was to be confident. well, he was going to be confident. he was going to pull lionel through. he remembered a conversation between two americans in a railway carriage. he had overheard them years before, while travelling south from fleetwood. they were talking of a coming prize fight between two notorious boxers who, while training, spent much energy in contemning each other in the press, threatening each other with annihilation, of the most final kind. "them suckers chew the rag fit to beat the band," said one of the men. "why cain't they give it a rest? let 'em slug each other good, in der scrap. de hell wid dis chin music." "aw git off," said the other. "them quitters, if they didn't talk hot air till dey believed it, dey'd never git near der ring." he had always treasured the conversation in his memory. he thought of it now. perhaps if doctors did not force themselves "to talk hot air" till their patients believed it, very few patients would ever leave their beds. he cleared away the breakfast things and made the house tidy. he gave lionel an extra pillow. then he went out into the morning to think of what he should do. when he got out into the air he remembered the two patients. it was his duty now to dose them and give them food. all that he had to do was to walk to their hut, see that they ate their breakfast, and give them each a blue pill afterwards. the drug would have taken a stronger hold during the night, and the action of atoxyl is magical even in bad cases. he expected to find them alert and lively, changed by the drug's magic to two intelligent merry negroes. it was not too much to hope, perhaps. he prayed that it might be so. there was nothing for which he longed so much as for some strong evidence of the power of atoxyl to arrest the disease. he topped the rise and looked down on his handiwork. all was quiet in the clumsy hut. the negroes were not stirring. roger was vaguely perplexed when he saw that they were not about. even if they were no better than they had been the day before they ought still to be up and sunning. he wondered what had happened. a fear that the drug had failed him mingled with his memory of a book about man-eating lions. he broke into a run. he had only to push aside the tarpaulin which served for door to see that the two patients had gone. when they had gone, there was no means of knowing; but gone they were. they had gone at a time when there had been light enough for them to see the biscuits and the bucket; for biscuits and bucket were gone with them. he could see no trace of the two men on the wide savannah which rolled away below him. he supposed that some homing instinct had sent them back to the village. he was cheered by the thought. they had been cured within two days. they had been changed from oafish lumps into thinking beings. now he would cure lionel in the same way. as he hurried back to "portobe," he was thankful that some of the drug remained to them. he would have been in a strange quandary had they used all the drug two days before. xi there's a lean fellow beats all conquerors. _old fortunatus_. when he began to prepare to give the injection, he could not find the atoxyl bottle. he searched anxiously through the hut for it, but could not find it. it was an unmistakable glass bottle, half-full of distilled water, at the bottom of which lay some of the white sediment as yet undissolved. the bottle bore a square white label, marked atoxyl in big capitals, printed by lionel with a blue pencil. roger could not see it anywhere. he looked in all the boxes, one after the other. he looked in the gun-cases, under the folds of the tent, in the chinks and crannies, everywhere. it was not there. when he had searched the hut twice from end to end, in different directions, he decided that it was not there. his next thought was that it must have been left in the hut with the two patients, and that the patients must have carried it off as treasure trove. in that case, perhaps, it would be gone forever. he would have noticed it that morning had it been still in the hut. then he thought that it might still be in the hut. it might have been put behind a box. he might have failed to see it. it was necessary to make certain. he hurried to the hut and searched it through. a couple of minutes of searching shewed him that the bottle was not there. he racked his brains, trying to think what had become of it. when had he last seen it? lionel and he had been at the hut during the preceding afternoon. they had staked in the uprights of the shelter; and had then knocked off for a rest, as lionel was not feeling well. during the rest he (roger) had brought the atoxyl from "portobe," and had given the second injection to the two patients. so much was clear. what had happened then? he tried to remember. after that he had gone on with the building, while lionel had rested. he distinctly remembered lionel sitting down on the wall-top with the atoxyl bottle in his hands. what had he done with it after that? surely he had taken it back with him to "portobe"? in any case there could be no doubt that lionel had been the last to touch it. lionel had taken the bottle to put it away; and it seemed now only too likely that he had put it away in a place where no one else could find it. roger tried to remember exactly how ill lionel had been when he had gone back to "portobe." he remembered that he had been flushed and peevish, but he could not remember any symptoms of light-headedness. he had crept off alone while roger was fixing a roof-ridge. roger, suddenly noticing that he had gone, had followed him to "portobe," and had found him sitting vacantly on the floor, staring with unseeing eyes. it was certain that the atoxyl bottle was not with him then. "if that were so," said roger to himself, "he must have dropped it or put it down between 'portobe' and this. here is where he was sitting. this is the path by which he walked. is the bottle anywhere on the path, or near it?" it was not. careful search showed that it was not. "well," said roger to himself, "he must have thrown it away. the fever made him desperate or peevish for a moment, and he has thrown it away. where could he have thrown it?" unfortunately there was a wide expanse over which he might have thrown it. if he had thrown it downhill it might have rolled far, after hitting the ground. if he had thrown it uphill, it might have got hidden or smashed among the loose stones from the ruins. having satisfied himself that lionel for the moment was not appreciably worse, roger started down the village to find his two patients. he thought that if they could be made to understand what was missing, the search for the bottle might be made by three pairs of eyes instead of by one. some possibility, or, to be more exact, some hope of a possibility, of the bottle being in the possession of the patients, occurred to him. the thought that perhaps lionel's life depended on the caprice of two cheerful negro-boys made him tremble. there was no trace of the patients in the village. they were not there, nor was roger enough skilled in tracking to know whether they had been there. as they were not there, he could only suppose that, on finding themselves whole, among the wreck of their tribe, they had set out to follow their fellows by the tracks left by the cattle. he thought it possible that they might return soon, in a day or two, if not that very day. but there was not much chance of their returning with the atoxyl bottle, even if they had set out with it. he figured to himself the progression of a bottle in the emotional estimation of a negro who had never before seen one. first, it would appear as a rich treasure, something to be boldly stolen, but fearfully prized. then it would appear as something with cubic capacity, possibly containing potables. then, after sampling of the potable, in this case unpleasant, it would be emptied. its final position ranged between the personal ornament and the cock-shy. meanwhile, roger had the sick to feed. after that he returned to lionel. lionel's temperature had dropped slightly, but he was hardly conscious yet. roger left him while he began the weary, fruitless search over a space of africa a hundred yards long by eighty broad. he measured a space forty yards on each side of the track between the hut and "portobe." if the bottle had been thrown away, it had been thrown away within that space. it was unlikely to have fallen more than forty yards from the track. a squat short-necked bottle is not an easy thing to throw. if it were not there, then he would have to conclude that the patients had taken it. it was a long, exhausting search. it was as wearisome as the search for lost ball at cricket. but in this case the seeker knew that his comrade's life depended on his success. he paced to and fro, treading over every inch of the measured ground, beating it beneath his feet, stamping to scare the snakes, feeling his blood leap whenever he struck a stone. the sun filled earth and sky with wrinklings of brass and glass at white, tremulous heat, oozing in discs from his vortex of spilling glare. many times in the agony of that search roger had to break off to look to lionel, and to drink from the canvas bucket of boiled water. he prayed that lionel might recover consciousness, if only for a minute, so that he might tell him in which direction the bottle had been flung. but lionel did not recover consciousness. he lay in his bed, muttering to himself, talking nonsense in a little, low, indifferent voice. the most that roger could say for him was that he was quieter. his hands were quieter; his voice was quieter. it was nothing to be thankful for. it meant merely that the patient was weaker. after it was over, roger thought that his search for the lost bottle was the best thing he had ever done. he had trampled carefully over every inch of the measured ground. he had taken no chances, he had neglected no possible hole nor tussock. a wide space of trodden grass and battered shrub testified to the thoroughness of his painful hunt. and all was useless. the bottle was not there. the atoxyl was lost. once before, several years past, roger had watched the approaching death of one intimately known. he had seen his drunken father dying. he had not loved his father; he had felt little grief for him. but the sight of him dying woke in him a blind pity for all poor groping human souls, "who work themselves such wrong" in a world so beautiful given for so short a time. he had looked on that death as though it were a natural force, grave and pitiless as wisdom, hiding some erring thing which had been at variance from it. he had thought of ottalie's death, down in the cabin, among the wreck of the supper-tables. in his mind he had seen ottalie, so often, flung down on to the rank of revolving chairs, and struggling up with wild eyes, but with noble courage even then, to meet the flood shocking in to end her. that death seemed a monstrous, useless horror to him. now a link which bound him to ottalie was about to snap. he was watching the sick-bed of a man who had often talked with her, a man, who had known her intimately. lionel, with the simple, charming spirit, so like in so many ways what ottalie would have been had she been born a man, was mortally sick. the sight of him lying there unconscious struck him to the heart. that mumbling body on the bed was his friend, his dear comrade, a link binding him to everything which he cherished. a veil was being drawn across his friend's mind. he was watching it come closer and closer, and the house within grow dark. in a little while it would be drawn down close, shutting in the life forever. if he did not act at once it would be too late; lionel would die. if lionel were to die, he would be alone in africa, with that thing on the bed. he knelt down by the cot in a whirl of jarring suggestions. what was he to do? anxiety had lifted him out of himself on to another plane, a plane of torturing emotion. he felt a painful clearness of intellect and an utter deadness of controlling will. his ideas swarmed in his head, yet he had no power to select from them. he saw so many things which he might be doing; building a raft to take them to malakoto, making, or trying to make, a serum, to nullify the infection; there were many things. but how could he leave lionel in this state, and how was he to get lionel out of this state? he told himself that large doses of arsenic might be of use; the next moment he realised that they would be useless. he had tried to make lionel take arsenic on the voyage upstream, as a prophylactic. lionel had replied that arsenic was no good to him. "trypanosomes," he had said, "become inured to particular drugs. mine got inured to arsenic the last time i was out here. if my trypanosomes recur you'll have to try something else." what else was he to try? he had read that marked temporary improvement shows itself after a variety of treatments, after any treatment, in fact, which tends to improve the health of particular organs. he tried the simplest and least dangerous of those which he remembered. it could do no harm, in any case. if it did good, he would feel braced to try something more searching. the mere act of administering the dose strengthened him. action is always a cordial to a mind at war with itself. at times of conflagration the fiddle has saved more than nero from disquieting thought, tending to suicide. when at last he had forced his will to the selection of a course, he felt more sure of himself. he set about the preparation of food for the patient, and, when that was made and given, he sterilised his hands for the beginning of the delicate task of culture-making. he had plenty of tubes of media of different kinds. he selected those most likely to give quick results. they were media of bouillon and agar. one of them, a special medium of rabbit's flesh and witte's peptone, had been prepared by lionel months before, in far-distant london. roger remembered how they had talked together, in their enthusiasm, during the making of that medium. he had had little thought then of the circumstances under which it would come to be used. he had never before felt home-sick for london. he was home-sick now. he longed to be back in london with lionel, in the bare, airy room in pump court, where the noise of the strand seemed like the noise of distant trains which never passed. he longed to be back there, out of this loneliness, with lionel well again. the memory of their little bickerings came back to him. travel is said to knock off the angles of a man. if the man has fire in him, the process may burn the fingers of those near him. little moments of irritation, after sleepless nights, after fever, after over-exertion, had flamed up between them. no europeans can travel together for many hundreds of miles in the tropics without these irritable moments. they derive from physical weakness of some kind, rather than from any weakness of character, though the links which bind the two are, of course, close and subtle. he told himself this; but he was not to be comforted. the memory of those occasional, momentary jarrings gave him keen pain. if lionel got over this illness, he would make it up to him. he thought of many means by which he might make their journey together more an adventure of the finer character. "lionel," he said, aloud, looking down on the sick man, "i want you to forgive me." there was no sign of comprehension from lionel. he lay there muttering nervously. his skin was hot to the touch with that dry febrile heat which gives to him who feels it such a shocking sense of the body's usurpation by malign power. his temperature was beginning to show the marked and dreadful evening rise. roger could guess from that that there would be no improvement until the morning fall. after feeling the fluttering, rapid pulse, and the weakness of the movements of the hands, he had grave doubts whether the body would be able to stand the strain of that sudden fall. he dragged up a box and sat staring at lionel, torn by many thoughts. one thought was that these moments would be less terrible if we could live always in this awakened sense of the responsibility and wonder of life. life was not a succession of actions, planned or not planned, successful or thwarted, nor was it a "congressus materiai" held together for a time by food and exercise. it was something tested by and evolved from those things, which were, in a sense, its instruments, the bricks with which the house is built. he began to realise how hard it is to follow life in a world in which the things of life have such bright colours and moving qualities. he had not realised it before, even when he had been humbled by the news of ottalie's death. in his torment he "thought long" of ottalie. he called back to his memory all those beautiful days, up the glens, among the hills. words which she had spoken came back to him, each phrase a precious stone, carefully set in his imagination of what the prompting thought had been in her mind. ottalie had lived. he could imagine ottalie sitting in judgment upon all the days of her life ranked in coloured succession before her, and finding none which had been lived without reference, however unconscious, to some fine conception of what exists unchangingly, though only half expressed by us. he roused himself. that was why women are so much finer than men; they are occupied with life itself, men with its products, or its management. whatever his shortcomings had been, he was no longer dealing with the things of life, but with life itself. here he was, for the first time, squarely face to face with a test of his readiness to deal with life. he forced himself to work again, following the process with a cautious nicety of delicate care which an older artist would have despised as niggling and stippling. from time to time he stopped to look at lionel, and to take the temperature. the temperature was swiftly rising. after some days the fever left lionel. it left him with well-marked symptoms of sleeping sickness. the man was gone. the body remained, weak and trembling, sufficiently conscious to answer simple questions, but neither energetic enough to speak unprompted, nor to ask for food when hungry. how long he might live in that state roger could not guess. he might live for some weeks; he might die suddenly, shaken by the violent changing of the temperature between night and morning. it was not till the power of speech was checked that the horror of it came home to roger. lionel's monosyllables became daily less distinct, until at last he spoke as though his tongue had grown too large for his mouth. the sight of his friend turning brutish before his eyes made roger weep. the strain was telling on him; his recurrent fever was shaking him. he felt that if lionel were to die, he would go mad. he could not leave his friend. even in the day-time, with the work to be done, he could hardly bear to leave him. at night his one solace was to stare at his friend, in an agony of morbid pity, remembering what that man had been to him before the closing in of the veil. the veil was closing more tightly every day. roger could picture to himself the change going on inside the dead, on the surface of the brain, behind the fine eyes, so drowsy now. such a little thing would arrest that change. two cubic centimetres of a white soluble powder. he went over it in his mind, day after day, till the craving for some of that powder was more than he could bear. "lionel," he would say. "lionel, lionel." and the drowsy head would lift itself patiently, and grunt, showing some sort of recognition. if lionel had been a stranger (so he told himself) it might have been endurable; but every attitude and gesture of the patient was chained to his inmost life by a hundred delicate links. that he had known ottalie was the sharpest thing to bear. in losing lionel he was losing something which bound ottalie to him. another torment was the knowledge of his own insufficiency. he thought of the strongly efficient soldiers and scientists who had studied the disease. he loathed the years of emotional self-indulgence which had unfitted him for such a crisis. he longed to have for one half-hour the knowledge and skill of those scientists, their scrupulous clinical certainty, their reserve of alternative resource. in reality he was doing very creditably. one of the most marked qualities in his character was that extreme emotional tenderness, or sensibility, which is so strong, and in the lack of the robuster fibres, so vicious, an ingredient of the artistic or generating intellect. this sensitiveness had been the cause in him of a scrupulous aloofness from the world. it had made him maintain a sort of chastity of idea, not so much from an appreciation of the value of whiteness of mind as from an inherent fastidious dislike of blackness. as he yielded more and more to the domination of this aloofness, as the worker in an emotional art is tempted to do, his positive activities grew weaker till he had come to seek and appreciate in others those qualities which, essential to manly nature, had been etiolated in himself by the super-imposition of the unreal. this desire to be virtuous vicariously, by possessing virtuous friends, had been gratified pleasantly, with advantage to himself, and with real delight to those robuster ones who felt his charm. but the removal of the friends had shown the essential want. the man was like a childless woman, groping about blindly for an emotional outlet. in his misery he found an abiding satisfaction in an intense tenderness to the suffering near him. in his knowledge of himself he had feared that his own bodily discomfort would make him a selfish, petulant, callous nurse. before lionel had fallen ill, he had been prone to complain of pains, often real enough to a weak, highly sensitive nature, exposed, after years of easy living, to the hardships of tropical travel. lionel's illness had altered that. it had lifted him into a state of mental exaltation. in their intenser, spiritual forms, such states have been called translation, gustation of god, ingression to the divine shadow, communion with the higher self. they may be defined as states in which the mind ceasing to be conscious of the body as a vehicle, drives it superbly to the dictated end, with the indifference of a charioteer driving for high stakes. though in this mood he was supported to fine deeds, he was denied the knowledge of his success in them. his heart was wrung with pity for the sufferers for whom he cared so tenderly, day after day; but the depth of his pity made his impotence to help an agony. he saw too plainly that the most that he could do was nothing. in the darker recesses of his mind hovered a horror of giving way and relapsing to the barbarism about him. his nerve had begun to tremble under the strain. what he felt was the recurrence of an intense religious mood which had passed over his mind at the solemn beginning of manhood. he was finding, now, after years of indifference, the cogency of the old division into good and evil. as in boyhood, during that religious phase, he had at times a strange, unreasonable sense of the sinfulness of certain thoughts and actions, which to others, not awakened, and to himself, in blinder moods, seemed harmless. he began to resolve all things into terms of the spiritual war. all this external horror was a temptation of the devil, to be battled with lest the soul perish in him. little things, little momentary thoughts, momentary promptings of the sense, perhaps only a desire for rest, became charged, in his new reckoning of values, with terrible significances. often, after three hours of labour in the village, after feeding and cleaning those drowsy dying children, in the hot sun, till he was exhausted and sick at heart, a fear of giving way to the devil urged him to apply to them some of the known alleviations, arsenic, mercury, or the like. he would arise, and dose them all carefully, knowing that it was useless, that it would merely prolong a living death; but knowing also that to do so, at all costs, was the duty of one who had taken the military oath of birth into a christian race. he learned that the higher notes of a whistle pleased those even far advanced in sleep. he found time each day to whistle to them in those few livelier minutes before meals, when the drowsy became almost alert. he judged that anything which stimulated them must necessarily be good for them. he tried patiently and tenderly many mild sensual excitations on them, giving them scent or snuff to inhale, letting them suck pieces of his precious sugar, burning blue lights at night before them, giving them slight electric shocks from his battery. he felt that by these means he kept alive the faculties of the brain for some few days longer. from tiri, the wrinkled old crone, the only uninfected person there, he tried hard to learn the dialect; but age had frozen her brain, he could learn nothing from her except "katirkama." he never rightly knew what katirkama was. it was something very amusing, since it made her laugh heartily whenever it was mentioned. it had something to do with drumming on a native drum. katirkama. he beat the drum, and the old body became one nod of laughter, bowing to the beat with chuckles. "katirkama," she cried, giggling. "katirkama." after katirkama she would follow him about, holding his hand, squeaking, till he gave her some sugar. when the work in the village was finished, he used to walk back to lionel, whom he would find drowsed, just as he had left him. on good days he had some little experiment to make. he would repeat some trick or accidental gesture winch had caught the dying attention of a native. if he were lucky, the trick brought back some lively shadow of lionel. even if it passed away at once, it was cheering to see that shadow. more usually the trick failed. having seen the occasional effect of them, he became studious of tricks which might help to keep the intelligence alert. the sight of lionel gave him so crushing a sense of what was happening in the affected brain, that he found it easy to imagine fancies which, as he judged, would be arresting to it. the burning of magnesium wire and the turning of a policeman's rattle were his most successful efforts. one day, while carefully dropping some dilute carbolic acid into a chegua nest on lionel's foot, he found that the burning sensation gave pleasure. it seemed to reach the brain like a numbed tickling. lionel laughed a little uneasy, nervous laugh. it was the only laughter heard at "portobe" for many days. though his work occupied him for ten hours daily, it did not occupy the whole of him. much of it, such as the preparation of food and the daily disinfection of the huts, was mechanical. his mind was left free to console itself by speculation as best it could. his first impressions of the solitude were ghastly and overpowering. waking and asleep he felt the horror of the prospect of losing lionel. it was not that he dreaded the prospect of being alone. his fear was religious. he feared that the barbarism of the solitude would overpower his little drilled force of civilised sentiment. he was warring against barbarism. lionel was his powerful ally. looking out from his hut on the hill he could see barbarism all round him, in a vast and very silent menacing landscape, secret in forest, sullen in its red, shrinking river, brooding in the great plain, dotted with bones and stones. even the littleness of an english landscape would have been hard to bear, but this immensity of savagery awed him. he doubted whether he would be able to bear the presence of that sight without his ally by him. he knew that if he let it begin to get upon his nerves he would be ruined. he took himself in hand on the second day of lionel's fever. his situation made him remember a conversation heard years before at his rooms in westminster. o'neill and a young australian journalist, of the crude and vigorous kind nurtured by the _bulletin_, had passed the evening in talk with him. the australian had told them of the loneliness of australia, and of shepherds and settlers who went mad in the loneliness on the clearings at the back of beyond. o'neill had said that at present australian literature was the product of home-sick englishmen; but that a true australian literature would begin among those lonely ones. "one of those fellows just going mad will begin a literature. and that literature will be the distinctive australian literature. in the cities you will only get noisy imitations of what is commonest in the literature of the mother country." they had stayed talking till four in the morning. he had never seen the australian since that time. he remembered now his stories of shepherds who bolted themselves into their huts in the effort to get away from the loneliness which had broken their nerve. he must take care, he said, not to let that state of mind take hold upon him. he began to school himself that night. he forced himself up the hill, into the zimbabwe, at the eerie moment when the dusk turns vaguely darker, and the stars are still pale. all the dimness of ruin and jungle brooded malignantly, informed by menace. faint noises of creeping things rustled in the alley between the walls. dew was fast forming. drops wetted him with cold splashes as he broke through creepers. below him stretched the continent. no light of man burned in that expanse. there was a blackness of forest, and a ghostliness of grass, all still. out of the night behind him came a stealthiness of approach, more a sense than a sense perception. coming in the night so secretly, it was hard to locate. it had that protective ventriloquism of sounds produced in the dark. there is an animal sense in us, not nearly etiolated yet, which makes us quick to respond to a light noise in the night. it makes us alert upon all sides; but with a tremulous alertness, for we have outgrown the instinctive knowledge of what comes by night. roger faced round swiftly, with a knocking heart. the noise, whatever it was, ceased. after an instant of pause a spray, till then pinned, swept loose, as though the talon pinning it had lifted. it swept away with a faint swishing noise, followed by a pattering of drops. after that there came a silence while the listener and the hidden watcher stared into the blackness for what should follow. the noise of the spattering gave roger a sense of the direction of the danger, if it were danger. he drew out his revolver. another spray spilled a drop or two. then, for an instant, near the ground, not far away, two greenish specks burned like glow-worms, like crawling fireflies, like two tiny electric lights suddenly turned on. they were shut off instantly. they died into the night, making it blacker. after they had faded there came a hushed rustling which might have been near or far off. when that, too, had died, there was a silence. it was so still that the dripping of the dew made the night like a death vault. terrible, inscrutable stars burned aloft. roger pressed his back against the wall. up and up towered the wall, an immense labour, a cynical pile, stamped with lust's cruelties. it almost had life, so seen. in front was the unknown; behind, that uncanny thing. roger waited, tense, till the darkness was alive with all fear. everything was in the night there, gibbering faces, death, the sudden cold nosing of death's pig-snout on the heart. he swung his revolver up, over his left elbow, and fired. the report crashed among the ruin, sending the night rovers fast and far. chur-ra-rak! screamed the scattering fowl. roger paid little heed to them. he was bending down in his tracks hugging his forehead. the hammer of the kicking revolver had driven itself into his brow with a welt which made him sick. he groped his way down the hill again, thinking himself lucky that the iron had not smashed his eye. he thought no more of terror for that night. but the next night it came with the dark. the old savage devil of the dark was there; the darkness of loneliness, the loneliness of silence, the immanent terror of places not yet won, still ruled by the old unclean gods, not yet exorcised by virtue. looking at it, after night had fallen, from the door of "portobe," it seemed full of the promise of death. the little rustling noises were there; the suggestion of stealthy death; the brooding of it all. a braver man would have been awed by it. it was not all cowardice which daunted roger. it was that animal something not yet etiolated, which on a dark night in a lonely place at a noise of stirring makes a man's heart thump like a buck's heart. to stare into the blackness with eyes still dazzled from the camp-fire gave a sense of contrast not easy to overcome. the comfort of the fire was something, something civilised, conquered, human. and the beloved figure lying ill was one of his own kind, leagued with him against the inhuman. the vastness of the inhuman overpowered his will. he dared not face it. sudden terror told him of something behind him. he hurried into the hut and heaped boxes against the tarpaulin door. the moment of fear passed, leaving him ashamed. he was giving way to nerves. that would not do. he must brace himself to face the darkness. he forced himself down the hill to the village, and into the village. kneeling down he peered into the hut where old tiri rocked herself by a fire of reeds, like the withered beauty in villon. she did not see him. she was crooning a ditty. from time to time, with a nervous jerk of the arm, she flung on a handful of reed, which crackled and flared, so that she chuckled. he was comforted by the sight of her. any resolute endurance of life is comforting to the perplexed. he walked back up the hill without the tremors he had felt in going down. something in the walk, the coolness and quiet of it, made him forget his fears. he experienced an animal feeling of being, for the moment, at one with the night. "surely," he thought, "if man can conceive a spiritual state, calm and august like the night, he can attain it." it might even be that by brooding solitary, like the night itself, one would arrive at the truth sooner than by the restless methods left behind. standing by the door of his hut again, the darkness exalted him, not, in the common way, by giving him a sense of the splendour of nature, but by heightening for an instant his knowledge of the superior splendour of men. he stood looking out for a little while before some rally of delirium called him within to his friend. later, when he had finished his work for the night, he thought gloomily of what his fate would be if the death of lionel left him alone there, so many miles from his fellows. what was he to do? how was he to cross four hundred miles of tropical country to the nearest settlement of whites? no civilised man had been there since the phoenicians fought their last rearguard fight round the wagons of the last gold train. four hundred miles meant a month's hard marching, even if all went well. he could not count on doing it in less than a month. and how was he to live during that month, how guide himself? even in mere distance it was a hard walk. it was much such a walk as, say, from the land's end to aberdeen, but with all the natural difficulties multiplied by ten, and all the artificial helps removed. it was going to be forced on him. he would have to attempt that walk or die alone, where he was, after watching his friend die. he glanced anxiously at lionel to see if there were any chance of lionel's being dragged and helped over that distance. he saw no chance. he would have to watch lionel dying. he would have to try to stave off lionel's death by all the means known to him, knowing all the time that all the means were useless. then he would bury lionel, after watching him die. after that he would have to watch the villagers dying; and then, when quite alone, set forth. and to what would he set forth? what had life to give him, if, as was very unlikely, he should win back to life? his life was ottalie's. he had consecrated his talent to her, he had devoted all his powers to her. the best of his talent had been a shadowy sentimental thing, by which no great life could be lived, no great sorrow overcome. the best of his powers had left him in the centre of a continent, helpless to do what he had set out to do. he had not made the world "nobler for her sake." ah, but he would, he said, starting up, filled suddenly with a vision of that dead beauty. he would help the world to all that it had lost in her. he must be ottalie's fair mind at work still, blessing the world. so would his mind possess her, creeping in about her soul, drinking more and more of her, till her strength was the strength by which he moved. she was very near him then, he felt. he felt that all this outward world of his was only an image of his mind, and that she being in his mind, was with him. his heart was a wretched heart in africa, in which a sick man babbled to a weary man. but there in his heart, he felt, was that silent guest, beautiful as of old, waiting in the half-darkness, waiting quietly, watching him, wanting him to do the right thing, waiting till it was done, so that she might rise, and walk to him, and take his hands. he must not fail her. he turned to the corner in which he felt her presence. "ottalie! ottalie!" he said in a low voice. "ottalie, dear, help me to do this. i'm going to fail, dear. help me not to." lionel moaned a little, turning on his side again. a draught ruffled the fire slightly. no answer moved in his heart. he had half expected that the answer would speak within him, in three short words. no words came. instead, he felt burningly the image of ottalie as he had seen her once up the craga' burn, one summer at sunset. they had stood among the moors together, on the burn's flat grassy bank, near a little drumming fall, which guggled over a sway of rushes. sunset had given a glory to the moors. all the great hills rose up in the visionary clearness of an irish evening after rain. a glow like the glow of health was on them. it was ruddy on ottalie's cheek, as she turned her grave hazel eyes upon him, smiling, to ask him if he saw the rest house. she meant a magic rest-house, said, in popular story, to be somewhere on the hill up craga' way. roger had talked with men who claimed to have been beguiled there by "them" to rest for the night. ottalie and he had narrowed down its possible whereabouts almost to the spot where they were standing; and she had turned, smiling, with the sun upon her, to ask him if he saw it. they had never seen it, though they had often looked for it at magical moments of the day. now looking back he saw that old day with all the glow of the long-set sun. ottalie, and himself, and the craga' burn, the rush sway trailing, the pleasant, faint smell of the blight on the patch beyond, the whiff of turf smoke. ottalie. ottalie. ottalie in the blind grave with the dogrose on her breast. living alone fosters an intensity of personal life which sometimes extinguishes the social instinct, even in those who live alone by the compulsion of accident. it had become roger's lot to look into himself for solace. most of those things which society had given to him during his short, impressionable life were useless to him. he had to depend now upon the intensity of his own nature. he reckoned up the extent of his civilisation, as shewn by the amount retained in his memory. it amounted, when all was said, when allowance had been made for the amount absorbed unconsciously into character, to a variety of smatterings, some of them pleasant, some interesting, and all tinged by the vividness of his personal predilection. he had read, either in the original or in translation, all the masterpieces of european literature. he had seen, either in the original or in reproduction, all the masterpieces of european art. his memory for art and literature was a good general one; but general knowledge was now useless to him. what he wanted was particular knowledge, memory of precise, firm, intellectual images, in words, or colour, or bronze, to give to his mind the strength of their various order, as he brooded on them menaced by death. it was surprising to him how little remained of all that he had read and seen. the tale of troy remained, very vividly, with many of the tragedies rising from it. dante remained. the morte d'arthur remained. much of the bible remained. of shakespeare he had a little pocket volume containing eight plays. these, and the memories connected with them, were in his mind with a reality not till then known to him. among the lesser writers he found that his memory was kinder to those whom he had learned by heart as a boy than to those whom he had read with interest as a man. he knew more scott than flaubert, and more mayne reid than scott. from thinking over these earlier literary idols, with a fierceness of tenderness not to be understood save by those who have been forced, as he was forced, to the construction of an intense inner life, he began to realise the depth and strength of the emotion of the indulgence of memory. thenceforward he indulged his memory whenever his work spared his intelligence. he lived again in his past more intensely than he had ever lived. his life in ireland, his days with ottalie, her words and ways and looks, he realised again minutely with an exactness which was, perhaps, half imaginative. he troubled his peace with the sweetness of those visions. the more deeply true they were, the more strong their colour; the more intense the vibration of their speech, the more sharp was the knowledge of their unreality, the more bitter the longing for the reality. he was home-sick for the irish hills which rose up in his mind so clearly, threaded by the flash of silver. he thought of them hour after hour with a yearning, brooding vision which gnawed at his heart-strings. after a few weeks he found that he could think of them without that torment. he had perfected his imagination of them by an intensity of thought. they had become, as it were, a real country in his brain, through which his mind could walk at will, almost as he had walked in the reality. by mental effort, absorbing his now narrowed external life, he could imagine himself walking with ottalie up the well-known waters and loanings, so poignantly, with such precision of imagined detail, that the country seen by him as he passed through it was as deeply felt as the real scene. the solemnity of his life made his imagination of ottalie deeper and more precious. at times he felt her by him, as though an older, unearthly sister walked with him, half friend, half guide. at other times, when he was lucky, in the intense and splendid dreams which come to those of dwarfed lives, he saw her in vision. such times were white times, which made whole days precious; but at all times he had clear, precise memories of her; and, better still, a truer knowledge of her, and, through that, a truer knowledge of life. he thought of her more than of his work. in thinking of her he was thankful that all his best work had been written in her praise. "his spirit was hers, the better part of him." if he had anything good in him, or which strained towards good, she had put it there in the beauty of her passing. if he might find this cure, helping poor suffering man, it would be only a spark of her, smouldering to sudden burning in a heap of tow. his efforts to make a culture succeeded. with very great difficulty he obtained a vigorous culture of trypanosomes, of the small kind usually obtained by culture. he strove to make the culture virulent, by growing it at the artificial equable temperature most favourable to the growth of the germ ( ° c.), and by adding to the bouillon on which the germs fed minute quantities of those chemical qualities likely to strengthen them in one way or another. it was a slow process, and roger could ill spare time in his race with death. he had grown calmer and less impulsive since he had left the feverish, impulsive city; but he had not yet acquired the detachment from circumstance of the doctor or soldier. the question "shall i be in time?" was always jarring upon the precept "you must not hurry." at last, one day when lionel had shewn less responsiveness than usual, a temporary despondency made him give up hope. he saw no chance of having his anti-toxin ready before lionel died. he picked up a book on serum therapy, and turned the pages idly. a heading caught his eye. "_the treatment should begin soon after the disease has declared itself_" ran the heading. the paragraph went on to say that the anti-toxin was little likely to be of use after the toxin had taken a strong hold upon the patient's system. the treatment was more likely to be successful if a large initial injection of the anti-toxin were given directly the disease became evident. there it was, in black and white; it was no use going on. he had tried all his ameliorative measures, with temporary success. latterly he had tried them sparingly, fearing to immunise the germ. he had wanted to keep by him unused some strong drug which would hold off the disease at the end. now there was nothing for it but to give the strong drug. his friend was dying. he might burn his ships and comb his hair for death. he had tried and failed. the mood of depression had been ushered in by an attack of fever different from his other attacks. it did not pass off after following a regular course, like the recurrent malaria. it hung upon him in a constant, cutting headache, which took the strength out of him. he sat dully, weak as water, with a clanging head, repeating that lionel was dying. lionel was dying. one had only to think for a moment to see that it was hopeless. lionel was going to die. he raised his hand, thinking that something had bitten his throat. his throat glands were swollen. for a moment he thought that the swelling was only a mosquito bite; but a glance in the mirror shewed him that it was worse than that. the swollen glands were a sign that he, too, was sickening for death. his fever of the last few hours was the initial fever. sooner or later he would drowse off to death as lionel was drowsing. he might have only two more months of life. two months. ottalie had had two startling, frightened seconds before death choked her. so this was what ottalie had felt in those two seconds, fear, a blind longing of love for half a dozen, a thought of sky and freedom, a craving, an agony, and then the fear again. he rose up. "even if it be all useless," he said to himself, "i will fire off all my cartridges before i go." he brought out the chamberland filter and set to work. xii let 'em be happy, and rest so contented, they pay the tribute of their hearts and knees. _thiery and theodoret_. after passing some of his cultures through the filter, he injected subcutaneously the filtrate, composed of dead organisms and their toxins, into lionel's arms and into his own. taking one of the black-faced monkeys, which they had brought with them for the purpose, he shaved and cleansed a part of its neck, and injected a weak culture into the space prepared, after exposing the culture to a heat slightly below the heat necessary to kill the organisms. into another monkey he injected a culture, weakened by a slight addition of carbolic. he had no great hope that the measure which he was preparing would be of use; he meant to try them all. "if i had had more time," he thought bitterly, "i might have succeeded." he had lost so much time in getting the culture to grow. as he sealed up the punctures with collodion, he said to himself that he had tried lionel's cure, and that now he was free to try his own personal theories. he would kill some animal naturally immune, such as a wildebeest or a koodoo, and obtain serum from it direct, in as cleanly a manner as he could. lionel had said that such a serum, so collected, would be useless and probably septic; but who cared for possible blood-poisoning when the alternative was certain death? personally he would prefer a death by glanders to this drowsy dying. if he could disable an antelope, he might be able to obtain the blood by formal antiseptic methods in sterilised pots. it would be worth trying. he had taken serum from a horse in england. he knew the process. unfortunately the heart of africa is not like england, nor is a kicking, horned, wild beast, tearing the earth to tatters in the death-agony, like a staid and glossy horse neatly arranged to be tapped. "besides," he thought, "the beast may be suffering from all manner of diseases, or it may hold germs in toleration which the blood of man could not tolerate. and how was he to go hunting with an equipment of sterile pots and pipes on his back?" he liked the notion too well to be frightened by the difficulties. it offered the possibility of success; it gave him hope, and it kept his mind busily engaged. even if he saw no wild game, the hunt would be a change to him. he was a moderately good rifle-shot. the foil was the only weapon at which he was really clever. as he looked to his rifle, he felt contempt for the unreality of his life in london. it had been a life presupposing an immense external artificiality. how little a thing upset it! how helpless he was when it had been upset. and what would happen to england when something upset london, and scattered its constituent poisons broadcast? he went out to the hunt. the wind blew steadily from the direction of the forest. there was no chance of doing anything from that side. he could never approach game downwind. he would have to cross the river. he had never tried to cross the river. he did not even know if it were possible. the thought of the crocodiles and the mere sight of the swirling flood had kept him from examining the river. he had not been near it since he had sought with lionel for the atoxyl bottles. what it looked like upstream he did not know. he went upstream to look for a ford. at a little distance beyond the hill he came upon something which made him pause. the earth there had been torn into tracks by the waters of a recent thunder-storm. the cleanness of the cuttings reminded roger of the little bog-bursts which he had seen in ireland after excessive rains. in one of the tracks the rushing water had swept bare the paving of an ancient road, leaving it clear to the sky for about twenty yards. the road was of a hard even surface, like the flooring of a zimbabwe. to the touch the surface was that of a very good cycling road in the best condition. the ruts of carts were faintly marked upon it in dents. the road seemed to have been made of hewn stones, covered over and bound with the powdered pounded granite used for the floors of the ruins. it was five of roger's paces in breadth. the edges were channelled with gutters. beyond the gutters were borders of small hewn blocks neatly arranged, so that the growths near the road might not spread over it. judging by the direction of the uncovered part, the road entered the zimbabwe through a gate in the west wall. in the other direction, away from the zimbabwe, it led slantingly towards the river, keeping to the top of a ridge (possibly artificial), so as to avoid a low-lying tract still boggy from the flood. the river made a sharp bend at the point where the road impinged upon it. below the bend the lie of the bank had an odd look, which recalled human endeavour even now, after the lapse of so many centuries. greatly excited, roger hurried up to look at the place. it had been the port of the zimbabwe. the bank had been cut away, so as to form a kind of dock. the stumps of the piles were still in the mud in places. they were strong, well-burnt wooden piles, such as are used for jetties everywhere. by the feel of the ground on the jetty top there was paved-work not far below it. a dig or two with a knife blade shewed that this was the case. the bank was paved like the road. looking back towards the ruin, roger could mark the track of the road running up to the wall. even where it was overgrown he could tell its whereabouts by the comparative lightness of the colour of the grass upon it. beyond the ruin, running almost straight to the south-east, he noticed a similar ribbon of light grass, marking another road. so this was a port, this zimbabwe, a port at the terminus of a road. the road might lead direct to ophir, whence solomon obtained his ivory and apes and peacocks. probably there were gold mines near at hand. this place, so quiet now, had once seen a gold-rush. the wharf there had been thronged by jostlers hurrying to the fields. the basin of ill-smelling red mud had once been full of ships. and what ships? what people? and when? "a brachycephalic people of clever gold-workers of unknown antiquity." just above the "port" the river was extremely narrow. sticking out of the water in the narrow part were masses of masonry, which may at one time have served as the piers of a bridge. they were so close together that roger crossed the river by them without difficulty. on the other side, as he had expected, the mark of the road was ruled in a dim line in the direction of the forest. the country was rougher on that side. the line of the road was marked less plainly. late that afternoon, after an exhausting stalk, he got two shots at what he took to be a koodoo[*] cow. he went forward out of heart, believing that both had missed. bright blood on the grass shewed him that he had hit her. a little further on he found the cow down, with her hindquarters paralysed. she struggled to get up to face him, poor brute; but she was too hard hit; she was dying. when she had struggled a little, he was able to close with her, avoiding the great horns. he was even able to prepare the throat in some measure for the operation. lastly, avoiding a final struggle, he contrived to sterilise his hands with a solution from one of the pots slung about him. the sight of his hands even after this made him despair of getting an uncontaminated serum. but there was no help for it. he took out the knife, made the incision in the throat, and inserted the sterilised tube. [*] it was probably an oryx. when he turned with his booty to go home, he noticed a little fawn which stood on a knoll above him, looking at him. she stood quite still, so shaded off against the grasses that only a lucky eye could distinguish her. she was waiting, perhaps, for him to go away, so that she might call her mother. she made no effort to run from him. something in her appearance made him think that she was ill. the carriage of her head seemed queer. her coat had a look of staring. he wished then, that he had brought his glasses, so that he might examine her narrowly. moving round a little, he made sure that her coat was in poor condition. he judged that she might have been mauled by a beast of prey. he was just about to move on when a thought occurred to him. what if the young of the wild game should not be immune? what if the bite of the infected tsetse should set up a mild form of nagana in them from which they recover? what if that mild sickness should confer a subsequent immunity on the inflicted individual? surely the result would be obvious. "vaccination" with the blood of the afflicted calf or fawn would set up a mild attack of the disease in man, and, perhaps, give him subsequent immunity from more virulent infection. the ailments of wild animals are few. what if this fawn should be suffering from a mild attack of the disease? he crept a little nearer to her, bending low down to see if he could see the swellings on the legs and belly which mark the disease in quadrupeds. he could not be sure of them. he could only be sure that the coat was staring, and that the nose and eyes were watery. he whistled gently to the little creature, hoping that she would be too young to be frightened of him. she stared at him with wide eyes, trembling slightly, flexing her ears. he whistled to her again. she called plaintively to her dam. she lowered her little head, ready to attack, pawing the ground like a warrior. roger fired. afterwards he felt as though he had killed a girl. he returned to "portobe" weighted down with jars, which he emptied carefully into sterilised pans. the result made "portobe" look like a cannibal's dairy. an examination of the blood shewed that both animals had harboured trypanosomes in large numbers. when the blood had coagulated, he decanted the serum into sterilised bottles, to which he added minute quantities of antiseptic. that operation gave him his serum. he had now to test it for bacteria and for toxins. he added a portion from each bottle to various culture-mediums in test-tubes. he added these test portions to all his media, to glycerine-agar and glucose as well as to those better suited to the growth of trypanosomes. he set them aside to incubate. if there were bacteria in the sera they would increase and multiply on the delightful food of the media. when roger came to examine the media, he came expecting to find them swarming with bacteria of all known kinds. he was naturally vain of the success of his hunting; but he knew that crude surgery out in the open is not so wholesome a method of obtaining serum as might be. still, a close examination shewed him that the cultures had not developed bacteria. he was pleased at this; but his pleasure was dashed by the thought that it was rather too good to be true. he might have muddled the experiment by adding too much disinfectant to the sera while bottling, by using cultures which had in some way lost their attractiveness, or by some failure in the preparation of the slides. after going through his examination the second time, he decided to proceed. he injected large doses of the sera into two monkeys. again he was successful. the monkeys shewed no symptoms of poisoning. the sera, whatever they might be, were evidently harmless to the "homologous" animal. but the success made roger even more doubtful of himself. it made him actually anxious, lest in adding disinfectant to the sera, he should have destroyed the protective forces in them, as well as the micro-organisms at which he had aimed. he delayed no longer. he injected lionel with a large dose of the serum from the grown animal; he injected himself with the serum from the fawn. going down to the village, he made a minute examination of those who were the least ill. choosing out those who shewed no outward signs of the congenital or acquired forms of blood-poisoning, he injected them with sera, thinking that if they recovered he would use their sera for other cases. for his own part, he felt better already. the excitement of hope was on him. he had risen above his body. for the next few days his life was a fever of hope, broken with hours of despair. one of his patients died suddenly the day after the injection. lionel seemed no better. another patient seemed markedly worse. he repeated the doses, and passed a miserable morning watching lionel. the evening temperature shewed a marked decrease. an examination of the throat glands shewed that the trypanosomes had become less waggish. they were bunching into clumps, "agglutinising," with slow, irregular movements. that seemed to him to be the first hopeful sign. on studying his books he could not be sure that it really was a good sign. one book seemed to say that agglutination made the germs more virulent; another that it paralysed them. he could see for himself that they had ceased to multiply by splitting longitudinally. and from that he argued that their vitality had been weakened. the next day lionel was better; but the native patients were all worse. they were alarmingly worse. they shewed symptoms which were not in the books. they swelled slightly, as though the skin had been inflated. the flesh seemed bladdery and inelastic at the same time. the pigment of the skin became paler; the patients became an ashy grey colour. the blood of one of these sufferers killed a guinea-pig in three hours. after a short period of evident suffering they died, one after the other, apparently of the exhaustion following on high fever. roger, in a dreadful state of mental anguish, stayed with them till they were dead, trying remedy after remedy. he felt that he had killed them all. he felt that their blood was on his hands. he felt that all those people might still have been alive had he not tried his wretched nostrum on them. there was no doubt that the sera had caused their deaths. those who had had no serum injections were no worse than they had been. he wondered how long it would be before these symptoms of swelling and high fever appeared in himself and lionel. he went back to "portobe" expecting to find lionel in high fever, going the road to marumba. he found lionel weakly walking about outside the tent, conscious, but not yet able to talk intelligibly. he had not expected to see lionel walk again. the sight made him forget the deaths down in the village. he shouted with joy. closer examination made him less joyous. the skin of lionel's arm, very dull and inelastic to the touch, was slightly swollen with something of the bladdery look which he had noticed in the men now dead. it was as though the body had been encased in a bladdery substance slightly inflated. he had no heart to test the symptoms upon the body of another animal. there was death enough about without that. he sat down over the microscope and examined his sera again and again. he could find no trace of any living micro-organisms. the sera seemed to be sterile. but he saw now that it had some evil effect upon those infected with trypanosomes. he could not guess the exact chemical nature of the effect. it probably affected the constituents of the blood in some way. the poison in the sera seemed to need the presence of trypanosomes to complete its virulence. while he worked over the microscope, he noticed that his own flesh was developing the symptom. he put aside his work when he saw that. he concluded that lionel and he were marked for death within twenty-four hours. before death (as he had learned in the village) they might look to suffer much pain. after some hours of suffering they would become unconscious and delirious. after raving for a while they would die there in the lonely hut, and presently the ants would march in in regular ranks to give them cleanly burial. their bones would lie on the cots till some thunderstorm swept them under mud. nobody would ever hear of them. they would be forgotten. people in england would wonder what had become of them; they would wonder less as time went on, and at last they would cease to wonder. newspapers would allude to him from time to time in paragraphs two lines long. then, as his contemporaries grew older, that would stop, too. he would be forgotten, utterly, and nobody would know, and nobody would care. it was dreadful to him to think that nobody would know. he could count on an hour or two of freedom from pain. before the pain shut out the world from him, he would try to leave some record of what they were. he sat down to write a death-letter. it was useless, of course, and yet it might, perhaps, by a rare chance, some day, come to the knowledge of those whom he had known in england. he wondered who would find the letter, if it were ever found. some great german scientist about to banish the disease. some drunken english gold prospector with a cockney accent. some missionary, or sportsman, or commercial traveller. more likely it would be some roving savage with a snuff-box in his earlobe, and a stone of copper wire about his limbs. he wrote out a short letter: "lionel uppingham huntley heseltine, roger monkhouse naldrett. dying here of blood poisoning, following the use of koodoo serum for trypanosomiasis. should this come to the hands of a european, he is requested to communicate with dr. heseltine, a harley square, wimpole street, w., london, england, and with the british consul at shirikanga, c. f. s." he added a few words more; but afterwards erased them. he had given the essentials. there was no need to say more. he translated the brief message into french, spanish, and german, and signed the copies. he placed the document in a tin soap box which he chained to an iron rod driven into the floor of the hut. when that was done, he felt that he had taken his farewell to life. he thought of ottalie, without hope of any kind. he was daunted by the thought of her. he could not feel that his soul would ever reach to her soul, across all those wilds. he was heavy with the growing of the change upon him. this death of which he had thought so grandly seemed very stupid now that he was coming to know it. he remembered reproving a young poet for the remark that death could not possibly be so stupid as life. it was monstrous to suppose that the young poet could be right after all. and yet---- he went out hurriedly and released all the laboratory animals: guinea-pigs, monkeys, and white rats. they should not die of starvation, poor beasts. they squeaked and gibbered excitedly for a minute or two, as they moved off to explore. probably the snakes had them all within the week. after some hours of waiting for the agony to begin, roger fell asleep, and slept till the next morning. when he woke he sat up and looked about him, being not quite sure at first that he was still alive. his pulse was normal, his tongue was normal, his heart was normal. he felt particularly well. he looked at his flesh. the bladdery look had relapsed, the skin was normal again. looking over to lionel's cot, he saw that lionel was not in the hut. fearing that he had wandered out to die in a fit of delirium, he went out into the open to look for him. it was a bright, windy, tropic morning, with a tonic briskness in the air such as one feels sometimes in england, in april and late september. one of the released monkeys was fast by the neck again upon his perch. he was munching a biscuit with his entire vitality. lionel sat upon the wall, sunning himself in a blanket. his attitude suggested both great physical weakness, and entire self-confidence. "i say, roger," he began. "it's too bad. you are a juggins! you've let all our menagerie go. what are we to do for laboratory animals? i caught mcginty here. otherwise we'd have been without a single one. every cage in the place is wide open. what have you been doing?" "my god!" said roger. "he's cured!" "cured, sir?" said lionel. "why shouldn't i be? there's been nothing wrong with me except fever. but i'm not joking. i want to know about these animals. what were you thinking of to let them out?" "lionel," said roger, "for the last five weeks you've been dying of sleeping sickness. the atoxyl was lost. i believe you threw it away." "there's the atoxyl," said lionel, pointing. "in the hole in the wall there. i put it there yesterday, after dosing those two." sure enough, there stood the bottle in the dimness of a hole in the wall. roger must have passed it some fifty times. "i looked for it everywhere," said roger. lionel's eyes narrowed to the sharpness of medical scrutiny. he examined roger for some time. "let me take your pulse, lionel," said roger, staring back. "my pulse is all right," said lionel. "be off and look for guinea-pigs." the pulse was all right; so was the flesh of the wrist. "i suppose the next thing you'll want me to believe is that i've still got sleeping sickness? well, look at my tongue. perhaps that will convince you." lionel waited for an answer for a moment with protruding tongue. the tongue was steady. lionel returned to the charge. "what have you been playing at with those weissner serum pans?" he asked. "have you been bleeding the monkeys? you seem to have been having a field-day generally." "i tell you," said roger, "that you've been dying of sleeping sickness for five weeks. look at your temperature chart. look at my diary. after the atoxyl was lost, i tried every mortal thing we had. and nothing was any good. you were drowsing away to death for days. don't you remember?" "i remember having fever, and you or somebody messing around with a needle. but, five weeks, man! five weeks. come!" "i tell you, you have. you've been unconscious half the time." "well. if i've had sleeping sickness, how comes it that i'm here, talking to you? you say yourself the atoxyl was lost." "lionel," said roger, "i injected you with a dead culture. after that, i shot a couple of koodoos (if they were koodoos), a cow and a fawn. the fawn had nagana or something. i took sera from them, and injected the sera into both of us. great big doses in both cases. i injected the sera into seven poor devils in the village, and they all swelled up and died. it was awful, lionel. what makes people swell up?" "i don't know," said lionel. "i suppose it might be anthrax. was there fever?" "intense pain, very high fever, and death apparently from exhaustion. and you and i swelled up a little; and i made sure yesterday that we were both going to die too. i wrote letters, and stuck them up on a bar inside there." "oh, so that was what the rod was for? i thought it was something funny. and now we are both cured?" "yes. my god, lionel, i'm thankful to hear your voice again. you don't know what it's been." they shook hands. "you're a public benefactor," said lionel. he looked hard at roger. "i give you best," he added. "i thought you were a griff. but you've found a cure, it seems. eh? look at him. it's the first time he's realised it!" "but," roger stammered, "i've killed seven with it; that's not what i call a cure." "did you inject the seven with the dead culture first?" lionel asked. "no. only myself and you." "there you are," said lionel. "you griffs make the discoveries, and haven't got the gumption to see them. my good lord! it's as plain as measles. you inject the dead culture. that's the first step. that makes the trypanosomes agglutinise. very well, then. you inject your serum when they are agglutinised; not before. when they are agglutinised, the serum destroys them, after raising queer symptoms. when they are not agglutinised the serum destroys you by the excess of what causes the queer symptoms. i don't understand those symptoms. they are so entirely unexpected. did you examine the blood?" "one cubic centimetre of the venous blood killed a guinea-pig in three hours." "yes, no doubt. but did you look at the blood microscopically?" "no," said roger, ashamed. "i looked at my sera for streptococci." "you juggins!" said lionel. "yet you come out and land on a cure. well, well! you're a lucky dog. let's go in and look at our glands." roger noticed that he walked with the totter of one newly risen from a violent attack of fever. four months later, the two men reached shirikanga in a canoe of their own making. they were paddled by four survivors from the village. all the rest were dead, either of sleeping sickness or of the serum. lionel had not discovered what it was in the serum which caused the fatal symptoms. it contained some quality which caused the streptococci, or pus-forming microbes, to increase; but, as far as he could discover, this quality was exerted only when the patient's blood contained virulent trypanosomes, or some other active toxin-producing micro-organisms in the unagglutinised condition. they cured four of the villagers. they might have saved more had they been able to begin the treatment earlier in the disease. they were not dissatisfied with their success. they "had powler't up and down a bit," like the jovial huntsmen. they had come to some knowledge of each other, and to some extension of their faculties. scientifically, they had done less than they had hoped; but more than they had expected to do. they had been the first to cure cases with animal serum. they had been the first to study in any way the effect of nagana upon the young of wild game, and to prepare (as yet untested) vaccine from young antelopes, quaggas, and elands. they had discovered a wash of paris green and lime which destroyed the tsetse pupas. they had cleared some three miles of fly belt. they had studied the tsetse. they had surveyed the whole and excavated a part of the zimbabwe. lastly, they had settled the foundations of friendship between them. that was, perhaps, the best result of the expedition. they had settled a friendship likely to last through life. they were confident that they would do great things together. shirikanga hove in sight at the river mouth. two country barques lay at anchor there, with grimy awnings over their poops. ashore, in the blaze of the day, were a few white-washed huts, from one of which a union jack floated. in the compound of another hut a negro was slowly hoisting the ball of a flag. he brought it to the truck and broke it out, so that it fluttered free. it was a red burgee, the letter b of the code. "mail day," said lionel. "we shall be out of here to-night. we shall be at banana by wednesday. that means antwerp by wednesday three weeks. london's not far away." "good," said roger. he was not thinking of london. he was thinking of a lonely irish hill, where there were many yellow-hammers. the trees there stood up like ghosts. round an old, grey, two-storied house the bees murmured. he was thinking that perhaps one or two roses might be in blossom about the house even a month later, when he would stand there. he thought of his life in africa, and of its bearing upon himself. it had done him good. he was worth more to the world than he had been a year before. he thought little of his success. it had been fortunate. it had saved lionel. when he thought of his earlier life he sighed. he knew that he would have achieved more than that sorry triumph had he been trained. his life had been improvised, never organised. great things are done only when the improvising mind has a great organisation behind it. he thought it all over again when he lay in his bunk in a cabin of the _kabinda_, on his way up-coast. he was at peace with the world. clean sheets, the european faces, and the civilised meals in the saloon, had wiped out the memory of the past. africa was already very dim to him. the zimbabwe rose up in his mind like something seen in a dream, a dim, but rather grand shape. the miseries of the camp were dim. he had been sad that morning in bidding farewell to the four whose lives he had saved. jellybags, toro, buckshot, and pocahontas. he repeated their names and considered their engaging traits. jellybags was the best of them. he had liked jellybags. jellybags had wanted to come with them. he would never see jellybags again. he didn't care particularly. the sheets of the bunk were very comfortable. at the end of a great adventure things are seen in false proportions. only the thought that those men had shared his life for a while gave him the suggestion of a qualm before he put them from his mind. he thought of ottalie. he saw her more clearly than of old. in the old days he had seen her through the pink mists of amatory sentiment. the sentiment was gone. action had knocked it out of him. he saw her now as she was. she was more wonderful in the clearer light; more wonderful than ever; a fine, trained, scrupulous mind, drilled to a beautiful unerring choice in life. she was near and real to him, so real that he seemed to be within her mind, following its fearlessness. he felt that he understood her now. with a rush of emotion he felt that he could bring what she had been into the life of his time. in the steamer at banana was a german scientist bound to sierra leone. he spoke english. he asked the two friends about their achievement. lionel told him that they had discovered a serum for the cure of trypanosomiasis. the german smiled. "ah," he said. "there is already sera. the japanese bacteriologist, what was his name? shima? oshima? shiga? no, hiroshiga. he have found a good serum, which makes der peoples die sometimes. then there is mühlbauer who have improved the serum of hiroshiga. he have added a little trypanroth or a little mercury or somedings. now he have cured everymans. i wonder you have not seen of hiroshiga in der newspapers. he have make his experiments in der spring; and mühlbauer he is now at nairobi curing everymans. he have vaccination camps." "well," said lionel. "we've been beaten on the post. you hear, roger? all that we have done has been done." "you wait," said roger. "we're only beginning." afterwards he was sad that it was ending thus. he would have been proud to have given a cure to the world. it would have been an offering to ottalie. she would have loved to share that honour. he had plucked that poor little flower for her at the risk of his life. it was hard to find that it was only a paper flower after all. he thought of ottalie as standing at the window of the upper passage looking out for him. she seemed to him to be something of all cleanness and fearlessness, waiting for him to lead her into the world, so that men might serve her. in ottalie's old home, a month later, he saw his way. leslie, lionel, and himself sat together in the twilight, talking of her. roger was deeply moved by a sense of her presence there. he leaned forward to them and spoke earnestly, asking them to join hands in building some memorial to her. "she was like a new spirit coming to the world," he said. "like the new spirit. we ought to bring that new spirit into the world. let us form a brotherhood of three to do that. we are three untrained enthusiasts. let us prepare an organisation for the enthusiasts who come after us. let us build up an interest in the new hygiene and the new science; in all that is cleanly and fearless. we could start a little school and laboratory together, and run a monthly paper preaching our tenets. all the ills of modern life come from dirt and sentiment, and the cowardice which both imply. if we stand together and attack those ills, year in and year out, we shall get rid of them. little by little, if one stands at a street corner, the crowd gathers." "yes," said leslie. "and you think dirt and sentiment the bad things? well, perhaps you're right. they're both due to a want of order in the mind. what do you think, lionel?" "i?" said lionel. "i say, certainly. we three are living in a most wonderful time. the world is just coming to see that science is not a substitute for religion, but religion of a very deep and austere kind. we are seeing only the beginning of it." they settled a plan of action together. roger went out into the garden, and down the hill, thinking of the crusade against the weariness and filth of cities. there was an afterglow upon the hills. it fell with a ruddy glare on the window of his dream. it thrilled him. the light would fall there long after the house had fallen. it had lighted ottalie. it had burned upon the pane when ottalie's mother stood there. nature was enduring; nature the imperfect; nature the enemy, which blighted the rose and spread the weed. thinking of the woman who had waited for him there in his vision, he prayed that her influence in him might help to bring to earth that promised life, in which man, curbing nature to his use, would assert a new law and rule like a king, where now, even in his strength, he walks sentenced, a prey to all things baser. the end printed in the united states of america the following pages contain advertisements of macmillan books by the same author. captain margaret by john masefield _cloth, mo, $ . _ captain margaret, owner of the "broken heart," mild dreamer and hardy adventurer in one, is a type of character one does not often meet in fiction, and his troubled pursuit of the vision he is always seeing, in mr. masefield's telling, is a story such as we seldom hear. it is a strange crew that goes scurrying out of salcombe pool on a darkening flood-tide in the "broken heart," bound for the treasure-land of darien. there is captain cammock, strong and fine, stukeley the beast, perrin the feeble, olivia beautiful and blind, and captain margaret wisely good and uncomplaining--not a one of them but shines out from the story with unforgettable vividness. from england to virginia and the spanish main with men at arms between decks goes the "broken heart" following her master's dream, and her thrilling voyage with its storms and battles is strongly and stirringly told. when john masefield writes of the sea, the sea lives. "a romantic novel, a capital tale of adventure, a yarn of the sea with plenty of color and mystery, a story that has all the conventional characters of romance--a beautiful heroine, a brave hero, a villain, picturesque seamen and odd characters in good measure."--_review of reviews_. "captain margaret is a novel which gives not only a splendid picture of the buccaneering times of the late seventeenth century, but one which for beauty of language, skill in character drawing, straightforward march of story and virility in tone, deserves a wide audience."--_the bookman_. "the author shows his intense love and understanding of the sea and of the ships that sail upon her, keen power of characterization and the ability to spin a thoroughly interesting story."--_providence journal_. good friday and other poems. by john masefield _cloth, $ . , leather, $ . ._ the title piece in this new volume is a dramatic poem of sixty pages, the action of which takes place in the time of christ. the characters introduced include pontius pilate, joseph of ramah and herod. the play, for it is really such, is written in rhyme and is one of mr. masefield's most interesting and important contributions to literature. in addition to this there are in the book many sonnets and shorter poems embodying the very finest work mr. masefield has yet done. the tragedy of nan. new edition. _cloth, mo, $ . ._ "one of the most distinctive tragedies written by a dramatist of the modern school."--_n. y. evening post_. the faithful. a tragedy in three acts. _cloth, mo, $ . ; leather, $ . ._ "a striking drama ... a notable work that will meet with the hearty appreciation of discerning readers."--_the nation_. philip the king and other poems. _cloth, mo, $ . ; leather, $ . ._ "cannot fail to increase the already great reputation of john masefield as a poetic dramatist.... full of poetic imagination and dramatic force."--_the nation_. the tragedy of pompey the great. _cloth, mo, $ . ; leather, $ . ._ "he is no statuesque pompey, spouting prose lines masquerading as poetry, masefield has given us pompey the man."--_the pittsburg post_. philip, the king and other poems by john masefield _cloth, mo, $ . _ mr. masefield's new poetical drama again affirms his important position in the literature of to-day. in the volume are new poems of the sea, lyrics and a powerful poem on the present war. plaster saints by israel zangwill _cloth, mo, $ . _ a new play of deep social significance. the melting pot by israel zangwill _revised edition. cloth, mo._ this is a revised edition of what is perhaps mr. zangwill's most popular play. numerous changes have been made in the text, which has been considerably lengthened thereby. the appeal of the drama to the readers of this country is particularly strong, in that it deals with that great social process by which all nationalities are blended together for the making of the real american. makers of madness by hermann hagedorn _cloth, mo, $ . _ many consider mr. hagedorn the most representative poet of the american spirit. here he has written a stirring drama in which are revealed the horror and the pathos of the great struggle in europe. salt water ballads. _cloth, mo, $ . ; leather, $ . ._ no living poet has caught the wild beauty of the sea, and imprisoned it in such haunting verse. the everlasting mercy, and the widow in the bye-street. new and revised edition. _cloth, $ . ; leather, $ . ._ "john masefield is the man of the hour, and the man of to-morrow, too, in poetry and in the play writing craft."--john galsworthy. the story of a round house and other poems. new and revised edition. _cloth, mo, $ . ; leather, $ . ._ "ah! the story of that rounding the horn! never in prose has the sea been so tremendously described."--_chicago evening post_. a mainsail haul. _cloth, mo, $ . ; leather, $ . ._ as a sailor before the mast masefield has traveled the world over. many of the tales in this volume are his own experiences. the daffodil fields. second edition. _cloth, mo, $ . ; leather, $ . ._ "neither in the design nor in the telling did, or could, 'enoch arden' come near the artistic truth of 'the daffodil fields.'"--sir arthur quiller-couch, _cambridge university_. the macmillan company publishers - fifth avenue new york